He looked at Hershaw. 'Rutters! She's not yet done!'

As if hearing him, the harbour itself rose up. Swelling first in the middle, a hummock of smooth water bubbling up from below, it grew into a rounded hill, higher than the tallest buildings along the waterfront. Burning ships tumbled off its slopes and were extinguished in the waves. Bits of jetsam and floating debris slipped down its sides and scuttled across the surface. Still the hill grew until it was a tremendous liquid dome, dwarfing the waterfront like an alpine range.

'Great rutting whores,' Blackford said, 'she's going to destroy the city!'

'Let's go,' Hershaw said, drawing his sword.

'She'll kill us both,' Blackford argued, 'we can't-'

'We have to.'

Trembling, Blackford followed, hoping he would get the chance to run Tavon through, especially if she was distracted, even for an instant, by the stone table. Or by killing Hershaw. Or by killing Hershaw.

But before they had reached her, she struck, and the blast ripped the door from its leather hinges and sent much of it ripping through Captain Hershaw's body in jagged splinters. He was dead before he stopped tumbling, somewhere amidships.

'Blackford!' Tavon screamed.

He approached warily. His face and arms were bleeding, and he feared he would spend the next aven picking splinters out of his skin, but he was still here, still alive. 'Yes, ma'am,' he said politely.

'I want you to watch this, Blackford.' Tavon was elbow-deep in what looked like a waist-high circular pool. Blackford knew better, though. It was the stone table, transformed somehow by magic into a fluid, unending cauldron of energy and power. He watched the colours change, flickering from hue to hue as the major's wiry arms pulled and pressed spells and charms about inside. There was an animal, something that looked like a tadpole, and then a snake, and a hideous-looking fellow with a grim countenance, if that was possible. There was a creature Blackford guessed was an almor and then a blurry and indistinct image of a man, a South Coaster hiding in a stone temple with a rainbow-coloured serpent coiled at his feet.

'Why are you doing this?' he whispered. 'Please, Major, enough.'

'Oh, shut up, Blackford, your breath stinks. It'd stop my watch if I hadn't given it to that Ronan slut.' The pool changed again; this time, Blackford could see the outline of the Orindale waterfront. The northern and southern wharfs were on either side of the inlet. He saw the Medera and the stone bridge arching above it, connecting everything in the Falkan capital. The bridge looked different, though: cleaner, whiter, as if it had been carved from pristine marble. When the centre of the table rose up in an aquamarine hummock, Blackford understood what he was about to witness.

'Please, Major,' he repeated, shaking.

'Watch this, Captain.' She released her hold on the hill of magical energy she had called up beneath the waters of Orindale Harbour and, as the tiny hillock of blue careened through the imagined inlet and across the waterfront Blackford could see lining the circular edge of the stone table, he heard the deafening roar of the actual harbour rushing east to swallow the wharf and flood the Medera from Orindale to Wellham Ridge. Inside the spell table, Blackford saw the waters crash over the stone bridge, collapsing it like a bit of folded paper. Without looking towards the city, he knew that the bridge spanning the Medera had fallen as well. There had been hundreds of people on that bridge. They'd be dead now; there was no way they could have survived. Hearing the fading thunder as the great floodtide rolled east into Falkan, Blackford tasted something tangy and metallic in his throat. The dead would number in the thousands.

'Captain.'

'Yes, ma'am?' He was crying and didn't care. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. No matter. He hadn't changed his uniform since they had ventured into the foothills.

'I want you to seize those three frigates and get them prepared for a journey north.' She pointed towards the ships still tethered to the wharf. They bobbed gently in the small swells that skidded along the shore in the aftermath of the mammoth tide.

'No, ma'am.' Blackford swallowed, coughed and said, 'Kill me now, ma'am.'

Tavon laughed: a hearty, belly-laugh that chilled Blackford's blood. 'Oh, but that is funny, Captain.' She withdrew her hands from the pool, waved them over the surface and waited while the depthless cauldron congealed and then froze into solid granite. Still laughing, she picked a small bit of stone from its centre and slipped it into her uniform pocket. 'No, really, Blackford. I want you to get those ships ready. Pay the captains, kill them; I don't care, but I want them ready to sail by high tide, three days from now.' Major Tavon chuckled then mimicked him, 'Kill me now, ma'am.'

'Yes, please.' His hands were shaking and he laced his fingers together in hopes of appearing brave.

