Garec murmured, opened his eyes briefly and then slumped back into unconsciousness. He wouldn't live through the aven, not like this, wet and unsheltered.

'I've got to make a fire,' Kellin said out loud. 'I need flint and tinder, and something dry.' She looked around. Everything was wet. 'North, away from the river, it'll be dry there.' She ground her teeth together until her jaw hurt. 'Stay awake, you bastard,' she murmured as she staggered into the brush. 'Stay awake. Make a fire.'

Garec had a flint in his pack. She had heard his horse I hope it was his horse it was his horse die in the bushes off to her left. If she could get the flint, and find some dry wood outside the waves' wreckage area, she might be able to light a small fire and warm herself for a few stolen moments, and then she'd come back for Garec. 'But he'll have to wake up,' she whispered. 'He'll have to help me; I'll never be able to drag him that far. But first things first...' die in the bushes off to her left. If she could get the flint, and find some dry wood outside the waves' wreckage area, she might be able to light a small fire and warm herself for a few stolen moments, and then she'd come back for Garec. 'But he'll have to wake up,' she whispered. 'He'll have to help me; I'll never be able to drag him that far. But first things first...'

She found the horse, and Garec had been right: it had a splintered branch protruding from its chest. The flint was in the saddlebag, but it was another twenty-five paces before Kellin reached a dry area of the forest. If she was glad for anything, Kellin thought, it was that the flood had thrown them north. They hadn't been inside that roiling nightmare very long; had it cast them south, or carried them further east, they would both be dead already.

Igniting the fire took longer than she had planned, but she finally captured a small spark in the handful of dry tinder she had scraped together, then generously heaped winter brush on the determined little flame. 'Who cares?' she said, 'I'd be happy to have the whole rutting forest on fire. You need to find us, Steven? Well, that'll be easy; just look for the big orange glow in the sky.' Kellin laughed for the first time all day, then winced. 'All right, no laughing,' she told herself firmly, a smile still on her face.

With a hearty blaze crackling, Kellin added several logs. She knew it would take time to drag Garec if he's still alive if he's still alive through the forest, so she was trying to ensure there'd be at least some smouldering coals when she returned. She stood close to the flames, feeling the heat on her face and watching tendrils of steam rise from her clothing. She captured the feeling and secured it inside her mind: a warm place, a summer place, where no one ever found themselves washed two hundred paces through the woods by a rogue wave as big as a small mountain. Then she went back for Garec. through the forest, so she was trying to ensure there'd be at least some smouldering coals when she returned. She stood close to the flames, feeling the heat on her face and watching tendrils of steam rise from her clothing. She captured the feeling and secured it inside her mind: a warm place, a summer place, where no one ever found themselves washed two hundred paces through the woods by a rogue wave as big as a small mountain. Then she went back for Garec.

She was feeling better for a bit of heat and moved faster, determined to find reserves of strength to heave the Ronan bowman back to the campfire, but once outside its peripheral glow, she felt the chill creep back into her bones. Her clothes were still wet and her skin rose in dimpled gooseflesh. She started shivering, great quaking spasms. She couldn't do this...

When the mule brayed, Kellin pissed her leggings. She couldn't see anything, and hadn't heard it moving through the brush. She thanked the gods that the animal was not a squad of armed Malakasians; they would have had her gutted, sewn up and gutted again before she'd even realised they were there. If she hadn't been so cold and in so much pain, it would have been hideously embarrassing but there was no one to witness her discomposure, so she tried to recover herself and hurried to find the animal, lost but otherwise healthy, munching bits of brown vegetation poking through the patches of snow as it wandered in the general direction of home.

'Well, aren't you a surprise?' Kellin said, hoping to sweet-talk the mule into carrying her and Garec to the nearest healer's doorstep. 'Would you like an apple?' The mule didn't answer; it didn't appear to care one whit that Kellin was there at all. 'No? How about a crate of apples?' she said softly, approaching the animal. 'Come on, we have a little job tonight, and then Kellin will get you all the dry grass and thistles you can eat, agreed?'

