A flight of arrows arched across the gap between the Flenserists and the alien. One of the alien members went down immediately, and its thoughts quieted. The rest moved out of sight beneath the flying house. The troopers dashed forward, spaced in identity preserving formations; perhaps they meant to take the alien alive.

... But the assault line crumpled, many yards short of the alien: no arrows, no flames-the troopers just fell. For a moment Peregrine thought the Flenserists might have bit off more than they could chew. Then the second wave ran over the first. Members continued to fall, but they were in killing frenzy now, with only animal discipline left. The assault rolled slowly forward, the rear climbing over the fallen. Another alien member down... Strange, he could still hear wisps of the other's thought. In tone and tempo, it sounded the same as before the attack. How could anyone be so composed with total death looming?

A combat whistle sounded, and the mob parted. A trooper raced through and sprayed liquid fire. The flying house looked like meat on a griddle, flame and smoke coming up all around it.

Wickwrackrum swore to himself. Good-bye alien.

The wrecked and wounded were low on the Flenserist priority list. Seriously wounded were piled onto travoises and pulled far enough away so their cries would not cause confusion. Cleanup squads bullied the trooper fragments away from the flying house. The frags wandered the hummocky meadow; here and there they coelesced into ad hoc packs. Some drifted among the wounded, ignoring the screams in their need to find themselves.

When the tumult was quieted, three packs of whitejackets appeared. The Servants of the Flenser walked under the flying house. One was out of sight for a long while; perhaps it even got inside. The charred bodies of two alien members were carefully placed on travoises-more carefully than the wounded troopers had been-and hauled off.

Jaqueramaphan scanned the ruins with his eye-tool. He had given up trying to hide it from Peregrine. A whitejackets carried something down from the flying house. "Sst! There are other dead ones. Maybe from the fire. They look like pups." The small figures had the mantis form. They were strapped into travoises, and hauled out of sight over the hill's edge. No doubt they had kherhog-drawn carts down there.

The Flenserists set a sentry ring around the landing site. Dozens of fresh troopers stood on the hillside beyond it. No one was going to sneak past that.

"So it's total murder." Peregrine sighed.

"Maybe not... The first member they shot, I don't think it's quite dead."

Wickwrackrum squinted his best eyes. Either Scriber was a wishful thinker, or his tool gave him amazingly sharp sight. The first one hit had been on the other side of the craft. The member had stopped thinking, but that wasn't a sure sign of death. There was a whitejackets standing around it now. The whitejackets put the creature onto a travois and began pulling it away from the landing site, towards the southwest ... not quite the same path that the others had taken.

"The thing is still alive! It's got an arrow in the chest, but I can see it breathing." Scriber's heads turned toward Wickwrackrum. "I think we should rescue it."

For a moment Peregrine couldn't think of anything to say; he just gaped at the other. The center of Flenser's worldwide cabal was just a few miles to the northwest. Flenserist power was undisputed for dozens of miles inland, and right now they were virtually surrounded by an army. Scriber wilted a little before Peregrine's astonishment, but it was clear he was not joking. "Sure, I know it's risky. But that's what life is all about, right? You're a pilgrim. You understand."

"Hmf." That was the pilgrim reputation, all right. But no soul can survive total death-and there were plenty of opportunities for such annihilation on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims do know caution.

And yet, and yet this was the most marvelous encounter in all his centuries of pilgrimage. To know these aliens, to become them ... it was a temptation that surpassed all good sense.

"Look," said Scriber, "we could just go down and mingle with the wounded. If we can make it across the field, we might get a look at that last alien member, without risking too much." Jaqueramaphan was already backing down from his observation point, and circling around to find a path that wouldn't put him in silhouette. Wickwrackrum was torn; part of him got up to follow and part of him hesitated. Hell, Jaqueramaphan had admitted to being a spy; he carried an invention that was probably straight from the Long Lakes sharpest intelligence people. The guy had to be a pro...

