‘To die!’ Bars snarled, glaring, but he needn't have made the effort. The spokesman now ignored him as thoroughly as if he'd disappeared. Furious, Bars snapped a hand around Jemain's throat. ‘I got my men into this and I will get them outl Give me an option, anything… something.’

The first mate pulled at Bars’ fingers, his eyes bulging. ‘There is only one thing,’ he gasped, ‘but it will just get you killed!’

Bars released him. ‘What? Name it.’

Falling to his knees, Jemain panted to regain his breath. ‘Challenge the spokesman.’

Bars grunted his understanding; something had told him it would come down to that. ‘How?’

‘Pick up a weapon – but you must keep your eyes on the spokesman! Do not look at anyone else. He is the one you are challenging.’

‘Right.’ Bars cast about the deck for the nearest weapon, found a straight Free City sword and a sturdy sailor's dirk. These he picked up, then, keeping his head down, turned to the Seguleh spokesman. Everyone, he noted from the edges of his vision, had gone quite still. One Seguleh happened to stand in the way. As Bars approached this one drew a weapon, touched it to Bars’ chest. Head resolutely held down, Bars paused, then pushed on. He watched the blade's keen edge slice a gash in his leather hauberk as he edged past. Moving with deliberate care, he approached the spokesman and stopped before the man, who had gone immobile. He raised his gaze, travelling up the leather hauberk, the neckscarf, to his mask and the eyes behind. The instant their gazes met the mask inclined minutely – acceptance?

As quick as a hunting cat the man stepped back, his bare foot lightly touching the deck, and hurtled forward attacking. Bars immediately gave ground parrying frantically. The attacks came so swift and unrelenting there was no time to think, no time to plan. He retreated fully half the length of the vessel before he succeeded in wrenching a fraction of a second for a counter-attack to find his own footing and forestall the man's advance. He was appalled; no one had ever done such a thing to him before.

But his relief did not last long. Parrying an elegant series of ripostes overextended him and he saw it even as it came: a thrust high in the thigh. He twisted just in time for the blade to fail its flensing withdrawal. An unfamiliar chill of cold dread took Bars, something he thought Assail had squeezed entirely out of him. This man was not simply trying for a kill – he was choosing his targets! That had been a precise attempt at the femoral artery. If he did not do something right away he would be cut to pieces. All he could think of was his friend Jup's laughter – Iron Bars, finally beaten by some masked jackass!

Less than six of his heartbeats had passed.

Yet while the attacks came as swiftly as Blues’- the Guard's preeminent finesse swordsman – they lacked power. More like surgical touches than blows. Having gathered himself – and he suspected few ever remained alive long enough to do so – he leaned in using all his fury to counter-attack with full strength. Batting aside one blade he surprised the man and got inside to rake the dirk across the forearm. The man's other blade sliced his face in a disengaging move but Bars bore on regardless, backhanding the dirk to the hilt through the man's light leather armour just above the heart. The power of the thrust threw the Seguleh backwards off his feet but even as he fell he flicked his other blade up to kiss Bars’ neck. It sawed deep under his chin. Bars lurched away, bellowing his pain.

He fell to his knees, wet warmth pulsed between his fingers. A hand clasped tightly over his. ‘Let me see. Let me see.’ Corlo. Bars relaxed. A cloth wrapped his neck. ‘OK,’ Corlo said. ‘It's OK. You'll live.’

Panting, Bars choked, could not speak.

Corlo took his arm and he straightened, weaving. He saw Jemain staring at him, incredulous. He waved him close. He tried to speak, failed. He glanced down to see how his front glistened in a red wash. ‘Now what?’ he croaked to Jemain.

Swallowing, the first mate remained motionless. ‘They said it could never be done…’ he breathed, awed.

‘It almost wasn't,’ Bars said, speaking as softly as he could.

Jemain motioned to another Seguleh who was now bent over the dead spokesman. Hood on his dead horse. Not another one! Do I have to duel every last blasted one?

This Seguleh straightened, faced Bars. ‘What is your name that we may enter it among the Agatii.’

The Agatii?’

‘The Thousand,’ the Seguleh said.

Bars could only stare. There's a thousand of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain's warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain's words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man's face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’

Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’

The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’

‘Don't accept!’ Jemain blurted.

Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg was a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.

The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship's side. ‘We go now.’

Bars stared again. Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him. ‘Wait. Where are you going? What're you doing out here? Twin's Turning, man. Why're you even talking to me now?’

As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it… Yovenai…’

‘Patron, or commander – something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.

Oru did not dispute Jemain's translation.

Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’

‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’

‘Her? Her!’

‘Yes.’

Gods Below. He'd no idea. But he would remember her name; he'd rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’

‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something… something that was stolen from us long ago.’

‘Well… may the Gods go with you.’

‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.

Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen. Burn's Mercy, fifteen of them. Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.

Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’

‘I would never have believed it.’

‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’

‘The Seguleh don't believe in luck.’

‘There you go. Now, let's get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’

‘Aye, Captain. And Captain…?’

‘Yes?’

‘I tried to get a good look at Oru's mask. If I'm right, he's ranked among the top twenty.’

On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.