The mule was wearing a rope bridle and had the remains of a pink ribbon tied into its mane: it was obviously a child's pet.

'What's your name?' she asked as she took hold of the bridle; the mule didn't care, and when she tugged, surprisingly, the mule complied without complaint, plodding happily alongside her until they found Garec, looking worse, barely breathing, still wrapped in the damp cloaks.

'Mule,' Kellin said, patting the animal gently, 'I need you to wait right here while I help Garec up. Will you do that?'

Again, nothing.

'Fine, I didn't expect you to answer,' she told it. 'You're not much of a conversationalist; I can respect that in a beast of burden, but I need you to understand that if you run off, I'm going to find you, kill you, eat you and then make a nice pair of winter pants out of your miserable hide. Understand?'

The mule twitched an ear. Kellin knelt in the mud and pressed her cheek against Garec's forehead. Panic struck hard: he was too cold.

'Oh, no, no, no, please no,' she cried, shaking again. She moved her hands back and forth between Garec's hands, cold and stiff in his lap, and his ivory face, marked with a roadmap of dried blood. She put her cheek near his mouth, felt nothing and moved closer, pressed her skin against his lips, blue-black in the moonlight. Still nothing.

Kellin blamed the cold: she was too cold to feel his breath. He was breathing; of course he was. She was simply too cold to feel it. She rocked back on her haunches, hoping something would come to her. She was too cold, too tired and too injured to lift him herself; as determined as she wanted to be, Garec was too heavy, a deadweight. 'Think, think, think of something. Think,' she chanted, rocking back and forth, 'it's too cold. I can't believe it's come to this...'

The rope bridle.

Kellin slashed through one end of the mule's reins and hastily tugged the free end across Garec's chest and beneath his armpits. He didn't stir at all; there was no sign that he was still alive. Now Kellin longed to see a bit of blood seep from the wound on his head, just a few drops, that was all, just to confirm that his heart was still beating.

With the rope knotted as tightly as she could with one functional hand, Kellin took hold of the bridle and tugged the mule towards the fire. After a moment, the animal followed docilely, dragging Garec through the hardening mud.

At the campfire, Kellin threw her arms around the mule's neck and buried her face in its musty fur. The beast nuzzled the crook of her arm and offered a derisive snort that said, 'Touching, but how about my apples?' She managed a faint grin and set about untying Garec, making sure to link the rope around a tree when she was done.

She managed to untangle their wet cloaks and spread them over low-hanging branches, as near to the fire as she could get them without setting them alight. They started steaming almost immediately as she pushed Garec close to the fire.

She spent a few moments gathering a big pile of logs, then returned and sat herself, cradling Garec's head in her lap, willing the heat to restore him to her, whole and unharmed, save for the crooked needlework ringing his scalp.

'Rest on me,' she whispered, tossing another log onto the fire. 'I'll stay awake and keep the fire going; you rest on me.' Her ribs blazed; the shattered ends of her collarbone scraped against one another and a cold sweat chilled her face. She was sick, exhausted, but she had done it; she had done everything she could to save him. Whether or not he lived through the night was now up to the gods. She stroked his face, then massaged his legs and arms as well as she could with just one hand, willing his blood to start circulating into his extremities.

Rocking him this way in her lap, she passed the night and saw dawn begin to whiten the eastern sky. Shortly before sun-up, Kellin finally fell asleep, Garec's head resting across her thighs.

THE WAGON TRAIN.

