All right, then, we'll go under the wretched things. It meant crawling on his hands and knees, but time was no longer a problem. The gate wouldn't be shut until all the wagons were safely through. He could keep on wriggling until he was actually on the bridge itself; then all he'd have to do was slip out from under, drop unobtrusively into the river and swim to the shore.

I suppose sappers and people who work in mines must get used to this. Wouldn't suit me. More than the confined space and the pain in his elbows and knees, it was the general feeling of helplessness that troubled him. If anybody did happen to see him, he'd have no chance; they could flush him out like a rabbit into a purse-net, or come within five yards and shoot him, and he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. After so many years in the racket, hand-to-hand fighting no longer frightened him particularly. He understood it, and though he was always one mistake away from death, at least he knew what he was doing and could estimate the odds. And besides, he was good at it, better than all but a few. Being in a position where he was surrounded by enemies but wouldn't be able to fight them was a new experience and a very unsavoury one. Still, can't be much further now. Another two hundred yards, and we'll be . . .

He stopped wriggling and held perfectly still.

The light wasn't marvellous, but the glow of torches and the fire in the background produced enough illumination to let him see a substantial contingent of the enemy straight ahead, working their way slowly down the line of wagons. From what he could see of what they were doing, he guessed that they were looking for someone or something - loot hidden under the box, a stowaway curled up in the back. They were even kneeling down and giving the undersides a cursory glance.

Bad news.

Praying that his hunch was right, Temrai paced along the line of wagons while his men continued with the search. He knew he was holding everything up, that the gate was still open when it should have been shut well over an hour ago; but it was his war, for which he would have to take the ultimate responsibility, so he was going to indulge himself by finding Colonel Bardas Loredan. Until he'd done that, nothing was decided.

He saw something curled up and wrapped in sacking in the back of a wagon and immediately stuck it with his sword. As it slit the coarse fibre, the blade clashed on silver, and a fine gilded chalice dropped out of the cut. More looting, in defiance of strict orders; but he couldn't be bothered about it now. He cut away the rest of the sack and swept the silver trash out onto the muddy ground, then called forward a detachment of his guards and ordered them to stamp the loot into the mud until there was nothing left visible.

Supposing he's dead already? Supposing he died and I wasn't there? Supposing he died early, when there was still a chance that the city might be saved, and he never got to see the fire, the women and children wearing fire in their hair? It'd be like organising the best surprise birthday banquet ever, and the guest of honour not showing up. Oh, gods, if anything's happened to him I'll never forgive myself . . .

Someone was talking to him, behind his left shoulder; Ceuscai's voice, reporting that his men had forced the gates of the upper city, that the whole of Perimadeia was theirs. The gold, he was saying, the silk and purple carpets, the onyx and sandalwood and silverware and tapestries, the amber and pearls and lapis lazuli and finely carved ivory, reliefs as delicate as fern fronds, the cushions and robes and curtains, the books - oh, gods, the books, how could there be so many words in all the world? - the porcelain and enamel and cloisonne and lacquerware, the flutes, lutes, guitars, trumpets, cymbals, bells, harps, lyres and tympana, the inlaid and damascened weapons, bows, bow-cases, quivers, armour, shields, caparisons and harnesses, the sandals, boots and slippers, the inkwells and writing tables and jewelled styluses, the water clocks and sundials, the plates, cups, jugs, platters, servers, finger-bowls, tureens, knives and napkin rings . . .

'Burn it,' Temrai interrupted him. 'And no looting. Understood? I want everything burnt.'

For once, Ceuscai knew better than to argue. 'I've put in twelve wagon-loads of barrels,' he said, 'and the fuses are laid. When are we closing the gate?'

'When I've finished,' Temrai replied. 'Now get the fuses lit and pull your men out. I want everyone ready to go as soon as I've done here.' He turned and faced his old friend, his eyes full of fear. 'You haven't heard anything of Colonel Loredan, have you? Nobody's reported him killed, or taken?'

Ceuscai shook his head. 'I've had all the sergeants questioned,' he replied. 'Nobody's seen or heard anything. Is that why we're . . .?'

'Are you still here?'

Ceuscai dipped his shoulders and walked away. A detachment of men came up, returning from fire-raising duty. Temrai called them over and set them to work searching the wagons. 'And look out for plunder,' he added. 'If you find any, I want the men's names. We're taking nothing out of here with us; I want that clearly understood.'

The men didn't look at all happy, but none of them said a word. The search continued, and the longer it went on, the tighter the knot grew in Temrai's stomach. Somehow he'd assumed it would be absolutely straightforward; that virtually the first thing he'd see when he entered the city would be Colonel Bardas Loredan, probably standing in the middle of the Grand Avenue with his sword in both hands, challenging him to single combat.

Maybe he's escaped . . .

