The Loups-Garous were just to their right, very close. They were mostly hidden by the undergrowth, but Wynter caught random details through the shifting foliage: a portion of one rider here, a section of another there. She saw scarlet leather gauntlets and a moss green tunic. She saw an emerald green sleeve and strong black hands, ornate with rings. Further back in the trees, the sun flashed on a head of gleaming yellow curls as a huge man ducked under an overhanging branch. There were four men, all exceptionally well armed. They made no attempt at silence or stealth, and the sounds of their progress through the heavy undergrowth was underscored by the continuous and melodic tinkling of slave bells.

Suddenly, a horse crashed into the bushes by Wynter's side, sending Ozkar shying to the left. Wynter sat down hard in the saddle and tightened her legs to keep him in place. The Wolf's horse wheeled about, stamping and snorting. Much too close. Wynter saw gold fringes on a red leather saddle, a tall, dark-clad rider, glossy black boots. Then the Loup-Garou hauled on the reins and kicked his mount back into line. Before he passed from sight, Wynter got a good look at the grey wolf's-skin that covered his horse's back. Its head snarled at her from just above the horse's tail, its onyx and amber eyes glinting, its gold-tipped teeth bared.

Three heavy-laden pack mules trailed clumsily after the Wolves, their packsaddles piled high with camping equipment. Behind them, two horsemen brought up the rear. At the sight of these men, Wynter's hands clenched on the pommel of her saddle, her fear turning to anger in the blink of an eye.

They were dressed in tunics and britches of a simple cut but excellent fabric, and their horses' tack was plain but very well made. From what Wynter could make out, they were Christopher's age, eighteen or so, both with his kind of lithe, close-muscled strength. They were both Arabs.

One of them ducked and lifted his arm to get past an overhanging branch, and just for a moment, Wynter saw his face. A brand had been burnt into the flesh just below his left eye. It was about the size of a gold coin and depicted a wolf's head enclosed in a curling G. The young man kicked his horse on, hurrying to catch up with his masters, and his companion did the same. At the increase in pace, the silver bells that decorated their riding boots added a gentle, tinkling melody to the circlets of bells at their wrists.

Razi, Christopher and Wynter stared at the slaves' retreating backs, their eyes hard and glittering through the gaps in their scarves.

When all sound of the travellers had gone, Razi jerked the scarf from his face and turned to speak, but Christopher held up his hand and put a finger to his lips. The hairs rose on the back of Wynter's neck and she immediately unsheathed her knife again. Christopher raised two fingers to his eyes and then swept his hand out to indicate that they should continue to be on guard. With his mutilated hand it looked as though he had just made the sign of the devil, and Wynter impatiently quelled the urge to bless herself against evil, a relic of Marni's superstition that she'd never been quite able to shake off.

Christopher went back to scanning their surroundings, and Razi and Wynter followed suit. A long moment passed and Wynter was just starting to wonder what Christopher was up to, when a discreet movement to their right drew her attention. She lifted her hand slightly, not certain. The two men snapped their attention to her and she pointed to the suspect area. They all squinted into the trees and... yes! There.

This time the riders were completely silent, slipping through the forest with low, dark skill. Again Wynter only got a fleeting impression of each, but again they were big, finely dressed men, well armed and in excellent command of their mounts. There were four of them, and they passed by like dappled shadows, obviously on the hunt for anyone who was inexperienced enough to think that the Wolves had already gone by.

Wynter and Razi straightened and moved to sheath their weapons. But Christopher raised his hand again and shook his head, and the two of them sank back into wary vigilance. One or two minutes passed in buzzing silence, then four more riders went past, slipping quietly along behind the others, the eyes of their wolf's heads gleaming, the shifting light winking on the dull silver of their sword hilts and the fine engraving on their matchlocks.

It was only when these four were safely out of earshot that Christopher relaxed. He sheathed his knife and pulled back his scarf, gasping at the heat, and wiped his sweating face. Wynter did likewise, greedily accepting Razi's offered waterskin.

As they sat, silently quenching their thirst, Wynter couldn't help but glance sideways at Christopher. In the three days since they'd first encountered the Wolves, he seemed to have completely regained his equilibrium, but Wynter was not certain how fragile this self control might be. She looked away, not wanting to make him self-conscious, then glanced back again, worry eating her. Christopher was staring straight at her, his eyes grave, his mouth tight.

"I'm fine, lass," he said. "Stop burning holes in the back of my bonnet."