Brexan waved to Marrin, Sera and those members of the Morning Morning Star's crew she could see from the porch at the Topgallant. Captain Ford was missing; Brexan assumed he had gone into the city to make arrangements for whatever cargo he and his crew would ship back to Praga. In just a few days he had gone from being almost destitute, struggling with the uncertainty of securing any business at all, to being one of the few men left in Orindale with a seaworthy vessel. More than once in the past three days Brexan had heard Ford complain that the Star's crew she could see from the porch at the Topgallant. Captain Ford was missing; Brexan assumed he had gone into the city to make arrangements for whatever cargo he and his crew would ship back to Praga. In just a few days he had gone from being almost destitute, struggling with the uncertainty of securing any business at all, to being one of the few men left in Orindale with a seaworthy vessel. More than once in the past three days Brexan had heard Ford complain that the Morning Star, Morning Star, his chubby little twin-masted brig-sloop, was too small; right now he was wishing he had invested in a larger vessel: a bark, maybe, or a fat galleon. But even so, he could ship almost anything anywhere, and he had been getting offers every day to carry sundry cargoes all over Eldarn. Captain Ford could name his price; Orindale's merchants would pay. his chubby little twin-masted brig-sloop, was too small; right now he was wishing he had invested in a larger vessel: a bark, maybe, or a fat galleon. But even so, he could ship almost anything anywhere, and he had been getting offers every day to carry sundry cargoes all over Eldarn. Captain Ford could name his price; Orindale's merchants would pay.

Anchoring on the flats near the marsh might have been humiliating, but it had been the wisest move the captain had made since sailing north. When the mysterious power had broken, sunk or burned the rest of the merchant fleet to the waterline, the Morning Star Morning Star had been safely out of sight around the northern point. With her leaks patched and tarred and her stores replenished, the had been safely out of sight around the northern point. With her leaks patched and tarred and her stores replenished, the Morning Star Morning Star waited only for her captain to make a deal, then he and the crew would bring her south to the quay, take on whatever they were hauling and sail on the next falling tide. waited only for her captain to make a deal, then he and the crew would bring her south to the quay, take on whatever they were hauling and sail on the next falling tide.

But Captain Ford wasn't fooling himself into thinking he had a monopoly on Eldarn's largest economic centre. Ships were coming from Pellia, Strandson, Southport, Averil and Landry; there were plenty of vessels plying the Ravenian Sea and as word spread of the recent devastation, all of them would see Orindale as a goldmine, a chance for lucrative long-term contracts for five, ten, maybe even twenty twenty times what they would have been worth in the past. times what they would have been worth in the past.

Captain Ford seemed to be a wise and experienced seaman; he wouldn't drag his feet now. Brexan had enjoyed having him, Sera, even Marrin, staying at the Topgallant for the past few days, and she wondered if he and the Morning Star Morning Star would be back at the boarding house in the coming Twinmoons. would be back at the boarding house in the coming Twinmoons.

Brexan had yet to see the devastation, she'd heard plenty about it, and she got the feeling that her life was about to go back into motion; the pendulum marking the passage of her time here in Orindale had begun swinging the other way. She pulled her cloak closed as she crossed the jetty and entered the northern wharf. She felt the wind bite at her face and hands. It was always windier down here than up near the marsh. Sheltered by the city and the stubby peninsula jutting into the harbour, Nedra's cove was rarely windy, and almost never as cold as the Falkan capital. Though winter at the Topgallant had been marked by chilly rain, periodic snow showers and plenty of fog, the frigid winds here reminded Brexan that spring was still a Twinmoon away. She sucked in a breath, felt it chill her lungs and hurried towards the city centre. Right now, shopping was the most important item on her agenda.

Brexan had invited the entire neighbourhood, including Nella Barkson's extended family and the crew of the Morning Star, Morning Star, to Nedra's four-hundred-Twinmoon party, at least twelve people more than she had originally figured, and the way the Barksons and the sailors ate and drank, she was going to need more supplies another barrel of beer, at least, another gansel, more bread, and more fish stew. She wouldn't be able to carry everything on her shopping list, but she might get lucky and run into Captain Ford along the wharf and maybe she could persuade him to lug a box or two of provisions back, perhaps in exchange for free beer that night. to Nedra's four-hundred-Twinmoon party, at least twelve people more than she had originally figured, and the way the Barksons and the sailors ate and drank, she was going to need more supplies another barrel of beer, at least, another gansel, more bread, and more fish stew. She wouldn't be able to carry everything on her shopping list, but she might get lucky and run into Captain Ford along the wharf and maybe she could persuade him to lug a box or two of provisions back, perhaps in exchange for free beer that night.

