She tossed the skin back. ‘You can keep it. So, what happens tonight?’

Molk, who was drinking at the moment, gagged and spluttered out his own mouthful.

‘Touch too much distillate?’

Coughing, he wiped his mouth. ‘Ah, the Captain should be more careful with her language in the future, I think.’

She eyed the hunched, goggle-eyed hireling – what did Amaron possibly see in this fellow? ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘More's the pity – well, I've brought food, blankets. We'll bivouac under the stars this one night. That is, if we have any say in the matter…’

‘Any say?’

He raised his chin to indicate behind her. ‘Our friends – they've made up their minds about us.’

Ghelel spun. Five horsemen were lazily angling in upon them, single-file. Where in Hood's Paths had they come from? Grey and brown fur pennants dangled from their lances. Recurved bows stood tall at their backs. They rode on thin leather saddles, no more than blankets, with thin leather strap stirrups and reins.

‘Wolf Soldiers,’ Molk said.

‘Like I give a damn.’

The Seti encircled them while one kneed his mount closer.

‘Greetings, friend,’ Molk called loudly in the Hengan dialect.

‘Trespassers are no friends of ours,’ answered the spokesman in kind – a young warrior, his kinky black hair tied in a multitude of tails, a leather jerkin painted in umber and yellow streaks and swirls, the dusting of a moustache at his lip.

‘Trespassers?’ Molk laughed. ‘No, friend. We are Talian – allies.’

The youth frowned, considering. He pointed north. ‘Last I saw, Heng was that way.’

Molk laughed again. ‘Yes, yes. We're meeting our squadmates in a village south of here.’

‘We've burned down all the villages. Killed all the men and…’ he bared his teeth to Ghelel, ‘raped all the women. There's no one alive to the south. That was the last of our fun. Now, we just ride in circles around Heng while they squat in their city. It's dull. Our only fun is riding down Hengans who flee the city.’

‘Ah, well, we're Talians. We're wearing blue, as you see.’

The youth nodded. ‘Oh yes, you wear blue. But it strikes me, there must be blue cloth in Heng.’

Ghelel had had enough of this adolescent baiting, ‘Look here, you Hood-cursed-’

Molk clenched her arm. ‘My employer wishes to remind you that your warlord is an ally of our commander, Choss.’

With a squeeze of his knees the warrior began backing his mount. ‘The warlord, it seems to me,’ he said, ‘is very far away.’ With a touch of the reins the mount turned aside and the five wheeled, galloping off.

Ghelel watched them go. Damned thugs! She faced Molk. ‘Now what?’

He adjusted the saddlebags at his shoulder. ‘Well, seems to me, they mean to have themselves some fun. Let's move.’

Twilight gathered while they jogged through the tall grass. A whoop or the thump of hooves from the dark announced their pursuers. Occasionally an arrow would slash the grasses next to her and Ghelel would clench her teeth, Bastards. Molk, jogging ahead of her, suddenly disappeared. At first she thought it a trick of the late afternoon light but after a few more steps it became clear that the man was gone. Had an arrow from the ingrate ambushing Seti taken him? She involuntarily slowed, wondering, should she throw herself down? Hide? But to what end? They'd just trample her. Walking, her next step kept descending and she found herself falling forward tumbling head over toes and she managed one yell before slamming down on to stone bottom-first. ‘Ow!’

‘How expressive.’

Wincing, she leaned aside to rub her buttocks. ‘What in the Abyss?’

‘Just my thought as well.’

‘I'm sure. What's this? She gestured to the flat shadowed road running low between twin rows of tall grasses.

Molk, his head cocked listening to the night, whispered, ‘The Imperial road to Dal Hon. Thank the Malazan engineers for it.’

‘Quon Talian, you mean,’ Ghelel countered. ‘The only thing that island produces is pirates – not engineers.’

‘It produced the will to employ them.’

‘Which?’

‘Both.’

Sighing her irritation, Ghelel rearranged her armour and belts. ‘Now what? On this road the Seti would run us down in an instant.’

‘True. And that wouldn't be much fun.’

‘No, it wouldn't!’

‘I was talking about them.’

‘I was talking about both of us.’

Molk grinned crookedly, winked. ‘Now you've got the hang of it.’ He raised his chin to the north-east, up the road. ‘This way… there should be a hostelry close by, if memory serves.’ He started off and Ghelel followed.

‘The Seti said they burned everything down.’

‘I'm willing to bet they didn't burn this one down.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, as the youth said, the warlord is far away… Anyway, you'll see.’

Twilight deepened, transforming the road into a slash of darkness. Ghelel thought she heard the movement of something large through the grasses parallel to the road. After a long hike a curve in the flagged way revealed the burnt remains of a building. It resolved into the piled stones of a foundation supporting standing blackened timbers. A field of knee-high weeds surrounded the sacked structure. Ghelel stopped short, set her hands to her belt. Molk stopped beside her. ‘Oh,’ he said, and scratched his chin.

She was about to loose upon the incompetent fool the full torrent of the day's frustration when a man straightened from beside the road. He was almost indistinguishable in the dark, wearing blackened studded leather armour. He held a cocked crossbow and a long curved sabre hung at his side. A wide black moustache completely hid his mouth. ‘Who in cursed Fener's own entrails are you?’ he demanded in the Talian dialect.

Molk nodded to the man. ‘You're of the Sentries?’

‘Who's askin'?’

Molk gestured to Ghelel. ‘May I introduce Prevost Alil – a new officer.’

The man looked her up and down. ‘Really?’

Ghelel opened her mouth to answer that but the man raised a hand for silence. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and walked out on to the road. He faced the darkness, listening, then raised his chin. ‘Cut it out!’

A moment later a horse leapt through the grass and thumped to the road, snorting and stamping. Its rider, the same Seti youth, twisted the reins around one hand, grinning his delight at them as the animal pranced in circles.

‘Toven,’ the man greeted him.

‘Just having some fun,’ and he directed the wide grin to Ghelel.

The soldier waved him off. ‘Yeah, well. Fun's over.’

Toven raised himself high on his mount and offered a bow. A kick and the mount reared and leapt up, pushing its way through the thick stands of grasses.

Grinning bastard. Ghelel watched the Sentry while he took the bolt from his crossbow and snapped the trigger. He swung the heavy weapon up on to his shoulder. ‘And who're you?’ he asked Molk.

Molk bowed. ‘The Prevost's servant.’

‘Oh-ho… So, you're the Lady's servant, are you? C'mon. This way.’

‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Ghelel demanded.

‘Shepherd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Shepherd.’

They walked a good way into the night, the sergeant content to be silent, Ghelel determined not to ask him a blasted thing, and Molk apparently enjoying the cool night air. Eventually, Ghelel smelled smoke from cookfires, caught snatches of wind-carried conversation. The glow of fires and lanterns brightened the night ahead. ‘And just what are your numbers currently, sergeant?’

The man turned his head to eye her and Ghelel wondered if she'd made a mistake but worked to keep all such doubt from her face. She cocked a brow. He shrugged. ‘Well, at a guess we number about five hundred now. About four hundred medium cavalry and a hundred mounted heavies.’

Ghelel shot a hard look to Molk who appeared oblivious, peering into the darkness, whistling softly to himself. The road opened up on both sides to trampled fields dotted by tents and horse corrals. Shepherd escorted them through two pickets. Ahead, lights blazed from the windows of a three-storey brick building fronting a square of outbuildings including a large stable. Soldiers, men and women, came and went, laughing and talking, many drinking from leather tankards. Across the front of the house was the legend ‘House of Pleasant Welcome’.