'You would,' Salma confirmed, 'because there are ties and obligations. That is what makes us who we are. And Phalmes, I have spoken to you. I feel I know you. You cannot escape who you are or where you come from. If we met a Mynan on the road, a man of your city, you would aid him. You would have done so even before you fell in with us. Can you deny it?'

'I cannot, nor would I,' Phalmes said clearly, though wondering where this was going.

'Family,' Salma stressed for them. 'Family is family, whether it's blood, or brotherhood, or citizenship, or even kinden. And we look after our family, and they look after us. I used to think that family was a Commonweal thing, and that only my kinden really understood it. But that was just because I did not understand what held the Lowlands together. Family. Family.'

He paused, bracing himself for the mental leap he would have to make.

'We are all part of the largest family in the Lowlands, and it is a family that grows larger every day. It was never small, but it has never been as large as it is now. That family is the dispossessed, the victims, the cast aside, the ill-used. Look at us all, from different lands and different cities, different trades and races, and yet we are all family, and there are thousands of brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, children who are our family, and who now need our help. Our help against the men who would do this to them.' His sweeping gesture took in the burned Wayhouse, the cremation pyre. 'They are our enemies. Let us become theirs.'

'Just what are you talking about?' Phalmes demanded. 'We can't exactly take on a Wasp army!'

'Can't we?' Salma said, and the certainty in his voice shook them. 'We can attack their scouts, take their supplies, aid their victims. We can strip the land so they go hungry. We can nip at them and draw a tiny bead of blood, a hundred ways. We can force them to change their plans, because of us: divide their forces, hesitate, falter. Or that is what we shall do if you follow me. We can take the war to them, without ever meeting them on the battlefield.'

Some of them were aghast at the idea, some were keen, most were simply bewildered. 'I shall give you tonight to consider all I've said,' he told them. 'Anyone who wishes to find their own path is free to do so. Those who are still with me in the morning will have cast their lots in with me. In the Commonweal there are men called Mercers who ride the roads and keep them safe. Those who stay with me shall become my new Mercers.'

And he turned from them and headed for the Wayhouse. The others had made their camp in and around the broken building, and those that wished to go could do so without feeling that he was watching them.

Salma slept easily that night. He had met the burden of his responsibility, and his conscience was clear.

When he awoke it seemed very quiet beyond the drape. He knew what that must mean. He rose and dressed slowly, then took up his staff. Finally, he pushed the drape aside with the point of the staff and went out into the stark dawn light.

They were all there. Not one of them had gone. More, they had been joined by someone new.

She was there, radiant with her own light even in the sunlight, glowing with rainbows, and gazing only at him. Grief in Chains and Aagen's Joy and who knew what other names she had gone by had come for him.

He could only imagine how it had seemed to Phalmes and the others, this vision striding in with the first rays of dawn a sorceress, a mirage, and here for Salma only. It must have seemed like a sign for them, the final augur in his favour.

As she approached him now, he felt blinded by her beauty. Her lightest touch on his arm thrilled him. 'I've found you at last,' she said.

'How?' he asked.

'You came so far for me,' she whispered. 'How could I do any less for the one I love?'

Food was arriving, in cartloads, in baskets, in handfuls. Men and women who had tilled their own land, or the land of those that had owned them, were heading out now daily to reap vacant fields. Children swarmed through abandoned orchards like locusts. Farmhouses were raided with the thoroughness of the truly hungry. When they found the hastily abandoned country seats of the rich in their isolated estates, they climbed the walls and broke down the gates, coming back with armfuls of expensive delicacies or coal for the fires. Traders and peddlers threshed and ground, while artisans built the clay ovens to make bread. Hunters came back dragging their kills or driving errant livestock.

n.o.body was eating well but n.o.body was starving, and Salma could have asked for no more.

'So what's your next move, lad?' Nero asked him.