Peregrine took a quick look around their side of the hill and across the valley. No sign of Tyrathect or anyone else. He crawled out of his various hidey holes and followed the spy.

As much as possible, they stayed in the deep shadows cast by the northering sun, and slipped from hummock to hummock where there was no shade. Just before they got to the first of the wounded, Scriber said something more, the scariest words of the afternoon. "Hey, don't worry. I've read all about doing this sort of thing!"

A mob of frags and wounded is a terrifying, mind-numbing thing. Singletons, duos, trios, a few quads: they wandered aimlessly, keening without control. In most situations, this many people packed together on just a few acres would have been an instant choir. In fact, he did notice some sexual activity and some organized browsing, but for the most part there was still too much pain for normal reactions. Wickwrackrum wondered briefly if-for all their talk of rationalism-the Flenserists would just leave the wreckage of their troops to reassemble itself. They'd have some strange and crippled repacks if they did.

A few yards into the mob and Peregrine Wickwrackrum could feel consciousness slipping from him. If he concentrated really hard, he could remember who he was and that he must get to the other side of the meadow without attracting attention.

Other thoughts, loud and unguarded, pummeled him: ... Blood lust and slashing ...

Glittering metal in the alien's hand ... the pain in her chest ... coughing blood, falling ...

... Boot camp and before, my merge brother was so good to me ... Lord Steel said that we are a grand experiment...

Running across the heather toward the stick-limbed monster. Leap, tines in paw. Slash the monster's throat. Blood spouts high.

... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please?

Peregrine whirled at that last question. It was pointed and near. A singleton was sniffing at him. He screeched the fragment off, and ran into an open space. Up ahead, Jaque-what's-his-name was scarcely better off. There was little chance they would be spotted here, but he was beginning to wonder if he could make it through. Peregrine was only four and there were singletons everywhere. On his right a quad was raping, grabbing at whatever duos and singles happened by. Wic and Kwk and Rac and Rum tried to remember just why they was here and where they was going. Concentrate on direct sensation; what is really here: the sooty smell of the flamer's liquid fire ... the midges swarming everywhere, clotting the puddles of blood all black.

An awfully long time passed. Minutes.

Wic-Kwk-Rac-Rum looked ahead. He was almost out of it; the south edge of the wreckage. He dragged himself to a patch of clean ground. Parts of him vomited, and he collapsed. Sanity slowly returned. Wickwrackrum looked up, saw Jaqueramaphan just inside the mob. Scriber was a big fellow, a sixsome, but he was having at least as bad a time as Peregrine. He staggered from side to side, eyes wide, snapping at himself and others.

Well, they had made it a good way across the meadow, and fast enough to catch up with the whitejackets who was pulling the last alien member. If they wanted to see anything more, they'd have to figure how to leave the mob without attracting attention. Hmm. There were plenty of Flenserist uniforms around ... without living owners. Peregrine walked two of himself over to where a dead trooper lay.

"Jaqueramaphan! Here!" The great spy looked in his direction, and a glint of intelligence returned to his eyes. He stumbled out of the mob and sat down a few yards from Wickwrackrum. It was far nearer than would normally be comfortable, but after what they'd been through, it seemed barely close. He lay for a moment, gasping. "Sorry, I never guessed it would be like that. I lost part of me back there ... never thought I'd get her back."

Peregrine watched the progress of the whitejackets and its travois. It wasn't going with the others; in a few seconds it would be out of sight. With a disguise, maybe they could follow and-no, it was just too risky. He was beginning to think like the great spy. Peregrine pulled a camouflage jacket off a corpse. They would still need disguises. Maybe they could hang around here through the night, and get a closer look at the flying house.

After a moment, Scriber saw what he was doing, and began gathering jackets for himself. They slunk between the piled bodies, looking for gear that wasn't too stained and that Jaqueramaphan thought had consistent insignia. There were plenty of paw claws and battle axes around. They'd end up armed to the teeth, but they'd have to dump some of their backpacks... One more jacket was all he needed, but his Rum was so broad in the shoulders that nothing fit.