Wynter blushed and dropped her eyes.

"We must find out where they are going," said Razi. "I'm tired of running into them by chance. I want to follow them for a while. Just to see what way they are heading."

"I still think they're making for the ferry," said Christopher evenly.

"That's on our route," said Wynter. "We could easily follow them that far without losing time, and then, if they do not cross the river and remove themselves from our path, we can decide what it is we want to do about them."

Razi stared at Christopher until the young man met his eye.

"What?" growled Christopher, his voice hard and challenging.

Razi dipped his head, exasperated. "Nothing," he said. "Not a thing." He turned in the saddle and kicked his horse on. "Come on then," he said. "And, for God's sake, be quiet."

Hours later, when the light was sliding to dusty twilight, a sharp whistle up ahead brought them to a wary halt. Razi lifted his fist and sank low in his saddle, peering ahead. There was nothing to be seen. He lowered his fist, still glaring into the trees. Then he pushed slowly onwards.

Moments later he raised his fist again and sat, peering intently ahead once more. Then he slid from his saddle, secured his horse to a tree and took off at a low, fast run. Wynter and Christopher exchanged a look and followed suit. Razi sprinted forward for several minutes and then flung himself into the cover of a thicket and wriggled forward on his belly. Wynter and Christopher dived after him. The three of them lay flat, peering from their hiding place and trying to catch their breath.

They seemed to be close to the edge of a bluff. From their current position it was impossible to tell how high it was or what lay below it, but they had an excellent view of the Loups-Garous, who were, just that moment, trotting their horses to the edge. The sun was low, blazing its dying light through the storm clouds that were piled on the horizon and the riders were sharply defined against the vivid sky as they brought their mounts to a stop and looked down at the view.

As soon as the four Wolves came to a halt, the slaves slid from their horses and ran forward to stand beside what Wynter assumed to be the Wolf leaders. One ran quickly to the horse of the big blond and the other dashed to the side of a broad-shouldered dark-skinned man. Neither Wolf seemed to pay any heed to the young men at their sides, but, as one, the two slaves lifted their right arms and put their hands on the neck of their master's horse. It was the automatic and expected action of a dog that has been trained to run forwards and lie at his master's feet.

A movement to Wynter's right drew her attention. It was the next set of Wolves emerging from the trees. They hung back until the blond signalled them forward, then they ranged themselves behind the others, seemingly content not to see down the bluff. The blond murmured something and the young man at his side ran to fetch a waterskin. He offered it first to his master, and then passed amongst the others with it, waiting patiently as each rider drank their fill. When all the Wolves were satisfied, the slave stowed the skin and resumed his position at his master's side, his hand on the horse's neck once more.

The two leaders turned to converse with each other, murmuring low in Hadrish. As they spoke, the blond reached absently to stroke his slave's head, running his fingers through the young man's silky curls the way one would pet a dog. The slave accepted his caress without any apparent reaction. The leaders traded a few sentences and gave each other a significant look. Then the dark-skinned man turned to speak to the others behind him.

"They are below us," he said in Hadrish, "moving through the trees. We will let them be for now. They will no doubt be joining others at the ferry house, but I think we can let it go and move on."

"We're bored," growled one of the men behind him. The dark-skinned leader turned to glare at him. "Don't look at me like that, Gerard!" snapped the man. "We've been on the trail for months. I'm sick of lying low."

Another of the shadow riders spoke up. "It is wearing thin. "T'ain't natural to be so restrained on the trail. We should be free here, to be Wolves. It's galling to pass the sheep and leave 'em quiet."

Gerard shook his head, but there was a touch of amusement in the look he gave his blond companion, and the two of them turned back to their men with brotherly forbearance. "This ain't a Wolf trip we're on, brother, you know that. This is business."

There was general grumbling and shifting about from the others. A tall, Arab-looking man mumbled, "We get enough of business in Algiers!"

Gerard held up his hand. "Hold on, hold on," he laughed. He raised his head and released a low whistle. Within moments the last four riders slunk silently from the trees and the circle of horsemen expanded to include them. Gerard kicked his slave gently between the shoulder blades, and the young man ran forward with a waterskin. Everyone waited while the newcomers quenched their thirst and the slave resumed his position.

"We'll set camp," said the blond. He pulled his horse around, and the slave moved expertly beside him, barely losing his place by the horse's shoulder. "And we'll draw lots for four, all right? Just four."