'You're a coward, Blackford, a whimpering baby. You don't want to die any more than I want to kill you. I need you. When I'm through needing you, if you've done what I ask, you'll enjoy a long life. At that time, whether you're a coward or a hero, I don't give a shit. I'll be going home. So, stop dicking around making jokes and get those boats ready to go.'

Blackford took a breath and tried, unsuccessfully, to compose himself. 'To where, ma'am?'

'Ah, finally a cogent response. Good. To Pellia. I want as many soldiers as we can muster, including your former colleagues from Wellham Ridge, on board, well fed and ready to hit the road in three days. Got it?'

'Hit the road, ma'am?'

'Right, skedaddle, bug out, take off, hit the highway, jet back to Kansas with Toto. Know what I mean?'

'Yes, ma'am. To Pellia.'

'Excellent, Blackford. Now, get us south to one of those open piers. I want you to scare us up some beer and maybe a burger.'

Blackford backed away. 'Yes, ma'am. Whatever you like, ma'am.' He kept eye contact with her, not because he wanted her to see that he had summoned every bit of his courage to stand there with Captain Hershaw's body spilling blood all over the deck, but rather because he did not want to be caught looking at her pocket. The stone. Don't look down, or she'll know. But you've got to get that stone. stone. Don't look down, or she'll know. But you've got to get that stone.

Orindale Harbour was a ruin. The waterfront had sustained massive damage, and apart from the three frigates Blackford had been ordered to commandeer and the few naval ships that had almost miraculously escaped the devastation, there was not another seaworthy vessel in sight.

Jacrys' skin tightened into gooseflesh. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. He didn't have much magic, just a few spells he learned from the failed carnival conjurer-turned-fennaroot addict, a lodger beneath the brothel where he had worked as a boy, but he knew enough to sense that something significant was occurring. Rolling over the Ravenian Sea like summer thunder, the distant spells penetrated the weary spy's bones. Someone powerful was painting with a broad brush. He didn't have much magic, just a few spells he learned from the failed carnival conjurer-turned-fennaroot addict, a lodger beneath the brothel where he had worked as a boy, but he knew enough to sense that something significant was occurring. Rolling over the Ravenian Sea like summer thunder, the distant spells penetrated the weary spy's bones. Someone powerful was painting with a broad brush.

'Malagon,' he whispered. 'So you're not dead after all.' He rested against the bulkhead. 'Unless,' he mused, 'it's someone else.'

As he did every time he woke, Jacrys tried to draw a full breath. It was the benchmark against which he charted his recovery. General Oaklen's healer, an elderly man named- named some rutting thing the injured spy couldn't recall; Jacrys had been so thoroughly smothered by the mind-numbing power of his querlis poultice that he couldn't remember much more than sleeping, ordering Captain Thadrake to confiscate Carpello's yacht, and enlisting the services of ... Mirron. That was it: Mirron Something, one of General Oaklen's healers. Otherwise, the only recent memories were recollections of how well he had managed to breathe the previous day, and of Brexan Carderie, the partisan spy haunting his dreams.

He breathed in now, his lungs filling with smoke from the wood Mirron had left burning in the brazier. Jacrys coughed; pain stabbed through his chest like a rapier.

'Pissing demons,' he choked, 'pissing motherwhoring demons.' He could barely speak; his voice was a whisper, barely audible above the sounds of Carpello Jax's private yacht, a sleek, twin-masted ketch the bloated Orindale merchant almost never used. Carpello had struggled with sea travel.

'Mirron,' Jacrys wheezed. He sucked in a stabilising lungful then cried, 'Mirron!'

The healer ducked in from the companionway and saw Jacrys fighting to sit upright. 'No, no, no, sir,' he pleaded, 'you must lie back down. Look at you; you're all sweating and flushed. What were you trying to do, sing?'

Mirron Something was an army officer, but he was more a fixture in the division than a legitimate rung in the military hierarchy. He was over four hundred and twenty Twinmoons old, and he couldn't remember the last order he had given that anyone had actually followed. He was alarmingly tall and thin, with a head of unkempt lank white hair; he looked rather like a wall torch that had grown tired of standing about in a boring sconce.

'Breathe, you worthless lump of grettanshit, I was trying to breathe,' breathe,' Jacrys growled. Worn out with the effort of summoning the healer, he let his head fall back into the pillows and ignored Mirron rambling on about torn scar tissue, internal bleeding and allowing his lung to heal fully before shouting. Jacrys concentrated on his respiration. In, Jacrys growled. Worn out with the effort of summoning the healer, he let his head fall back into the pillows and ignored Mirron rambling on about torn scar tissue, internal bleeding and allowing his lung to heal fully before shouting. Jacrys concentrated on his respiration. In, hollow tree ... easy ... out, loose gravel ... easy. And again. hollow tree ... easy ... out, loose gravel ... easy. And again. Slowly, he regained control. 'I wish to go up on deck.' Slowly, he regained control. 'I wish to go up on deck.'