Peregrine didn't really understand what happened till later: a large fragment, a threesome, was lying doggo in the pile of dead. Perhaps it was grieving, long after its member's dying dirge; in any case, it was almost totally thoughtless until Peregrine began pulling the jacket off its dead member. Then, "You'll not rob from mine!" He heard the buzz of nearby rage, and then there was slashing pain across his Rum's gut. Peregrine writhed in agony, leaped upon the attacker. For a moment of mindless rage, they fought. Peregrine's battle axes slashed again and again, covering his muzzles with blood. When he came to his senses one of the three was dead, the others running into the mob of wounded.

Wickwrackrum huddled around the pain in his Rum. The attacker had been wearing tines. Rum was slashed from ribs to crotch. Wickwrackrum stumbled; some of his paws were caught in his own guts. He tried to nose the ruins back into his member's abdomen. The pain was fading, the sky in Rum's eyes slowly darkening. Peregrine stifled the screams he felt climbing within him. I'm only four, and one of me is dying! For years he'd been warning himself that four was just too small a number for a pilgrim. Now he'd pay the price, trapped and mindless in a land of tyrants.

For a moment, the pain eased and his thoughts were clear. The fight hadn't really caused much notice amid the dirges, rapes, and simple attacks of madness. Wickwrackrum's fight had only been a little bigger and bloodier than usual. The whitejackets by the flying house had looked briefly in their direction, but were now back to tearing open the alien cargo.

Scriber was sitting nearby, watching in horror. Part of him would move a little closer, then pull back. He was fighting with himself, trying to decide whether to help. Peregrine almost pleaded with him, but the effort was too great. Besides, Scriber was no pilgrim. Giving part of himself was not something Jaqueramaphan could do voluntarily...

Memories came flooding now, Rum's efforts to sort things out and let the rest of him know all that had been before. For a moment, he was sailing a twinhull across the South Sea, a newby with Rum as a pup; memories of the island person who had born Rum, and of packs before that. Once around the world they had traveled, surviving the slums of a tropic collective, and the war of the Plains Herds. Ah, the stories they had heard, the tricks they had learned, the people they had met... Wic Kwk Rac Rum had been a terrific combination, clear-thinking, lighthearted, with a strange ability to keep all the memories in place; that had been the real reason he had gone so long without growing to five or six. Now he would pay perhaps the greatest price of all...

Rum sighed, and could not see the sky anymore. Wickwrackrum's mind went, not as it does in the heat of battle when the sound of thought is lost, not as it does in the companionable murmur of sleep. There was suddenly no fourth presence, just the three, trying to make a person. The trio stood and patted nervously at itself. There was danger everywhere, but beyond its understanding. It sidled hopefully toward a sixsome sitting nearby-Jaqueramaphan?-but the other shooed it away. It looked nervously at the mob of wounded. There was completeness there ... and madness too.

A huge male with deeply scarred haunches sat at the edge of the mob. It caught the threesome's eye, and slowly crawled across the open space toward them. Wic and Kwk and Rac back away, their pelts puffing up in fright and fascination; the scarred one was at least half again the weight of any of them.

... Where am I? ... May I be part of you ... please? Its keening carried memories, jumbled and mostly inaccessible, of blood and fighting, of military training before that. Somehow, the creature was as frightened of those early memories as of anything. It lay its muzzle-caked with dried blood-on the ground and belly crawled toward them. The other three almost ran; random coupling was something that scared all of them. They backed and backed, out onto the clear meadow. The other followed, but slowly, still crawling. Kwk licked her lips and walked back towards the stranger. She extended her neck and sniffed along the other's throat. Wic and Rac approached from the sides.

For an instant there was a partial join. Sweaty, bloody, wounded-a melding made in hell. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, glowed in the four for a moment of cynical humor. Then the unity was lost, and they were just three animals licking the face of a fourth.