There were mingled noises of excitement and discontent amongst the Wolves.

"Take it or leave it, you ungrateful curs!" snapped Gerard. "We're being damned generous! We'll all answer to Father if your unruly nature pulls this down around our ears." His irritability seemed to cow them, and the objections died.

The blond gestured in dismissal and the eight shadow-riders bowed their heads and slipped back into the trees.

"Are we included in the draw?" asked one of the other lead Wolves. It was the man with the red saddle and black riding boots, a broad, square-shaped fellow, with narrow, cruel eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jean," said the fourth man. He had a soft voice and long brown hair, and had, until now, been sitting silently looking out at the sunset, his back turned to the others. Wynter noted that this was the man with the scarlet leather gauntlets. "You ain't a cub no more," he said. "You need to remember that."

The other man grimaced but ducked his head in obeisance.

"Sorry, David," he said.

David! thought Wynter.

David half-turned his head and said quietly, "You may drink." The two slaves leapt for the waterskins and drank as if they had just crossed a desert. Wynter was surprised by how thirsty they seemed to be, and how frantic their movements were in contrast with their previous calm. "Enough," murmured David. They ceased at once, gasping and reluctant, and Wynter realised that they had been trying to drink as much as possible before he spoke again. They obediently corked the skins and replaced them. "Mount up," he ordered, and the two young men returned immediately to their horses.

Wynter stared as the Wolf pulled his horse around. So this was David, the leader of this particular pack of Andre's Wolves. The pack that Razi had referred to with gritted teeth as "that pack."

David Le Garou was lithe and tall and had a weary set to his shoulders. As he turned towards her, his face was blotted into shadow by the sunset. He kicked his horse on and the others fell into place around him. Wynter watched as he ducked beneath the trees and led his men into the forest. The pack mules followed closely behind. Silently, the two slaves sat waiting their turn, then they too trotted forward and were swallowed by the darkness beneath the trees.

There was a long moment of silence. Then Christopher began to slither forward from their hiding place, and Razi and Wynter followed suit.

They stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down. Below them, there was more forest and the slow, wide river gleaming in the stormy light of the sunset. Wynter scanned the trees, but there were no signs of life. Whoever it was that the Wolves had seen, they had now disappeared. Christopher turned away from the view and stared after the departed Wolves.

"I'm starving," he said softly, still staring out into the trees.

Wynter squeezed his arm. "So am I," she whispered.

"It's about twenty minutes' ride to the river," murmured Razi. "Can you last that long?"

They nodded. "All right," he said, already heading for the horses. "We'll set up camp there. Settle for the night." He turned back at the tree line. "I'd like to stop off in the Wherry Tavern tomorrow. See who's there."

Christopher sighed and Wynter blinked at Razi with burning eyes.

"All right," she said numbly.

Christopher said nothing, just waited patiently for Razi to get going and then fell into step behind. Wynter put her hand on his back as she followed on. She kept it there for as long as she could, but eventually the dense foliage broke them apart.

Hunger.

They set up camp in grim silence, sticking close together and anxiously scanning their surroundings. Dinner was rye-bread, hard cheese and dried sausage, and they consumed it without the comfort of a fire.

"It's madness to have promoted Jean to Second," whispered Christopher.

His soft voice looped a thread out into the night that bound the three of them together, breaking the silence that Wynter had begun to think would consume them. She sat, the last of her dinner in her hand, and gazed thankfully at him in the gloom.

Razi peered at his friend, his face uncertain, then sighed as if giving in to an unwanted conversation. "He will make a poor leader," he agreed softly. "I doubt that he was David's first choice. I suspect that Andre foist the decision upon him."

"Jean is a mindless, unruly whoreson cur," said Christopher without much emotion. "David will have him dead within a nine-month, if he knows what's good for him. He'll kill him as soon as he can.

"I hope they kill each other," spat Razi suddenly. "Every one of them. I hope they all poison each other, and die screaming in a pool of their own shit."

Jesu, thought Wynter, shocked.

Razi blinked and his eyes widened as though he had surprised even himself. Christopher had drawn the collar of his cloak up around his face and was peering at Razi over the top of it. He did not seem shocked in the least.

"Wh... why are they drawing lots, Christopher?" asked Wynter uncertainly, her voice low.

Christopher briefly met her eye and then laid his head back and looked up at the stars. "Don't know," he said.

"But why might they do that? From what you know of them?" She was wondering if it had anything to do with the business they claimed to be on. Razi shifted beside her, but did not try to silence her. Christopher didn't reply.

