‘Because if we can't take Heng, how can we take anything?’

Ghelel pursed her lips at the truth of that sobering evaluation. Indeed. Why should any of the League's supporters stay with them if they should fail here? They would face wholesale desertions. A return to independent kingdoms with the old war of all against all not far behind. Continent-wide strife, the inevitable dissolution into chaos with starvation, brutality and petty warlordism. Something Ghelel would do anything to avoid.

The Marquis drained his glass and stood. ‘If the Empress commits to the field then Heng can hang itself.’ He saluted Ullen: ‘Commander.’ Bowed to Ghelel: ‘Prevost. I will leave you two to sort out the rest of the problems facing our army and will expect appropriate orders tomorrow. Good night.’

Laughing, Ullen waved the Marquis out. When the heavy canvas flap closed Ghelel faced Ullen alone. For a time neither spoke. Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Did the Marquis tell you I am new to his command?’

Ullen nodded. ‘Yes… Your family goes back quite far in Tali?’

Ghelel felt her face reddening and damned the reaction. To cover it, she shrugged. ‘Rich in ancestry, poor in cash. Yourself?’

An edge of his mouth crooked up. ‘Like you. Rich in experience, poor in cash. I have served in the military all my life.’

‘Then you have been overseas? Genabackis? Seven Cities?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’ A mischievous smile. ‘Unless Falar counts?’

She answered his smile. ‘Oh, I suppose we could allow that – just for this one night.’

Ullen raised his glass. ‘My thanks. Now I possess a more soldierly exotic flair.’

But Ghelel was troubled. The man looked to be in his late forties, yet had never served overseas. Where had he been all these years?

Had he seen only garrison duty for the last twenty years? Yet Urko seemed to have every confidence in him; could he be nothing more than a competent manager, more clerk than soldier?

A knock at the front post. ‘Yes?’ Ullen called.

A guard edged aside the thick canvas. ‘Seti scout here, sir, with word from the raiders.’

Sighing, Ullen pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the work table. ‘Send him in, sergeant.’

A slight wisp of a figure slipped through the opening and Ghelel stared. A child! What had they come to, sending children into the field? The girl-child's deerskin trousers were torn and muddied, her moccasins worn through. A sleeveless leather jerkin was all else she wore despite the bitter cold night. Her long hair hung in a tangle of sweat, knots and lengths of leather and beads, and a sheathed long-knife hung from a rope tied round one shoulder. Despite her bedraggled and hard-travelled appearance the girl-child surveyed the contents of the tent with the scorn of a princess.

‘Ullar yesh ‘ap?’ she addressed Ullen in obvious disapproval.

‘Aya,’ he replied easily in Seti. ‘Tahian heshar?’

‘Nyeh.’

Ullen looked to Ghelel. ‘Excuse us, please.’ To the girl-child, ‘Bergar, sho.’

The child launched into a long report in Seti. When she gestured Ghelel was wrenched to see that her fingertips were blue with cold, as were her lips. Gods! This child was half-frozen with exposure from riding through the night. The Seti youth tossed a fold of torn cloth on to Ullen's table and turned to go. Ghelel intervened, ‘Wait! Please!’

A hand went to the grip of the long-knife and the girl glared an accusation at Ullen. ‘What is it?’ he asked of Ghelel.

‘Ask her to stay. To warm herself – anything.’

He spoke to her and the tone of the girl's reply told Ghelel all she needed to know. She offered her own cloak. ‘She can take this.’

Ullen translated; the girl responded, shooting Ghelel a glare of ferocious pride that would be humorous if it were not so obviously heartfelt. Ullen translated, ‘She thanks you but says she would only be burdened by such a possession.’

Ghelel squeezed the thick rich cloth in both hands. ‘Then will she not stay?’

‘No. I'm sure she means to return immediately to her scouting party.’

‘She'll die of exposure! Can't you order her to stay until tomorrow?’

Ullen passed a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Alil… her party probably consists of her own brothers, sisters and cousins.’

Ghelel leant her weight into the chair, let the cloak fall over its back. ‘I… see. Tell her… tell her, I'm sorry.’

In answer the girl reached out a hand to cover Ghelel's who hissed, shocked, so cold was the girl's grip. She left then, and Ghelel could not raise her head to watch her go.

After some moments Ullen cleared his throat and came around the table. He squeezed Ghelel's arm. ‘Your concern does you credit, Alil. But it is misplaced. She was born to this. Grew up with it, and is used to it.’

Ghelel flinched away, shocked by the man's words. ‘So they are less than us, are they? Coarser? They feel less than we do?’

Ullen's face froze. He dropped his arm. ‘That is not what I meant at all.’ He returned to the table, picked up the scrap of cloth the messenger had left. ‘Ehra – that's her name by the way. Named for a tiny blue flower you can find everywhere here – she reports that her party captured a runaway from the raiders. And since they're under my orders to find out what they can about these pirates, they questioned him. The fellow claimed the sigil they wear is important.’ Ullen waved the fold of cloth. ‘He sketched it here.’

Sitting heavily, Ghelel poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Commander… I'm sorry. I forgot myself. No doubt you meant that she was used to such privation; that she's grown up riding in such weather all year round. You are no doubt right. I'm sorry. It's just that we Talians border on the Seti. There is a long history of antagonism and I have grown up hearing much that is… how shall I put it – bigoted – against them. You have my apology, commander.’ Hearing nothing from him, she glanced up, ‘Commander?’

Ullen had backed away from the table. His gaze was fixed upon the opened cloth. He appeared to have had a vision of Hood himself; his face was sickly pale from shock. His hands had fisted white. Ghelel threw aside her glass and came to his side. ‘What is it?’

‘Gods no… it's true,’ he breathed.

She picked up the scrap. Sketched in charcoal and ochre dust was a long rust smear bearing a weaving undulating line. ‘What is it?’

Ullen swallowed, wiped a hand across his glistening brow. ‘Something I prayed I'd never see again. Sergeant!’

The guard stepped in. ‘Sir?’

‘Summon the Marquis and Captain Tonley, quickly.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Ullen went to the low table and poured himself a glass of wine.

‘What is it?’ Ghelel asked again.

Downing the drink, Ullen said, ‘It means nothing to you? A red field, a long sinuous beast – a dragon perhaps?’

‘No.’

He spoke into the depths of his empty glass. ‘How quickly so much is forgotten.’

The Marquis threw open the tent flap; he wore only an open felt shirt, trousers and boots. ‘What news?’

Ullen nodded to Ghelel, who held out the torn strip. The Marquis took it. ‘Surely you are versed in liveries, Marquis. What do you make of that insignia?’

‘A red field, a long beast or perhaps a weapon – it could be any number of things.’

‘And if the thing were a dragon?’

‘What would that mean?’ Ghelel asked.

‘Then-’ Snorting, he tossed the cloth to the table. ‘Imposture, surely. An empty boast.’

‘I think not. This confirms rumours out of Unta.’

‘What rumours?’ Ghelel asked more loudly.

‘You cannot be certain though,’ said the Marquis.

‘No, but certain enough to treat them more warily. I ask that you return to your command south of the Idryn.’

‘Agreed.’

Captain Tonley pushed aside the canvas flap. Wincing, he shielded his eyes from the bright lantern light. ‘What is it – ah, sirs?’