Peregrine looked around the meadow with new eyes. He had been disintegrate for just a few minutes: The wounded from the Tenth Attack Infantry were just as before. Flenser's Servants were still busy with the alien cargo. Jaqueramaphan was slowly backing away, his expression a compound of wonder and horror. Peregrine lowered a head and hissed at him, "I won't betray you, Scriber."

The spy froze. "That you, Peregrine?"

"More or less." Peregrine still, but Wickwrackrum no more.

"H-how can you do it? Y-you just lost..."

"I'm a pilgrim, remember? We live with this sort of thing all our lives." There was sarcasm in his voice; this was more or less the cliche Jaqueramaphan had been spouting earlier. But there was some truth to it. Already Peregrine Wickwrack...scar felt like a person. Maybe this new combination had a chance.

"Uk. Well, yes... What should we do now?" The spy looked nervously in all directions, but his eyes on Peregrine were the most worried of all.

Now it was Wickwrackscar's turn to be puzzled. What was he doing here? Killing the strange enemy... No. That's what the Attack Infantry was doing. He would have nothing to do with that, no matter what the scarred one's memories. He and Scriber had come here to ... to rescue the alien, as much of it as possible. Peregrine grabbed hold of the memory and held it uncritically; it was something real, from the past identity he must preserve. He glanced towards where he had last seen the alien member. The whitejackets and his travois were no longer visible, but he'd been heading along an obvious path.

"We can still get ourselves the live one," he said to Jaqueramaphan.

Scriber stamped and sidled. He was not quite the enthusiast of before. "After you, my friend."

Wickwrackscar straightened his combat jackets and brushed some of the dried blood off. Then he strutted off across the meadow, passing just a hundred yards from the Flenser's Servants around the enemy-around the flying house. He flipped them a sharp salute, which was ignored. Jaqueramaphan followed, carrying two crossbows. The other was doing his best to imitate Peregrine's strut, but he really didn't have the right stuff.

Then they were past the military crest of the hill and descending into shadows. The sounds of the wounded were muted. Wickwrackscar broke into double time, loping from switchback to switchback as he descended the rough path. From here he could see the harbor; the boats were still at the piers, and there wasn't much activity. Behind him, Scriber was talking nervous nonsense. Peregrine just ran faster, his confidence fueled by general newby confusion. His new member, the scarred one, had been the muscle behind an infantry officer. That pack had known the layout of the harbors and the castle, and all the passwords of the day.

Two more switchbacks and they overran the Flenser Servant and his travois. "Hallo!" shouted Peregrine. "We bring new instructions from Lord Steel." A chill went down his spines at the name, remembering Steel for the first time. The Servant dropped the travois and turned to face them. Wickwrackscar didn't know his name, but he remembered the guy: fairly high-ranking, an arrogant get-of-bitches. It was a surprise to see him pulling the travois himself.

Peregrine stopped only twenty yards from the whitejackets. Jaqueramaphan was looking down from the switchback above; his bows were out of sight. The Servant looked nervously at Peregrine and up at Scriber.

"What do you two want?"

Did he suspect them already? No matter. Wickwrackscar braced himself for a killing charge ... and suddenly he was seeing in fours, his mind blurred with newby dizziness. Now that he needed to kill, the scarred one's horror of the act undid him. Damn! Wickwrackscar cast wildly about for something to say. And now that murder was out of his mind, his new memories came easily: "Lord Steel's will, that the creature be brought with us to the harbor. You, ah, you are to return to the invader's flying thing."

The whitejackets licked his lips. His eyes swept sharply across Peregrine's uniforms, and Scriber's. "Impostors!" he screamed, at the same instant lunging one of his members toward the travois. Metal glinted in the member's forepaw. He's going to kill the alien!