'Our next move is to move, then to keep moving,' Salma said. 'Otherwise we'll exhaust what's around us. We're still just scavenging, though on a greater scale. The bulk of these non-combatants need to find sanctuary, and Sarn or Collegium remain our best chances.' He watched the woman Grief in Chains as she moved through the people. She spoke to few of them, barely even acknowledged them, but her shining presence changed them as she pa.s.sed. Just looking at her brought a smile to Salma's lips, and he knew it would remain the same however dark the times became.

She called herself 'Prized of Dragons' now.

'News has been short from westwards,' Nero reminded him. 'And that army north of us can only be heading for Sarn.'

Salma nodded. 'And yet what option do we have?' He looked at his hands. It was something Stenwold did, when he had difficult decisions to make. 'Sfayot! Phalmes! I need to speak to you!' he called out.

The Roach and the Mynan came over, and it was clear that both of them had been expecting something from him for a while.

'We're moving, tomorrow,' Salma informed them. 'Sfayot, you must take the needy onwards, at your own pace, gathering and foraging as you go.'

'Of course,' the Roach agreed.

'If scouts from the Empire spot you, they'll see no more than refugees on the move.'

'And we can defend ourselves, if we have to,' Sfayot added. 'And I take it you two will be campaigning, yes?'

'It's about time we drew our swords,' Phalmes agreed. 'Where are we bound?'

'I want to see what's happening north of us. We'll probe the Wasp army, see what we can learn, and what good we can do,' Salma explained. 'But information first, action later.'

Phalmes nodded, his expression suggesting that he had no doubt about the latter. 'And your girl?'

Salma faltered for a moment. 'I had thought she would stay with Sfayot.'

'She can close wounds with her bare hands,' Phalmes pointed out. 'We've all seen it, and b.u.t.terfly-kinden Art is like nothing else. Besides, after all the ground she's covered, do you think she'll agree to stay behind?'

'True,' Salma realized, knowing that he had no right to hide her away while he put himself in danger.

'As for you,' Salma turned to Nero, 'I have a special task.'

'I'm one of your soldiers now, am I?' the Fly asked.

'As good as, yes,' said Salma. 'But I want you to go to Collegium.'

Nero nodded slowly. 'It's been a while, but I can still find my way there.'

'Find Stenwold, or at least get word to him. Let him know what I'm doing.' After a moment he added, 'And tell him about Totho, too. He'll want to know.'

They entered his tent carefully and, from his hidden vantage point, Thalric saw the brief glint of steel as they pushed aside the flap.

There was a moment's pause and then he stepped up behind them, startling the two soldiers Daklan and Haroc had brought with them. 'Were you looking for me?' Thalric asked.

Daklan and Haroc came back out of his tent quickly. They had come quietly and without armour to catch him asleep. He thought it possible they might regret that.

'Ah, Major Thalric,' Daklan began.

'You had a message for me, at this hour?' Thalric prompted.

'Of sorts. I have received orders from Capitas, Major, which concern you.'

Thalric nodded. It was no more than he had antic.i.p.ated. 'Perhaps you want to reveal them, Major Daklan?'

Daklan glanced at the Vekken tents all around them. 'I think we may have some grounds for argument shortly, Major, and I would hate for our allies to see officers of the Empire in disagreement. Perhaps we should step off beyond the sentries.'

'Into the dark, you mean?' Thalric clarified.

'There's a moon. Or are you frightened of the dark, Major Thalric?'

He smiled at that, watching the two soldiers stand uncertainly to one side, and Haroc and Daklan step apart a little, antic.i.p.ating his move.

But of course they were right. A brawl between Wasp officers would damage the Empire's reputation with the Vekken, and Collegium had not fallen yet.

He felt suddenly very cold, as though his life was already bleeding away.

'My loyalty is always to the Empire,' he said softly. 'If the Empire truly requires this, then who am I to put my own interests before those of my Emperor?'

'Very patriotic,' said Daklan, who did not believe him, but without another word Thalric turned and headed towards the outer edge of the Vekken camp, leaving them to follow.

