‘What terms, may I ask?’ Nil inquired. Terms of your surrender?’

‘Terms of cessation of hostilities. You have grievances, conditions you wish to discuss, surely?’

The twins exchanged narrowed glances. ‘We have demands and conditions, Fist,’ Nil corrected.

‘You say you are empowered, Fist,’ Rillish asked. ‘Empowered by whom?’

The envoy said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead. Nether's brow furrowed. ‘The lieutenant asked you a question, Fist.’

‘I am sure you understand that I feel in no way obligated to speak with a traitor,’ the man told her.

Nil flinched, stung, and tightened his reins. ‘Then I am sure you understand that we-’

So, the day has come when I am repudiated. Rillish raised a hand. ‘It is all right. Please, take no offence. I will go.’

‘Stay where you are!’ Nether ordered, startling Rillish. ‘You will remain and listen to all this envoy has to say. Then, my brother and I will expect you to advise us afterwards.’

Struggling to keep his astonishment from his face, Rillish bowed stiffly. ‘As you order.’

Nil invited the Fist onward. ‘This way, envoy.’

Later that day, the Fist begged off early to retire to the quarters prepared for his party. Once the man left the large tent a fury of debate leapt to life among the gathered clan representatives, elders and surviving warlocks. The twins sat quietly, letting the storm blow itself out. Rillish was alarmed by some opinions he overheard: sacking the province, ravaging the countryside, even claiming the Throne. When that suggestion, taking the Throne, was called across the tent to Nil, he merely observed, ‘What would we do with it? It's too heavy to sit on a horse.’

A new round of debate began, this time peppered by escalating retorts, condemnations and insults. It seemed to Rillish that the discussion was veering further and further into the territory of past transgressions, slights and ages-old grudges. He glanced to Nil and saw him watching – the lad winked, tilted his head to invite him outside. Rillish uncrossed his numb legs, bowed to the assembly and ducked out of the tent.

Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing – one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.

‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’

Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’

A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’

‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’

The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’

‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.

‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’

Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’

‘Yes?’

‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’

A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’

Yes, you have come so far too swiftly and for that I am sorry. ‘What are those opinions then? What should you do?’

‘Ah… you've hit upon the problem. We aren't sure yet.’ Horses nickered in a nearby corral, stirring restlessly and the lad's eyes moved to the noise. ‘What do you think of our envoy?’

‘It's possible we're intended to judge the offer by its bearer – candid, honest and practical.’

A boat appeared floating down the Jurd, sail limp, long sweep raising a bright wake. The eyes of both tracked it. ‘Yes,’ Nil said. ‘An honest offer honestly given, to be just as honestly disregarded at earliest convenience.’

In that statement Rillish listened for echoes of sullen resentment, sneering disdain or suppressed rage, but heard none. Only a sad sort of resignation that the world should be so ordered. ‘You are caught,’ he said. ‘You've done everything you can but you still have no true leverage.’

A long slow assent. ‘We are in a strange situation, Lieutenant. We ought to have all the advantages, camped as we are on the capital's doorstep, yet we find ourselves a sideshow. Unta has been sacked already. We can hardly threaten that. What will be our fate is in fact being determined far to the west – and we are not even there.’

‘You must still work to achieve the most advantageous terms you can.’

‘Yes,’ the lad sighed. ‘We must. Yet I wonder – have we done all that we can?’ Nil turned to face Rillish, and his gaze slid to the tent then back, cautious. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

‘For what?’

‘For listening. Unlike many of my countrymen I think it useful to talk through things. I find that it helps unravel knots.’

Rillish motioned to the tent once more. ‘Your countrymen do not seem averse to talk.’

‘Most use it only to tighten existing knots.’

‘Ah. I see.’

The warlock took hold of the tent flap. ‘You need not endure any more of this tonight. Nether and I will manage things. I understand you have much more pleasant company awaiting you,’ and he grinned.

An adolescent effort at adult banter? ‘Yes, thank you.’

The grin faltered. ‘Now, if only I could find someone for my sister…’

Rillish bowed quickly, ‘Goodnight.’

On the dark road back to the farmhouse Rillish found two mounted figures waiting. Sergeants Chord and Talia. Sergeant Chord saluted, turned his mount, and rode off ahead. Rillish brought his mount alongside Talia's. ‘Sergeant…’

‘Lieutenant…’ She leaned aside and they kissed. There was something about her tonight; her smile was so bright in the dark, her eyes so full of a hidden humour.

‘You are looking… mysterious… this night.’

She turned her mount while watching him sidelong. ‘I have a secret.’

He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I am, as they say in your fancy aristocratic society – with child.’

‘What?’ He stared, utterly shocked. ‘But that's impossible!’

An arched brow. ‘Has no one told you how all this works, then?’

‘No! I mean, what I meant was… how could you know so soon?’

‘The horsewives told me. They're beside themselves. You should've heard them clucking over me.’

‘Well, you'll have to leave the ranks, of course.’

She faced him squarely. ‘I certainly will not. I'm a sergeant now. Got a pay increase.’

‘I could bust you down.’

‘For what?’ she snapped. ‘Misconduct with an officer?’

Rillish opened his mouth then quickly shut it, thinking that perhaps another assault would be inadvisable at this time. Reconnoitring and observation were clearly called for. Perhaps some judicious probing. Talia rode in a loud pointed silence, her back stiff, face averted. He cleared his throat. ‘Not the reaction you were expecting, I imagine.’

‘Damned straight.’

‘I'm sorry. It's just… quite a surprise. My first reaction is that you don't take any risks…’

‘You think I want to?’ She sighed, eased her mount closer, took his arm. ‘Old Orhan and I can swap duties.’

Orhan, Rillish reflected. The company quartermaster and horse-master. Demanding work, potentially dangerous, but not a battlefield position. A gimp leg and getting slow, yet a canny veteran who'd been in the service all his life. Was a sergeant on the listings.