She watched as three massive frigates, rigged with an impossible tangle of ropes and sheets, made their way north from the harbour. Loaded to bursting, they plunged north through the whitecaps under full sail. They all flew Malakasian colours. Heading home to Pellia, I'd wager. I wonder how they survived. Maybe the mess down here isn't as bad as everyone claims. Things do tend to get inflated a bit by the time they reach Nedra's cove, Heading home to Pellia, I'd wager. I wonder how they survived. Maybe the mess down here isn't as bad as everyone claims. Things do tend to get inflated a bit by the time they reach Nedra's cove, she thought. she thought.

Another hundred paces south, with the frigates nearly out of sight on the northern horizon, Brexan realised that no one had exaggerated the details of the mysterious attack on Orindale's merchant fleet. Like so many others in the past few days, Brexan stared in disbelief.

The ships that were moored along the quay and off the offshore buoys were gone. There was nothing left. A few naval vessels plied the waves, but there was nothing to patrol. A handful of small civilian boats scurried between the derelict ships and bits of wreckage that remained tied to offshore moorings, while scavengers and legal salvage companies picked over what remained of the massive merchant vessels, collecting bits of metal, a few salvageable lengths of rope, even some miraculously unburned planks and beams, but otherwise, the harbour was empty, devoid of its usual bustle.

Something fluttered through Brexan's memory; she whirled around, peering into the distance where grey water met grey sky in a perfect demarcation of the end of the world. She could just make out the last of the frigates, making way towards Pellia, as Carpello Jax's final confession came back to her: It's wood, processed wood, but not lumber. Bark and shavings, leaves and roots. I don't know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask. It's wood, processed wood, but not lumber. Bark and shavings, leaves and roots. I don't know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask.

'Is that what they're hauling?' she whispered to herself.

She watched until the topmasts disappeared over the horizon. Carpello was dead; she had stood with Sallax and Nedra as his body was washed away on the outgoing tide. Could the evil merchant have something to do with those frigates? Were they carrying the last of Carpello 's shipments of bark and roots? It seemed unlikely, but Brexan couldn't discount the possibility that Carpello's fading stench was somehow all over the devastation of Orindale Harbour.

She pressed on, taking in the rest of the city's scars. Not all the destruction had been directed at the shipping industry; the wharf had fallen victim as well, and the bridge, Orindale's signature edifice, had collapsed, blocking the river and leaving barges stacked up behind like logs in a jam. Even the abandoned barrels Sallax had hidden in, stacked behind the down-at-heel waterfront alehouse, had been washed away.

'Great rutting lords,' Brexan murmured. 'What could have done this?'

She asked the question of no one, but she feared that she had a good idea what might have wreaked such havoc: Nerak.

'They're here,' she said, and felt something inside her shift and click back into place. She ignored the guilt, forcing thoughts of Nedra from her mind. She had been fooling herself, thinking she might live out her days as a scullery-maid; this this was what she needed to do. If Steven and Garec were nearby, then that horsecock Jacrys wouldn't be far away. They were here; Brexan could feel them on the breeze, that same breeze that somehow never reached the Topgallant Boarding House. 'It's just a matter of time now,' she said, lowering her shoulder into the wind and heading for the fish market. was what she needed to do. If Steven and Garec were nearby, then that horsecock Jacrys wouldn't be far away. They were here; Brexan could feel them on the breeze, that same breeze that somehow never reached the Topgallant Boarding House. 'It's just a matter of time now,' she said, lowering her shoulder into the wind and heading for the fish market.

Two avens later, Orindale slipped from day into night. For a few moments, the entire city was caught on that narrow horizon between shadow and light. Everything was the same colour, a monochromatic grey, the colour of winter. Brexan had bought some things for Nedra's celebration, but she'd deliberately left a few items off her list: she needed an excuse to come back the following day. Sitting in a tavern, she sipped at her wine and nibbled a pastry. She watched the traffic move along the quay, searching for anyone with a longbow so few people did; it was begging for trouble in the capital to tote weapons around or carrying a wooden staff. As darkness enveloped the seaport, Brexan gave in, shouldered her canvas satchels and made her way back to the Topgallant to help Nedra with the evening meals.