There was a bow snap from above, and the runner fell, a shaft through its eye. Wickwrackscar charged the others, forcing his scarbacked member out front. There was an instant of dizziness and then he was whole again, screaming death at the four. The two packs crashed together, Scar carrying a couple of the Servant's members over the edge of the path. Arrows hummed around them. Wic Kwk Rac twisted, slashing axes at whatever remained standing.

Then things were quiet, and Peregrine had his thoughts again. Three of the Servant's members twitched on the path, the earth around them slick with blood. He pushed them off the path, near where his Scar had killed the others. Not one of the Servant had survived; it was total death, and he was responsible. He sagged to the ground, seeing in fours again.

"The alien. It's still alive," said Scriber. He was standing around the travois, sniffing at the mantis-like body. "Not conscious though." He grabbed the travois poles in his jaws and looked at Peregrine. "What ... what now, Pilgrim?"

Peregrine lay in the dirt, trying to put his mind back together. What now, indeed. How had he gotten into this mess? Newby confusion was the only possibility. He'd simply lost track of all the reasons why rescuing the alien was impossible. And now he was stuck with it. Pack crap. Part of him crawled to the edge of the path, and looked around: There was no sign they had attracted attention. In the harbor, the boats were still empty; most of the infantry was up in the hills. No doubt the Servants were holding the dead ones at the harbor fort. So when would they move them across the straits to Hidden Island? Were they waiting for this one's arrival?

"Maybe we could grab some boats, escape south," said Scriber. What an ingenious fellow. Didn't he know that there would be sentry lines around the harbor? Even knowing the passwords, they'd be reported as soon as they passed one. It would be a million-to-one shot. But it had been a flat impossibility before Scar became part of him.

He studied the creature lying on the travois. So strange, yet real. And it was more than just the creature, though that was the most spectacular strangeness. Its bloodied clothes were a finer fabric than the Pilgrim had ever seen. Tucked in beside the creature's body was a pink pillow with elaborate stitchery. With a twist of perspective he realized it was alien art, the face of a long-snouted animal embroidered on the pillow.

So escape through the harbor was a million-to-one shot; some prizes might be worth such odds.

"...We'll go down a little farther," he said.

Jaqueramaphan pulled the travois. Wickwrackscar strode ahead of him, trying to look important and officerly. With Scar along, it wasn't hard. The member was the picture of martial competence; you had to be on the inside to know the softness.

They were almost down to sea level.

The path was wider now and roughly paved. He knew the harbor fort was above them, hidden by the trees. The sun was well out of the north, rising into the eastern sky. Flowers were everywhere, white and red and violet, their tufts floating thick on the breeze-the arctic plant life taking advantage of its long day of summer. Walking on sun-dappled cobblestones, you might almost forget the ambush on the hilltops.

Very soon, they'd hit a sentry line. Lines and rings are interesting people; not great minds, but about the largest effective pack you'd find outside the tropics. There were stories of lines ten miles long, with thousands of members. The largest Peregrine had ever seen had less than one hundred: Take a group of ordinary people and train them to string out, not in packs but as individual members. If each member stayed just a few yards from its nearest neighbors, they could maintain something like the mentality of a trio. The group as a whole was scarcely brighter-you can't have much in the way of deep thoughts when it takes seconds for an idea to percolate across your mind. Yet the line had an excellent grasp of what was happening along itself. And if any members were attacked, the entire line would know about it with the speed of sound. Peregrine had served on lines before; it was a strung out existence, but not nearly as dull as ordinary sentry duty. It's hard to be bored when you're as stupid as a line.

There! A lone member stuck its neck around a tree and challenged them. Wickwrackscar knew the password of course, and they were past the outer line. But that passage and their description was known to the entire line now-and surely to normal soldiers at the harbor fort.

Hell. There was no cure for it; he would go ahead with the crazy scheme. He and Scriber and the alien member passed through the two inner sentries. He could smell the sea now. They came out of the trees onto the rock-walled harbor. Silver sparkled off the water in a million changing flecks. A large multiboat bobbed between two piers. Its masts were like a forest of tilting, leafless trees. Just a mile across the water they could see Hidden Island. Part of him dismissed the sight as a commonplace; part of him stumbled in awe. This was the center of it, the worldwide Flenser movement. Up in those dour towers, the original Flenser had done his experiments, written his essays ... and schemed to rule the world.