He stopped only when they were barely still in sight of the camp lanterns. There was enough moon to see the shapes of Daklan and Haroc, who held a sword in his hand now instead of a scroll. The two soldiers trailed behind, obviously trying not to hear anything that might prove bad for them.

'I admire your resolution, Thalric,' Daklan said, tensely, expecting a trick. Thalric saw clearly that, had his name been on the death-list, Daklan would not go so quietly.

'I have served the Empire all my life,' Thalric said. 'In its service I have done deeds that, if I had done them in my own name, would have driven me mad. Only by knowing they were for the greater good could I drive myself to accomplish them.' He fixed Daklan with a stare that made the man shift uncomfortably. 'I have burned books and executed friends, tortured women and killed children, all in the Empire's name. What would I be if, when my own life came before that same judge, I was to reject the Empire's will and obey it no longer?'

Daklan shifted uncomfortably. 'This isn't personal, Major. I won't pretend that I'm fond of you, but orders are orders.'

'Of course they are.'

'You are to leave the service of the Rekef, and as suddenly as possible their exact wording. You know what that means,' Daklan said. Thalric saw his teeth white in the moonlight as he grinned.

'Can I ask why?' Thalric said. 'If you know.'

'I know well enough. The orders are from General Maxin. That's a name you must recognize.'

'He's your patron?'

'I plan to do well by him,' Daklan confirmed. 'There are changes happening in the Rekef, changes at the top, but the ripples come down to lowly soldiers like us. It's known that you're General Reiner's man.'

'I am the Emperor's man.'

'The Emperor doesn't give a curse, Thalric. You're Reiner's man, and Maxin is having a little cull of Reiner's people just now. You're a major, so you're important enough to get noticed, in all the wrong ways.'

'I don't think General Reiner has any love for me,' stated Thalric sadly.

'Obviously not, or he'd have protected you,' Daklan agreed. 'You're big enough to make the list, but small enough to be sacrificed. Bad luck, Major Thalric. Now, I've got sleep to catch up on, so let's put you out of your misery.'

Daklan was tense again, expecting an explosion of anger or desperation, but Thalric carefully lowered himself to his knees.

I have always served the Empire, so let this be my last service. And yet even as he thought this, even as Haroc stepped over with hand raised, something began turning deep inside him. And yet even as he thought this, even as Haroc stepped over with hand raised, something began turning deep inside him. This was the will of the Empire? Simply because some distant general was grabbing for power? Because the Rekef was tearing at itself? The Emperor would This was the will of the Empire? Simply because some distant general was grabbing for power? Because the Rekef was tearing at itself? The Emperor would never never condone this if he knew. condone this if he knew.

He heard the crunch of Haroc's sandals on the ground right behind him.

How does this serve the Empire? But, above and beyond this plaintive call, he heard a voice he had almost forgotten cry out But, above and beyond this plaintive call, he heard a voice he had almost forgotten cry out How does this serve How does this serve me me?

Cut off, run out, left hanging, abandoned to the butchers and something stirred within him that had been fettered for decades.

I want to live.

He twisted, so that Haroc's sting scorched the side of his face rather than caving in the back of his head. Almost distantly, he felt his own hand flare with fiery energy, and saw one of the soldiers immediately arch backwards. Daklan was running forward with drawn blade, furious at being fooled. Thalric staggered upright, smashing Haroc across the face with his elbow. The man moved with the blow, though, and then his sword lashed across Thalric's side, grating against the copperweave mail beneath his tunic that once again saved his life.

Thalric let his wings flare open, lifting him up, intending only to get away from here. Haroc was on him, grappling with him in the air, and a moment later the two of them crashed to earth with Haroc on top.

'Kill him!' Daklan was shouting now, heedless of the Ants within earshot. 'Kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Thalric struck Haroc still harder across the side of the head, but the lean man ignored it, slamming his own fist into the seared skin of Thalric's face, and then getting a hand on his throat, the other hand raised with palm open.