She would be back.

Brexan found them the following day; she knew she would. She almost stumbled over Garec Haile before recognising him. He was standing amongst a crowd waiting to cross the makeshift bridge across the Medera, a pontoon of wooden barges lashed together. While the remains of the great stone span dammed the river, the barge captains were unloading their cargoes beside the barracks at the old imperial palace. The floating bridge was open to foot and wagon traffic, but the river was essentially closed, empty downstream barges were tied up to anything left standing on the north and south banks, and commerce in the capital city was at a virtual standstill.

Today, with northerly winds raking the coastline again, pedestrian traffic was slow. The crowds of cloaked and hooded travellers waited impatiently for their turn to cross, and in the press of people moving back and forth, several had already fallen in and had to be fished out by unemployed stevedores on temporary assignment as lifeguards.

Brexan looked at the man for a long time, making sure she was right before finally approaching. Excited, she ignored the woman on his arm, and said 'Are you Garec Haile?'

'No,' the man replied in a whisper, clearly ill, 'you're mistaking me for someone else.'

Brexan's sudden enthusiasm vanished; she had been so sure she was about to fulfil a promise to Versen, and to be within shouting distance of another to Sallax. She sighed deeply and, crestfallen, was about to turn away when she looked at him again. That's Garec; it has to be. it has to be. As he started over the first barge, she caught up with him and said, 'Please Versen wanted me to find you. I promised I would.' As he started over the first barge, she caught up with him and said, 'Please Versen wanted me to find you. I promised I would.'

The man turned quickly; his hood fell back. He had been gravely injured and looked mere moments from collapsing. His head was wrapped in cloth bandages, the remnants of a querlis poultice poking out from beneath. His skin was sickly-white and his face was deeply lined: too little food; too many Twinmoons running, hiding and fighting.

'Who are you?' He stared into her face. It was unsettling: unarmed, obviously injured and weak, yet he left her feeling as though he could kill her with a glance. The Bringer of Death, Bringer of Death, that's what Versen and Sallax had called him; from the look in his eyes, Brexan could see they hadn't been exaggerating. that's what Versen and Sallax had called him; from the look in his eyes, Brexan could see they hadn't been exaggerating.

'My name is Brexan Carderic,' she said, 'and I'm a friend-'

'Brexan,' Garec interrupted, his features softening. 'Gabriel O'Reilly mentioned you. You know of Versen?'

'I do,' she said, 'and Sallax Farro of Estrad.'

'Sallax?' Garec shook his head. 'That's not possible.'

'It's true.'

'Take me to them, then. Where are they?'

'I can't. I wish-' Brexan stepped out of the line of people crossing the pontoon barges. 'I can't take you to them, but I can tell you what happened.'

Garec noticed the sudden strain on her face. 'Both dead?' he said softly. When she nodded, he asked, 'Were you with them?'

'Yes, I was.' Brexan's eyes fill with tears; she hardly noticed when Garec took her arm.

He looked around the wharf, then gestured at a makeshift tavern, its windows shattered and door hanging by a leather hinge, near the pontoon. 'Let's go. I want to know everything.'

The first of the wagons rumbled south, an unexpected Seron escort in tow. There were three others following, each filled to the slats with canvas bags, sewn shut and stamped with a Ronan customs seal. A schooner had arrived from Orindale two days prior, and for a flagon of wine and a few slivers of fennaroot, two of her crew merchant seamen, not navy sailors were willing to describe her cargo in detail: winter wheat, four hundred crates of it, already ground to flour and en route to Welstar Palace.