Temrai closed his eyes. If Loredan had escaped, then how in the gods' names would be ever justify all this, all these thousands of burnt people and all this meaningless, horrible destruction? It'd be enough to drive a man mad; to burn down a whole city and destroy an entire nation just to kill one single individual, and for that one individual to escape . . . He drove the thought out of his mind, repulsing the assault it had made on the citadel of his sanity. The gods who had given him Perimadeia wouldn't do that to him.

He bent down and peered under a wagon, and saw a pair of eyes fixed on his. It was a boy, eleven or twelve years old, his overgrown arms and legs folded awkwardly under the chassis, his face full of the sort of terror Temrai knew so much about. In his eyes, Temrai thought he could see an afterimage of fire and running, things he'd seen himself so long ago, as if he was staring into his own unpleasant memories. Did you see your mother burn? he wondered. Your brothers and sisters wearing fire until all the flesh and skin was gone and there were only black bones, like the ruins of a city? He felt pity clawing inside him, like a cat scrambling up a curtain, like the old white cat his mother had loved so much scrambling up the inside of their tent when it caught fire, and the cat had moved faster than the fire until he had nowhere left to go. He thought of a boy carrying that much fire inside him for the rest of his life, never being able to close his eyes without it being there. He thought about that, and took pity, and nocked an arrow onto his bowstring. I've become a very cruel man, he thought, but not that cruel. I'll spare him that, at least.

He bent the bow and looked across the belly, taking aim. He felt the string biting the joints of his fingers; then there was someone calling his name, Temrai, look out! and a terrible pain as something hit him across the back and side of the head. The arrow fell off the bow and he slumped forward, hitting the ground in a heap. It had been Ceuscai's voice; he looked up and saw Ceuscai, and between Ceuscai and himself the back of a man, familiar- Colonel Bardas Loredan.

-Who was swinging a sword in both hands while Ceuscai was moving the shaft of his pike to parry the blow. Temrai could see Ceuscai had got it wrong, but there wasn't time; Loredan's sword hit him under the jaw on his right side and sliced, with a thick fleshy noise, the sound of butchers quartering carcasses or deer being dressed after the hunt, until it came out the other side; and Ceuscai's head toppled off his shoulders and hung by a strip of unsevered skin over his left shoulder; and then he wobbled and fell over, and Loredan had turned to stand over him.

-Like a dream he sometimes had, in which the man he now knew to be Colonel Bardas Loredan had seen the boy cowering under the wagon, dismounted and walked over, stood over him, bent down and reached out a long arm, an arm that seemed to stretch for ever, following him wherever he scuttled and scrambled to, grabbing his arm or his wrist, pulling until he could feel the ball of the bone pull out of the socket and the arm come off, and when that happened the hand would grab his other arm or his leg or his neck, until he'd been pulled to pieces, the way children tear the petals slowly from a flower, and there was nothing left of him but whatever it was that was dreaming the dream; and then the hand grabbed that and he woke up . . .

Didn't they say that if you could break into a dream and catch the moment in your hand, you could twist it round the other way, make things happen differently? Was that what he'd done-?

'Get up,' Loredan said. Temrai tried to back away, get under the wagon; he could see men behind Loredan's shoulder, hurrying to rescue him, but just like in the dream they were too far away, there wasn't time. Loredan's hand was in his hair now, as terrifying as fire; Loredan pulled and suddenly he was on his feet, yanked round, one arm twisted agonisingly behind his back so he couldn't move for fear of it being torn out. He felt something cold and sharp under his chin.

'Get back or I'll cut his throat,' Loredan was shouting. 'Right, you, for once in your life do something useful and tell them to go away.'

Temrai tried to obey, but all he could do was squeak. He had never felt so terrified. It was the worst moment of his life.

'You,' Loredan was shouting, 'under the wagon, get out of there, you're coming with me. Anybody lays a finger on him and I'll kill the chief.'

Temrai saw movement out of the corner of his eye; the boy he'd been aiming at, wanting to spare him the pain, was scrambling out of the mud and standing up, scared out of his wits, not knowing what to do.

'Over here,' Loredan's voice boomed. 'Get the knife out of my belt and prod this bastard under the armpit - gently, for god's sakes, it's insurance, so if they try and pick me off their boss'll still die.' Gods, how calm he sounded, how terribly good he was at all this; how stupid, Temrai realised, even to try and measure himself against this man, who was clearly Death itself. All these years he'd been daydreaming of a grand battle, sword against sword like a Perimadeian lawsuit, with Justice guiding his thrust at the last and confirming the righteousness of his cause. How stupid- 'Easy,' Loredan breathed in his ear, 'do as you're told and everything's going to be fine. Now, we're going to take a walk, just as far as the bridge. You got that? Now move.'

A little twist on his arm, enough to have made him scream if he'd still had a voice; then Loredan's knee against his, nudging him forward, completely under the other man's control. He knew that Loredan could snap him in two like a twig, or slice off his head, or rip off his limbs one by one, and there'd be nothing he could do. He wanted so much not to die; or at least not this way, not killed by Colonel Bardas Loredan, as if death at his hands would be so much worse, more painful, more final than any other kind. Loredan could destroy him, break off his head, drink his blood and eat his soul; he was Death and the devil and all the horror in the universe, all the horror that he, Temrai the Sacker of Cities, Temrai the Slaughterer, had brought into the world- 'That's it,' Loredan's voice, intimate inside his ear, 'we're doing fine. Don't you just love it when stories have a happy ending?'