'Goodbye, Major,' he grunted and then Daklan screamed in pain and Haroc's head whipped round.

Thalric was bringing his own hand up already, while Haroc's palm was now pointing back the way they came. Energy spat from it and Thalric heard a woman cry out.

He loosed his own sting, and Haroc was already twisting to avoid it, but the blast caught him across the shoulder and chest, throwing him off Thalric, who now staggered to his feet.

The last soldier was running for him, casting a bolt of energy that sizzled over his head. With sick regret Thalric shot him directly in the chest, then watched him pitch over, roll once and lie still.

Daklan was down, trying to prop himself up with one hand, the other one reaching round for the knife buried in his back. Beside him, Lorica the halfbreed lay curled up into a ball, after Haroc had blasted her in the stomach.

Thalric was about to turn back to finish Haroc, but Daklan was suddenly on his feet, making a jagged, staggering run with sword extended. Thalric swayed to one side, reaching for the sword and letting Daklan's momentum spin him round. Then he saw Haroc standing, hand extended, and Thalric let go of Daklan to launch a desperate shot at him. Haroc loosed his sting at the same time.

Haroc's head snapped back, his face a blasted ruin. His own bolt pa.s.sed between Daklan and Thalric, burning them both, and then Daklan's sword pierced the copper-weave and sliced into Thalric's side.

He gasped in agony and dropped to his knees. This was bad. He had suffered enough wounds to know this was a bad one. If Daklan had drawn the sword from his flesh then there would be more blood than he could have stanched, but Daklan was now stumbling away, loose-handed, then falling. Thalric saw a shudder overtake him before Lorica's knife-blow finally did its work.

Beyond Daklan, he could hear Lorica's quiet whimpering.

He himself was hurt, hurt enough to die, without some help soon.

But of course, there would be no help, because the Empire had put him on a death-list. He certainly could not seek refuge with the Vekken for, to his pain-racked mind, they were the Empire near enough.

He began to crawl towards Lorica. Haroc's shot had been a solid one and Thalric guessed she must be on the very brink of death herself. His hand touched her ankle, then worked its way up until he could grasp her hand.

She could not speak, and he himself had nothing to say, but despite his own suffering he clung to her until her sobbing stopped and she relaxed into the calmness of death, because Thalric had always looked after his subordinates whenever he could.

When she was silent, the whole world was silent. The sleeping Ant camp made not a sound. Thalric released Lorica's cooling hand. He was breathing in fractional stages, each one a burning ruin.

Dying, thought Thalric, and then the fierce thought, No! No! He would not surrender to this. He would fight. He would fight. He would . . . He would not surrender to this. He would fight. He would fight. He would . . .

He levered himself to his elbows, rolled onto his good side, and then he gave a short, retching cry as he got to his knees. The world loomed dark for a moment, but he clung to consciousness. If he lost it now, it would be for ever.

Have to fight!

He crawled over to Daklan, leant on the knife-hilt to drive it another inch further into the man, hissing with spite. Now comes the hard part. Now comes the hard part.

He took the hilt of the sword still lodged in him and closed his eyes. It took him three long breaths to begin.

It should be done slowly, he knew. With a strangled gasp he dragged the blade from his own side, feeling the motion far too deep. The darkness clawed for him again as he clasped one hand to his blood-slick flesh. He leant heavily on Daklan's corpse once again, fighting for every moment.

From the uneven tear in the other man's tunic he began to rip cloth in long, ragged strips. The idea of pulling a binding tight made him sick with weakness. Instead he awkwardly stuffed cloth in the jagged torn gash in his mail, feeling the fabric grow instantly warm and sopping with blood. Thalric just kept tearing and stuffing until the oozing blood had begun to cake and set, making the whole side of his body a grimy clotting mask. Then he sat back and waited for his shaking to stop.