Hoyt closed his eyes and thought of Churn; he'd have enjoyed this. Face-down in a frozen ditch by the side of a Malakasian highway in the middle of the night, Churn would have found it impossible to keep still. Hoyt imagined him signing, Is it cold over there? It's cold over here! Is it cold over there? It's cold over here! or perhaps, or perhaps, Tell me again why we didn't become farmers, Tell me again why we didn't become farmers, and giggling under his breath. Hannah had told him that Churn spoke in his final moments astride the flying buttress, but Hoyt would always remember his friend signing with nimble fingers. and giggling under his breath. Hannah had told him that Churn spoke in his final moments astride the flying buttress, but Hoyt would always remember his friend signing with nimble fingers.

His own fingers were stiff with cold and his face was numb. He'd left his cloak at the Wayfarer, foregoing the bulky wrap for a second wool tunic and a neck muffler that made him look like an elderly woman with a chest cold. He hadn't anticipated Seron; neither had Alen, wherever he was now. It's just wheat, It's just wheat, Hoyt thought, Hoyt thought, so why the escort? It doesn't make sense, unless they're starving and they need the wheat as much as they need armour, enchanted tree bark and weapons. so why the escort? It doesn't make sense, unless they're starving and they need the wheat as much as they need armour, enchanted tree bark and weapons. With the second wagon passing, Hoyt stopped thinking about why there was a Seron platoon less than ten paces away and instead tried to focus on becoming as invisible as possible. With the second wagon passing, Hoyt stopped thinking about why there was a Seron platoon less than ten paces away and instead tried to focus on becoming as invisible as possible. We'll hit the next shipment, We'll hit the next shipment, he thought. he thought. There'll be another, something less protected. The traffic in the harbour never stops; another schooner will dock soon enough. There'll be another, something less protected. The traffic in the harbour never stops; another schooner will dock soon enough. Huddling in the frozen mud in the ditch, Hoyt willed Alen to read his thoughts and stand down. Huddling in the frozen mud in the ditch, Hoyt willed Alen to read his thoughts and stand down.

Then the fire arrows struck.

Hoyt didn't see the first barrage of flaming shafts as they arched through the night; he was hiding his face and hoping his body would be mistaken for a particularly dark shadow, or maybe a piece of rotting wood. But he did risk a glance at the second salvo, and in the moment before panic took hold, Hoyt was proud of Alen. The old Larion magician did not disappoint. Seemingly scores of flaming arrows streamed through the darkness. Some embedded themselves in the wagons or the stacks of canvas satchels; others struck Seron soldiers, wagon drivers and Malakasian guards, igniting their cloaks and sending them screaming into the surrounding fields. From where Hoyt crouched, it looked like a whole company of bowmen had attacked the wagon train, and those Seron warriors not running burning into the night drew their blades and charged what they imagined to be the firing line. The wagon train was, at least for the moment, unprotected.

Alen, you crazy bastard! Hoyt thought, drawing his scalpel and snaking up the ditch. Hoyt thought, drawing his scalpel and snaking up the ditch. All right, let's go! All right, let's go!

He hurried behind a burning wagon to reach one whose cargo had not yet caught fire. The driver was fighting to keep his team of horses calm, trying to lead them around the blaze blocking the roadway. As Hoyt slipped past, the driver reached for him, grabbing a handful of his scarf, and Hoyt rounded on him, slashing tendons in the man's wrist to render his hand useless. The fight was one-sided and quick, but as Hoyt ran, he heard the driver shouting, 'They're here! Come back! They're already here, you fools!'