"Christopher?" she persisted. "Have they-?"

"I don't know," hissed Christopher. "I ain't one of them. How would I know why they do what-?" his angry voice cracked, and he shut his mouth tight for a moment. "It could be any of a dozen dreadful things," he said.

Wynter shuddered and drew her knees up; she no longer wanted to know. The silence threatened to envelope them again. Wynter spoke quickly, just to stop it in its tracks. "How come the slaves don't run to David?" she asked. "Surely as their leader, he should-"

Christopher laughed, a dull, unpleasant croak, and he put his hand over his face. "David don't need no bloody slaves, lass. David owns the pack. He owns everyone. They're all his, to command as he will."

"I would have thought," said Razi, "that Andre would have allowed David to settle by now. It's over four years since they enslaved your troupe, Chris, and I had thought that would be David's last trip. I expected Andre to have made him a Father by now, to grant him an estate in the Russias, or in Fez. But he persists in sending him out year after year, like any other son. It puzzles me."

"I think Andre fears David," murmured Christopher. "He needs him, but he fears him. I think he resists giving him his freedom, for fear it will split the packs."

Wynter watched her friend as he watched the stars, and the question she had chewed upon for days just slipped from her without warning. "Are these the men who hurt your hands?" she whispered.

"I don't remember," said Christopher immediately, his voice flat.

Wynter frowned, "How-?"

"He doesn't remember, Wynter!" snapped Razi. "Leave him be!"

Wynter bowed her head, but Christopher sighed softly and relented.

"Razi thinks they probably paid someone to do it for them, lass," he said. "The Wolves don't get their hands dirty in Algiers, you see." Wynter saw his teeth flash in a sneer. "In Algiers they just do business."

This last sentence came out hard, with a bitter emphasis on the final word, and Razi shifted uncomfortably. "Chris ..." he whispered. There was a long silence.

"I could have won that race," murmured Christopher inexplicably, his eyes still on the sky.

"I know you could," Razi said, "I never once beat you in a race." He stared steadily into the gathering dark, his face blank. "That is how I knew," he said. "That is how we got back to you so soon. When you were not at the house, I turned around straight away and we went looking for you. God help us, Chris! What were we thinking? Leaving my knights behind like that? God help me! Such idiots!"

"Ah," Christopher gestured soothingly. "We were just wee lads," he said. "We needed to kick loose."

"I should have known better!" cried Razi. "People like me aren't lads, people like me don't kick loose ..." he clamped down hard on his bitterness, and finished softly, "we should never kick loose."

"Aye, well," murmured Christopher. "I'm a bad influence, ain't I?"

"How did you find him?" asked Wynter quietly. "When you turned back? How did you find him?"

Razi just shook his head, and looked away without answering.

"I was screaming." Christopher rolled slightly to face her, his cloak bundled around him as if for protection. "Marcello tells me I was still screaming. That's how they found me. Razi thinks they saw him coming, he thinks that's why ..." he gestured stiffly with his left hand, "why they were so very brutal at the end. He thinks they were trying to finish quickly before they ran."

"You were right in the middle of the road," whispered Razi. "They didn't even try to hide you."

"Aye, well. They wanted you to find me, didn't they? I was their little present to al-Sayyid. No doubt they had a grand old chuckle over how you'd get your money's worth from a fingerless musician."

There was a long, awkward silence. Razi was lost to his memories, and Wynter found herself staring at Christopher, her mind filled with terrible pictures. She did not know what expression was on her face, but, whatever it was, Christopher's eyes slid from hers and he swallowed. It was obvious that he didn't want this to go any further; that he wanted to break this downward slide, but had no idea how to change it. He glanced at Razi, then back again, his face pleading, but Wynter didn't know how to rescue him. She could not free her mind of the terrible image of Razi and Christopher, screaming and frantic, and covered in blood beneath the African sun.

"You know what?" Christopher said suddenly.

She shook her head.

"I'm hungry ..."

Razi snorted. Wynter laughed harshly. And the spell was broken.

"You can't be hungry," she croaked. "You just ate a horse-weight of bread and cheese."

"You're like a God-cursed tape-worm," grated Razi.

Christopher put his hand to his eyes and coughed dryly. "Well," he said, "T'aint so much as how I'm hungry. I just fancy a taste, you know?" He rolled onto his back, dropping his hand to his chest and gazed up at the sky.