'No sir, you mustn't,' Mirron said, agitated. 'You need more rest, another Moon at the very least. Every time you tear that scar tissue, you end up all the way back at the beginning of this journey shouting, standing up, walking around, all these things put you at risk. You may already be bleeding again in your lung-'

'I don't care,' Jacrys snarled through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from his face onto the coverlet that stank of smoke, spilled broth and pungent bodily fluids even his berth revolted him.

'Here,' Mirron said as he reached into a leather pouch, 'let me give you another application of querlis.'

'No, not that. It's like getting hit in the head with a club. Trust me on that, I know.' He pushed Mirron's hands away. 'I want to go on deck. I want to breathe something other than the gods-rutting smoke you've got billowing in here. I want to stand up and I want real food.'

'As your healer, I must tell you tha-'

'You're my subordinate, and I am giving you an order,' Jacrys whispered. 'If you can't follow it, get Captain Thadrake in here, and I will have you in irons for the remainder of our journey.' It was an empty threat and Jacrys knew it; Carpello might have left a cupboard-full of silk tunics in the main cabin, but there were no manacles on his yacht.

'Very well.' Mirron poked his head into the companionway and shouted for the captain, who arrived a moment later. 'He'd like to stand up, go on deck and eat solid food,' the healer said. 'It may kill him.'

Looking at Jacrys, Captain Thadrake said, 'You could die. Do you understand that, sir?'

'Of course I understand,' Jacrys whispered, 'and I can assure you I'm not planning on dancing. I just want fresh air.'

'All right,' Thadrake said, 'we'll see you on deck.'

Mirron said, 'I reiterate: he could die.' And then to Jacrys, 'Sir, you could die.'

Jacrys nodded.

The captain said, 'Listen, Mirron, if he dies, we'll toss his body over the side and make for Southport, or better yet, Estrad Village. I'll buy the jemma-steaks and you buy the beer.'

Jacrys coughed back a rare bout of genuine laughter. Clutching his chest, he wheezed, 'That's the spirit, Captain.'

'See you on deck, sir,' Thadrake repeated, and was gone.

Once outside, he felt energised, refreshed by the icy cold. He stood at the starboard rail, almost hoping for a wave to splash him in the face. They had come far north, through the Narrows, and were closing in on the archipelago. With any luck, they would ride the Twinmoon tides through the Northeast Channel and into Pellia. Memories of his youth intruded as he stood there. Below, in his berth, only pain and anger kept him company and the girl, don't forget her. She's been with you all along and the girl, don't forget her. She's been with you all along but out here, Jacrys found himself wrapped in a sense of homecoming. but out here, Jacrys found himself wrapped in a sense of homecoming.

Watching the waves, he remembered his father, and evenings kneading bread dough beside the hearth. His mother had died when he was young, and he had grown up with only his father to look after him but that was fine; he had no regrets. It had been so long since he had been in Pellia that he wondered if his father was even alive, and if they would find anything to say to one another. Would he even recognise his father if they met in the street? 'It's worth a try,' he murmured to himself. They were approaching the Northeast Channel; it wouldn't be long now.

'Feeling better?'

Jacrys jumped. In his melancholic, injured state he had permitted someone to sneak up behind him. Perhaps his decision to retire had come at exactly the right moment. Smiling, he said, 'Captain Ellis?'

Wenra Ellis joined him at the rail. Middle-aged, wiry and obviously tough, Captain Ellis had run Carpello's yacht for nearly thirty Twinmoons. The sandy-haired sailor had skin like tanned hide, but she was not unattractive; still, Jacrys seriously doubted that Carpello had ever managed to bed this woman. He enjoyed a good fight in bed, but Carpello also enjoyed winning, and Jacrys didn't think Captain Ellis was the type of woman to tolerate that sort of nonsense.

'Going home?' she asked him.

He nodded. 'I grew up just south of the city, on the west bank. It was a nice old place. My father did a lot to make it comfortable for us.'

'Is that where you're bound?' She checked the main sheet and automatically tugged on a ratline.

Jacrys said, 'Eventually, maybe.'

'Is he still there?'

'I don't know.'

'I don't know who you are, or what you do for General Oaklen,' Captain Ellis began, 'but I'm impressed that you've been assigned a healer and a company commander just to see you home.'