'Not long now,' Hoyt muttered, quickening his pace. At the rear of the wagon, he tore off a piece of burning wood and tossed it into the bed, scorching the bags of wheat. Two down, Two down, Hoyt thought, and dived into the ditch to avoid being trampled by the horses pulling the third cart. The driver was dead, slumped sideways and crackling like a campfire. The horses, spooked by the conflagration, galloped wildly across the ditch and into an adjacent field. The cart, smouldering here and there with outbreaks of yellow flame, failed to negotiate the ditch, crashed over and spilled its load. The reins snapped and the team took off eastwards. Hoyt watched as what was left of the wagon caught fire, brightening the Pellia night. 'Three down,' he said, checking for Seron as he made his way towards the last cart in the convoy. He had still not spotted Alen but knew his friend was all right, because salvos of fireballs continued to rain down intermittently, occasionally coming close enough to Hoyt to leave him swearing. The fireballs looked and sounded like arrows as they flew overhead, a simple ruse, but convincing enough to buy Hoyt another moment or two to ensure the final wagon was well on its way to ash. Hoyt thought, and dived into the ditch to avoid being trampled by the horses pulling the third cart. The driver was dead, slumped sideways and crackling like a campfire. The horses, spooked by the conflagration, galloped wildly across the ditch and into an adjacent field. The cart, smouldering here and there with outbreaks of yellow flame, failed to negotiate the ditch, crashed over and spilled its load. The reins snapped and the team took off eastwards. Hoyt watched as what was left of the wagon caught fire, brightening the Pellia night. 'Three down,' he said, checking for Seron as he made his way towards the last cart in the convoy. He had still not spotted Alen but knew his friend was all right, because salvos of fireballs continued to rain down intermittently, occasionally coming close enough to Hoyt to leave him swearing. The fireballs looked and sounded like arrows as they flew overhead, a simple ruse, but convincing enough to buy Hoyt another moment or two to ensure the final wagon was well on its way to ash. Then I'm getting out of here, Then I'm getting out of here, he told himself. he told himself.

The Seron were coming back. Any normal guard, having found no one in the fields, might return warily until they knew what strange enchantments were upon them ... but these weren't normal soldiers. The Seron charged the wagon convoy as wildly and with the same recklessness that they had attacked the invisible enemy line. Demonpiss, out of time! Demonpiss, out of time! Hoyt thought, and risked calling, 'Alen!' No one answered, and the din from the injured and the dying went on unabated. Hoyt thought, and risked calling, 'Alen!' No one answered, and the din from the injured and the dying went on unabated.

Hoyt dived for the last cart. One of the slat sides had caught alight, and he planned to do as before, break off a bit and chuck it into the wagon bed, then to flee as fast as he could. He pounded on the end of a burning slat, trying to keep from watching the Seron soldiers as they ran, barking and grunting, across the frozen field. 'Come on, come on,' he muttered as he pulled, 'I've no time for this. I need to get going-'

Then he saw Alen, lying in a heap, hidden by dancing, fire-lit shadows. It looked to Hoyt like he had fallen into the cart and struck his head, or maybe broken his rutting neck. or maybe broken his rutting neck. There was no time to think. Hoyt climbed over the burning side, scorching himself as he dropped onto the soft canvas bags. There was no time to think. Hoyt climbed over the burning side, scorching himself as he dropped onto the soft canvas bags.

'Alen,' he whispered, 'come on, Alen, wake up.' He shook the old magician, praying his friend would open his eyes. Outside, the Seron had returned and were now searching the area for terrorists. Some shouted orders; others ran here and there, chasing down every flicker and moving shadow. One soldier climbed the cart where Hoyt and Alen were hiding and used a muscular paw to wrench the burning slats free without so much as a grimace.

Hoyt had already moved, dragging the canvas satchels over him until he and Alen were buried. 'We'll sneak out when you come around,' he whispered, 'until then, stay low ... and ... and I'll have the venison ...'

'I'll have the venison,' Hoyt said, 'and a flagon of wine, something decent, not the cat's piss you were pushing in here last night.'

'Right away, sir,' the waiter said as he disappeared behind the bar.

'Thirty volumes!' Hoyt said to himself, 'and state-of-the-art works, too. I can't imagine where Alen managed to get them all.' He considered how he might transport the outlawed books back to South-port. Smuggling a bit of fennaroot or a few weapons was a challenge; this, however, would be a significant undertaking. He'd stolen a wheelbarrow, but that wouldn't be enough. He'd have to- 'Good evening.' A woman, attractive but dangerous-looking, took the seat beside him.

'Not tonight,' Hoyt said. 'Go and find someone else.' He had more important things to attend to than hungry prostitutes on the prowl.