There were a few people on the piers. Most were doing maintenance: sewing sails, relashing twinhulls. They watched the travois with sharp curiosity, but none approached. So all we have to do is amble down to the end of the pier, cut the lashings on an outside twinhull, and take off. There were probably enough packs on the pier alone to prevent that-and their cries would surely draw the troops he saw by the harbor fort. In fact, it was a little surprising that no one up there had taken serious notice of them yet.

These boats were cruder than the Southseas version. Part of the difference was superficial: Flenser doctrine forbade idle decoration on boats. Part of it was functional: These craft were designed for both winter and summer seasons, and for troop hauling. But he was sure he could sail them given the chance. He walked to the end of the pier. Hmm. A bit of luck. The bow-starboard twinhull, the one right next to him by the pier, looked fast and well-provisioned. It was probably a long-range scout.

"Ssst. Something's going on up there." Scriber jerked a head toward the fort.

The troops were closing ranks-a mass salute? Five Servants swept by the infantry, and bugles sounded from the fort's towers. Scar had seen things like this, but Peregrine didn't trust the memory. How could- A banner of red and yellow rose over the fort. On the piers, soldiers and boatworkers dropped to their bellies. Peregrine dropped and hissed to the other, "Get down!"

"Wha-?"

"That's Flenser's flag ... his personal presence banner!"

"That's impossible." Flenser had been assassinated in the Republic six tendays earlier. The mob that tore him apart had killed dozens of his top supporters at the same time... But it was only the word of the Republican Political Police that all Flenser's bodies had been recovered.

Up by the fort, a single pack pranced between the ranks of soldiers and whitejackets. Silver and gold glinted on its shoulders. Scriber edged a member behind a piling and surreptitiously brought out his eye-tool. After a moment: "Soul's end ... it's Tyrathect."

"She's no more the Flenser than I am," said Peregrine. They had traveled together from Eastgate all the way across the Icefangs. She was obviously a newby, and not well-integrated. She had seemed reserved and innerlooking, but there had been rages. Peregrine knew there was a deadly streak in Tyrathect... Now he guessed whence it came. At least some of Flenser's members had escaped assassination, and he and Scriber had spent three tendays in its presence; Peregrine shivered.

At the fort's gate, the pack called Tyrathect turned to face the troops and Servants. She gestured, and bugles sounded again. The new Peregrine understood that signal: an Incalling. He suppressed the sudden urge to follow the others on the pier as they walked belly-low toward the fort, all their eyes upon The Master. Scriber looked back at him, and Peregrine nodded. They had needed a miracle, and here was one-provided by the enemy itself! Scriber moved slowly toward the end of the pier, pulling the travois from shadow to shadow.

Still no one looked back. For good reason; Wickwrackscar remembered what happened to those showing disrespect at an Incalling. "Pull the creature on the bow-starboard boat," he said to Jaqueramaphan. He leaped off the pier and scattered across the multiboat. It was great to be back on swaying decks, each member drifting a different direction! He sniffed among the bow catapults, listened to the hulls and the creak of the lashings.

But Scar was no sailor, and had no recollection of what might be the most important thing.

"What are you looking for?" came Scriber's Hightalk hiss.

"Scuttle knockouts." If they were here, they looked nothing like the Southseas version.

"Oh," said Scriber, "that's easy. These are Northern Skimmers. There are swingout panels and a thin hull behind." Two of him dropped from sight for a second and there was a banging sound. The heads reappeared, shaking water off. He grinned surprise, taken aback by his own success. "Why, it's just like in the books!" his expression seemed to say.