It seemed as if the whole clan was there, watching, backing away as they passed; because in spite of everything, the engines and the fire and the several million arrows he'd had made and caused to be loosed, there was no power on earth, let alone one puny nation, that could stand up against the horror of Colonel Loredan, the eater of souls, the bringer of Death and Justice, this terrible force his blind folly had let loose upon the world. As for what would happen when the monster had finished playing with him, he couldn't begin to imagine; the extremity of pain, or everlasting torment- 'Keep back,' Loredan snapped. 'Further off, you know better than that. Keep that knife steady, son, if you scrag him we're both dead. Right, you, we're going to turn around. When I say turn-'

It was an awkward, ludicrous, crab-scuttling-sideways manoeuvre, like a little child being taught to dance; and then Temrai was facing the clan, the line of wagons and a splendid view of the whole of the city, burning. He's making me look at what I've done before he kills me, Temrai said to himself, because he's Justice and everything's my fault. There was blood running down Temrai's face from the cut across his scalp; it was dripping into the corner of one eye, making him blink. They were under the arch of the gatehouse now, walking backwards onto the drawbridge. He could see the glow of fire reflected on the water; they were stepping awkwardly over dead bodies.

'This is as far as we go, Temrai,' Loredan whispered. 'Thanks for your help. You know, you remind me a bit of me when I was your age. You-' He was speaking to the boy, the one who'd been under the wagon. 'Can you swim?'

The boy said that he thought he could.

'That's good. Now put my knife back and jump.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Don't just stand there-' Temrai heard the splash; then there was another horrible pain in his arm, and Loredan was whispering again, so close that the voice was inside his head. 'I ought to kill you, but I never could see any point in revenge. You might care to think about that.' Then a great force in the small of his back sent him sprawling on the planks of the drawbridge, and from the water below a great splash.

Then there were people round him, helping him up, shouting, holding up torches and lanterns, loosing off arrows into the water. Temrai shook himself free and stared at the water, but there was no sign of anything there; a few bodies floating, but not his. He's swimming underwater, Temrai thought; or the weight of his armour's pulled him down and drowned him. No, don't be stupid, he can't die. He's vanished, or grown wings and flown away. He's gone, and I'm still alive- 'Forget it,' he said. 'Leave it. Get everyone out of the city, close the gate and break up the causeway. I want this finished with now.'

His lungs were bursting and all his joints were full of pain. The mailshirt was a man grabbing hold of him and pulling him down; there was no escape this time, he was going to die - ironic, really, that he should die now, after the great escape- 'Wake up,' said a voice overhead. 'It's all right, it's just a dream.'

He opened his eyes, and saw the face of the boy, the kid he'd rescued from under the wagon. 'Wassis?' he mumbled through a mouthful of sleep. Behind the boy's head was blue sky, a few seagulls circling.

'It's all right,' the boy laughed, 'you're safe. You're on a ship, remember?'

Loredan sat up and winced; he'd forgotten about all the wrenched muscles. 'Sorry,' he said, 'I must have been having a nightmare or something.'

The boy grinned.'Look,' he said, pointing at the horizon, 'we've arrived.'

On the skyline, Loredan could see the outline of a city; a high wall, towers and domes, sunlight flashing off the gilded roof of a great temple. It was a place he'd heard of, one of those once-upon-a-time places that are reputed to exist, but he'd never thought he'd ever go there. And now, here he was.

It was smaller than he'd imagined.

'How are you feeling?' the boy asked. 'I think the fever's well and truly broken by now, but the captain says he knows a good doctor, just in case. He's been really nice, hasn't he?'

Loredan nodded grimly. 'Yes,' he replied, 'he has.' He saw that his tone of voice was worrying the boy, and he smiled reassuringly. 'Don't worry,' he said, 'we'll be all right. I've got relatives here who'll look after us.'

He stood up, stretching his cramped legs, and studied the city in the distance. That big shiny thing with the gold roof and the bobble on top was presumably the Great Temple. Even he'd heard of the Great Temple. It was the one building in this city that everyone knew about.

Then he turned round and looked at the mainsail of the ship, with the distinctive symbol painted in the middle. It was familiar enough, though strange in this context, the logo of the company whose ship this was; a bow fully bent, and seven arrows.

'This is wonderful,' the boy said, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed at the distant city. 'I've always wanted to go to Scona.'

By K. J. Parker.

THE FENCER TRILOGY.

Colours in the Steel.

The Belly of the Bow.

The Proof House.

THE SCAVENGER TRILOGY.

Shadow.

Pattern.

Memory.

THE ENGINEER TRILOGY.

Devices and Desires.

Evil for Evil.

The Escapement.