The woman motioned to the barman. 'I'll have the same, and another flagon of that too, please.'

Hoyt took a drink. 'I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. I'm not interested. And I am not buying you dinner.'

She tossed a worn leather pouch onto the table. It chimed with the telltale clink clink of silver Mareks. 'I'm not a prostitute; so relax. I can pay my own way. I was just looking for someone interesting with whom to have dinner.' of silver Mareks. 'I'm not a prostitute; so relax. I can pay my own way. I was just looking for someone interesting with whom to have dinner.'

'Hoyt,' Milla tugged his sleeve. 'Hoyt, you need to come with me.' She was dressed in her overnight tunic and held her straw dog by one dislocated leg.

'What? Milla?' Hoyt was confused. This wasn't right, this was not how things had happened ... had to had to happen. 'Milla, what are you doing here?' happen. 'Milla, what are you doing here?'

The woman, Ramella how do I know her name? how do I know her name? went on, seemingly oblivious to the little girl beside the table, 'That looks delicious. How is it?' went on, seemingly oblivious to the little girl beside the table, 'That looks delicious. How is it?'

'The best venison I've eaten in Middle Fork,' Hoyt lied.

'Hoyt,' Milla insisted, 'the Seron are coming; they'll find you. You can't stay here.'

Hoyt tore his gaze away from Ramella, the seductive thief from Landry. He whispered to Milla, 'Why don't you go up to bed? I'll be up in a while, and I'll come and say good night to you then.'

'Sorry, Hoyt,' Milla said, 'but you need to come with me now.' Something bit him hard on the ankle.

'Holy rutting horsecocks!' Hoyt shouted, standing suddenly, spilling the wine and upending his food. He gripped his leg, stemming the flow of blood, then remembered himself. 'Sorry, sweetie, Hoyt said a few bad words there, huh? You won't tell Hannah, will you?' Who's Hannah? Who's Hannah? he thought. he thought. I don't know anyone named Hannah ... not yet. I don't know anyone named Hannah ... not yet.

'Of course not, silly,' Milla laughed, 'and sorry about the puppy, but I need you to pay attention, or you'll die in here. You'll get stuck for ever like the ones at the palace.'

He nodded dumbly. He had no idea what the girl meant, but somehow he was aware that her words had significant meaning for him. Tentatively, he checked beneath the table, understanding before he did that he would find Branag's wolfhound, the same dog that tracked them will track us will track us from Southport to the Welstar docks. The wolfhound was there, his tongue lolling, in good spirits, healthy, young, well-fed, and with a shiny coat, not the tattered, trail-worn hunter that had been dying when it finally caught up with them. 'Ramella,' Hoyt said, 'I'm sorry, but I have to go.' from Southport to the Welstar docks. The wolfhound was there, his tongue lolling, in good spirits, healthy, young, well-fed, and with a shiny coat, not the tattered, trail-worn hunter that had been dying when it finally caught up with them. 'Ramella,' Hoyt said, 'I'm sorry, but I have to go.'

The sultry woman ignored him, carrying on with their conversation as if Hoyt's input meant nothing. 'Do you want to know what my vices are?' she asked.

Hoyt shook his head. 'This is impossible. This happened already, so long ago.' He turned to Milla. 'Long before you were even born, Pepperweed.'

'I know,' she said, stealing a chunk of bread from Ramella's platter, then dipping it into the stranger's gravy. 'Can we go now?' Ramella didn't notice.

'Yes.' Hoyt took her hand. 'How? Do you know how to get us back?' He'd begun to put the pieces together.

'Of course.' Milla spoke through a mouthful of food. 'That tastes good.'

'Yes, it did,' Hoyt agreed. 'All right, Pepperweed, take me back but not back to the inn, I have to get Alen.'

'He's coming back, too. I already talked to him. He's waiting for you. He was in someplace else, Durram or somewhere. I don't know where that is, but the lady with him was very sad. They had to leave the baby behind. Alen was sad, too.'