There was no longer any point in hiding who he was, Jacrys thought. 'I was a spy for Prince Malagon and his officers, a good one,' he whispered. 'Recently I killed a powerful partisan, Gilmour Stow, who was rumoured to be a Larion Senator though I don't know if I believe that, because when I stabbed him, he just died. No magic, no great blinding light, nothing. But I'm sick, I'm tired, and I'm hurt. And more than anything I want to go home.'

'Aspy?' She sounded a little surprised, and maybe a little impressed.

'I'm out of shape,' Jacrys explained. 'I've been hit too many times, climbed too many icy mountains, stabbed too many sleeping partisans. Just now, you came up behind me, and I had no idea you were there. Five Twinmoons ago, I would have gutted you before you'd even realised I'd heard you.'

Captain Ellis backed away a step, her forehead creased. 'I'll be careful next time.' She forced a chuckle.

'Not to worry,' Jacrys said, 'all I want now is to go home.' That isn't true, you liar. More than anything, you want Brexan Carderic: you That isn't true, you liar. More than anything, you want Brexan Carderic: you covet covet her, you who have never coveted anything. You want to feel her, to taste the salty tang of her sweat as it runs across her skin, to taste her blood as it splashes over her breasts. And you want to kill her, and that's what's different: you've never her, you who have never coveted anything. You want to feel her, to taste the salty tang of her sweat as it runs across her skin, to taste her blood as it splashes over her breasts. And you want to kill her, and that's what's different: you've never wanted wanted to kill anyone before, not Steven Taylor, not even Gilmour Stow. You to kill anyone before, not Steven Taylor, not even Gilmour Stow. You want want to kill Brexan Carderic. to kill Brexan Carderic.

'Well, sir,' she said, 'going home can be a cathartic experience for any of us. Perhaps you'll find the rejuvenation you need to get back to work.'

'I hope not.' He stared out across the waves. The winter sun, cool but bright, shone in blinding glints off the water.

'Looking for redemption?'

'There is no redemption for me.'

'Just peace and quiet then?'

'A place to regroup, to decide what comes next, and especially to let go of a few things.'

'I know that feeling,' she said a wry laugh.

'You do?' It was Jacrys' turn to be surprised.

'I work for a Falkan traitor, a man who beats and molests young women. It's no secret: Carpello Jax is a monster. Do you know how many nights he's slept in the main stateroom while I've been up here, considering what an enormous favour I could do for Eldarn if I just slipped in and slit his throat?'

'Many?'

'None.'

'None?' Jacrys smirked. 'Let me guess: because you have learned how to let go of a few things.'

'Exactly.'

'So how do you look at yourself in the mirror, Captain?'

'I don't,' she said simply. 'I've never been what anyone would call pretty-'

'Now, I wouldn't-'

'So,' she cut him off, 'I've never had any need for mirrors. If I need to get a look at myself, I do my job well and then try to catch a clear glimpse of my face reflected in the silver that fat son-of-a-whore pays me to take care of his little boat.'

'That sounds like overly simple cynicism, Captain Ellis.' Jacrys gripped the rail with both hands. The talking was wearing him down.

'Overly simple cynicism, Jacrys?' Captain Ellis laughed. 'You have many mirrors in your house?'

He was beaten but he felt a bit better. The truth was doing him good. 'No, I suppose I don't.'

Captain Ellis changed the subject. 'You don't look good. You're too pale; you ought to have some water, maybe some fruit. I've got tempines in my personal stores.'

Jacrys managed a smile of thanks. 'I am hungry, a little.'

'You want to go back below, lie down for a while?'

'No. I'd rather stand here a bit longer and then maybe try to eat something, maybe drink a beer.'

She nodded laconically; Jacrys guessed that Captain Ellis wouldn't waste a great deal of energy flailing about out of control. 'Very well,' she said, walking away, 'suit yourself.'

'Captain?' Jacrys called, and fell victim to another coughing spasm. Something came loose in his chest, something lumpy, tasting like salt. Whatever it was threatened to make him retch, and he swallowed: he didn't want to think that he was bleeding internally, and he especially didn't want to be spitting blood in front of Captain Ellis. Bleeding into his lungs was bad enough; having Ellis see it, somehow, would be worse.

'Are you all right?' she called, hurrying back. 'Let me get Mirron. Where is he?'

'No!' Jacrys wheezed, 'no, I'm fine, I just need a minute.'

She guided him towards the forward hatch and helped him sit, then offered him water.