Wickwrackscar found them now; the panels had looked like crew rests, but they were easily pulled out and the wood behind was easy to break with a battle axe. He kept a head out, looking to see if he were attracting attention, while at the same time he hacked at the knockouts. Peregrine and Scriber worked their way across the bow ranks of the multiboat; if those foundered, it would take a while to get the twinhulls behind them free.

Oops. One of the boat workers was looking back this way. Part of the fellow continued up the hillside, part strained to return to the pier. The bugles sounded their imperative once more, and the pack followed the call. But his whining alarums were causing other heads to turn.

No time for stealth. Peregrine hotfooted it back to the bow-starboard twinhull. Scriber was cutting the braid-bone fasteners that held the twinhull to the rest of the ship. "You have any sailing experience?" Peregrine said. Foolish question.

"Well, I've read about it-"

"Fine!" Peregrine shooed him all into the twinhull's starboard pod. "Keep the alien safe. Hunker down, and be as quiet as you can." He could sail the twinhull by himself, but he'd have to be all over to do it; the fewer confusing thought sounds, the better.

Peregrine poled their boat forward from the multiboat. The scuttling wasn't obvious yet, but he could see water in the bow hulls. He reversed his pole and used its hook to draw the nearest boat into the gap created by their departure. Another five minutes and there'd be just a row of masts sticking out of the water. Five minutes. No way they could make it ... if not for Flenser's Incalling: up by the fort, troopers were turning and pointing at the harbor. Yet still they must attend on Flenser/Tyrathect. How long would it be before someone important decided that even an Incalling can be overridden?

He hoisted canvas.

The wind caught the twinhull's sail and they pulled out from the pier. Peregrine danced this way and that, the shrouds grasped tightly in his mouths. Even without Rum, what memories the taste of salt and cordage brought back! He could feel where tautness and slack meant that the wind was giving all it could. The twin hulls were sleek and narrow, the mast of ironwood creaking as the wind pulled on the sail.

The Flenserists were streaming down the hillside now. Archers stopped and a haze of arrows rose. Peregrine jerked on the shrouds, tipping the boat into a left turn on one hull. Scriber leaped to shield the alien. To starboard ahead of them the water puckered, but only a couple of shafts struck the boat. Peregrine twisted the shrouds again, and they jigged back in the other direction. Another few seconds and they'd be out of bowshot. Soldiers raced down to the piers, shrieking as they saw what was left of their ship. The bow ranks were flooded; the whole front of the anchorage was a wreck of sunken boats. And the catapults were in the bow.

Peregrine swept his boat back, racing straight south, out of the harbor. To starboard, he could see they were passing the southern tip of Hidden Island. The Castle towers hung tall and ominous. He knew there were heavy catapults there, and some fast boats in the island harbor. A few more minutes and even that wouldn't matter. He was gradually realizing just how nimble their boat was. He should have guessed they'd put their best in a corner bow position. It was probably used for scouting and overtaking.

Jaqueramaphan was piled up at the stern of his hull, staring across the water at the mainland harbor. Soldiers, workers, whitejackets were crowded in a mind-numbing jumble at the ends of the piers. Even from here, you could see the place was a madhouse of rage and frustration. A silly grin spread across Scriber as he realized they really were going to make it. He clambered onto the rail and jumped into the air to flip a member at their enemies. The obscene gesture nearly cast him overboard, but it was seen: the distant rage brightened for a moment.

They were well south of Hidden Island; even its catapults could not reach them now. The packs on the mainland shore were lost to view. Flenser's personal banner still whipped cheerfully in the morning breeze, a dwindling square of red and yellow against the forest's green.

All Peregrine looked at the narrows, where Whale Island kissed close to the mainland. His Scar remembered that the choke point was heavily fortified. Normally that would have been the end of them. But its archers had been withdrawn to participate in the ambush, and its catapults were under repair.

... so the miracle had happened. They were alive and free and they had the greatest find of all his pilgrimage. He shouted joy so loud that Jaqueramaphan cowered and the sound echoed back from the green and snow-patched hills.