‘The Gods forgive nothing,’ came the man's dark answer.

She stared back at the tall lean figure until a twist in the road took him from sight. ‘As I said,’ the Marquis began again, ‘hermits and mad ascetics infest these hills. Here you'll find all kinds of profanation and heterodoxies. Like the babbling of a thousand voices. You might as well yell for the wind to stop.’

‘Still, I wonder what he meant…’

‘Perhaps he meant that what we name as Gods have no concern for us.’

Ghelel and the Marquis turned to face Molk, who rode behind. He shifted in his saddle, shrugging. ‘Perhaps.’

Both turned away. Ghelel did not know what the Marquis made of the pronouncements, but they crawled on her like some sort of contagion. She felt an irresistible urge to wash. Just words, she told herself. Nothing more than words.

After climbing the slope they reached the north plains. Dark clouds bruised the far north-east where the Ergesh mountain range caught the prairie winds. North, the road would bring them past an isolated sedimentary butte, or remains of an ancient plateau. Here, climbing its steep slopes and jumbled atop, rested the crumpled fallen remains of the Great Sanctuary of Burn. Entire wings of its boxy, squat architecture had slid down the cliff on massive landslides and faults while other quarters appeared untouched. From this distance, its canted maze of walls appeared to Ghelel as if a God had tossed down a handful of cards. Traces of grey smoke rose amid the ruins. ‘It must have been enormous.’

‘Yes. Largest on the continent. It housed thousands of monks. Now the cries of prairie lions sound instead of the drone of prayer.’

Ghelel glanced to the heavyset man; his pale eyes, hidden in a thick nest of wrinkles, studied the far-off remains. ‘You sound like a poet, Marquis.’

His thick brows rose. ‘I had hoped to be, but circumstances have made of me a soldier – Prevost.’

‘Yet the sanctuary does not seem entirely abandoned.’

‘Yes. As I said. The devout still gather. They slouch amid the wreckage, forlorn.’ He glanced to her. ‘Perhaps they dream of the glory that once was…’

Ghelel shied her gaze away to the ruins. ‘I see no scaffolding, no efforts at rebuilding.’

‘Perhaps their dreams are too seductive.’

‘Or they are too poor.’

Grinning, the Marquis nodded thoughtfully. After a time he cleared his throat. ‘I am reminded of some lines from Thenys Bule. Are you familiar with him?’

‘I have heard of him. “Sayings of the Fool”?’

‘Yes. It goes something like – “While travelling I met a man dressed in rags, his feet and shoulders bare. Take this coin, I offered him, yet he refused my hand. You see me poor, hungry, and cold, he said – yet I am rich in dreams.”’

Ghelel eyed the man narrowly. ‘I am not sure what to take from that, Marquis…’

‘Yes, well. The man was a fool after all.’

Past noon they reached the crossroads, Here the road south to Kan and Dal Hon met the major east-west trade route. The freshly burned remains of wayside inns, hostels and horse corrals lined the way. Ghelel knew this to be the work of the Seti and she bridled at the destruction wrought in what some might come to construe as her name. Trampled and now neglected garden plots stretched back on all sides. All was not abandoned, however; a tent encampment stood on a north hillside overlooking the crossroads. What looked to Ghelel like several hundred men and horses rested. A contingent was on its way, walking its mounts leisurely down the gentle slope.

‘Urko's men?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are to join us in the south?’

The Marquis fished his pipe from a pouch at his side. ‘That is the question, Prevost. They were to deploy against the South Rounds. But things have changed. Now we must discuss strategy – and much will rest on our decisions. As it always does, I suppose, in matters of war.’

The contingent did little to strengthen Ghelel's confidence. Among their numbers she saw the robes over mail of Seven Cities, the embossed boiled leather of Genabackis and the bronze scaled armour of Falar. No order or effort at regimentation seemed to have been made save for pennants and flags of Falaran green. The soldiers seemed to treat the rendezvous as some sort of outing; they joked and talked amongst themselves while kicking their mounts on to the road in complete disorder. Ghelel glanced sidelong to the Marquis – the man's heavyset face revealed nothing of any anger or disgust at what, after all, could be interpreted as an insult. The foremost one, a ginger-bearded fat fellow in a leather hauberk set with bronze scales, inclined his head in greeting. ‘Captain Tonley, at your service, sir,’ he said in strongly accented Talian.

‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries. Prevost Alil, and Sergeant Shepherd.’

‘Greetings.’

‘Is Commander Urko with you?’

‘Yes, he is. But he's unavailable just now.’

‘Unavailable?’

‘Yes. He's…’ The man searched for words.

‘Reconnoitring,’ one of his troops suggested.

Captain Tonley brightened, his mouth quirking up. ‘Yes, that's it! Reconnoiting. Come, join us,’ and he reined his mount around.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ the Marquis said. ‘I hope we will see him later.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The captain waved such concerns aside. ‘He will be back tonight. For now, join us. Rest your mounts. Tell us about this attack we are hearing of.’

The Marquis nodded to Sergeant Shepherd who raised his arm in a ‘forward’.

With the gathering of dusk the bivouac came to resemble less and less a military encampment and more a gathering of brigands. From under the awning raised on poles that served as the command tent, Ghelel watched drunken fights break out around campfires, betting and wrestling over what meagre loot had been gathered so far, and a virtual army of camp followers picked up at Ipras and Idryb who circulated among the men and women. Captain Tonley entertained them with stories of the crossing while the Marquis sat calmly on a camp stool and smoked his pipe. Molk, Ghelel noted, had disappeared the moment they entered camp. Gloriously drunk by now, no doubt.

Almost no one noticed when an old man bearing two leather buckets of stones stooped under the awning. He dropped the buckets then pulled off his oversized wool cloak revealing a wrestler's broad shoulders and knotted, savagely scarred arms that reminded Ghelel of oak roots. Captain Tonley sprang from his stool to offer the man a tankard. The fellow drank while eyeing them over its rim. The Marquis stood and bowed. Ghelel followed suit. Finishing the tankard he thrust it at the captain who staggered back.

‘Another. It's dusty work in the hills.’

The man extended a hand to the Marquis who took it. ‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries.’ He indicated Ghelel. ‘Our new Prevost, Alil.’

The man grunted, turned to her. She extended her hand, which disappeared into his massive paw. Ghelel had an impression of a brutal blunt Napan-blue face with small guarded eyes under a ledge of bone, brush-cut hair white with dust, but what overwhelmed everything was the pain in her hand. It felt as if it had been cracked between stones. ‘So this is our new Prevost,’ he said, eyeing her, and she knew that, somehow, this man also knew. ‘Commander Urko Crust.’

‘Commander,’ she managed, her teeth clenched against the pain.

Sighing his ease, Urko sat on a stool. Captain Tonley set another tankard next to him. ‘Captain Tonley. Just because I'm away for the day doesn't mean that the entire camp has to go to the Abyss.’

The captain flinched. ‘No, sir.’ Saluting, he ducked from the awning.

Urko dragged the buckets close, nodded for the Marquis to sit. Ghelel sat next to him. ‘What word from Choss?’ In the distance, the sharp commands of Captain Tonley filled the dusk.

The Marquis set to repacking his pipe. ‘She's on her way. Is right behind you, in fact.’