The wangling had already begun. Farms, mills, cottage, smiths and stovehouses had been plundered on the journey. Only Marafice they had raided a mining camp upriver. It was the only time Marafice could recall attending a raid where the fighting was worse after than during it. He'd been glad of his reputation then. Both the hideclads and mercenaries feared him in equal measure, and just the word that he was riding in to break up the feuding was enough to excite a spontaneous laying down of arms.

God only knew how the spoils had been divvied, but judging from the zealousness of the guards posted outside Rive Company's supply tent, his brothers-in-the-watch hadn't fared too badly.

To Weadie he said, "Put some metal under there. Nowl"

Weadie jumped at the force of his voice. "Aye, sir"

Marafice turned away as the aging armsman ran toward the red fire in search of an iron pot or anything else that would do the job. Damn fool. Didn't he know they'd be shot from above with longbows? Those clannish arrowheads hit like axes.

"Jon," he said to the commander of Rive Company. "We split the men, fifty-fifty. Have them form shield walls on either side of Hog Company. Hews is taking the center."

The word conveyed all that Jon Burden did not like about this plan. They'd discussed most of it last night, but only today as he'd looked into Garric Hews' face and seen all the arrogance and challenge there had Marafice decided firm. Rive Company would flank Whitehog Company like a pair of armed guards. Marafice trusted Garric Hews about as much as he trusted a whore with open sores.

"I am better than you. I am harder and more cunning, and one day when you hear the hiss of wind in your chest it will be me sliding out the knife"

That was what Garric Hews had said earlier with his cool, superior smile. They were rivals for the lordship of Spire Vanis, and this—this godforsaken wasteland ruled by animal-skinned clansmen—was where they would fight it out. Penthero Iss had named his successor, and Garric Hews did not like the sound of Marafice Eye, Surlord, one bit. What Iss had done was unprecedented, and not likely to stick once he was dead and gone, but that wasn't the point. Marafice had publicly declared himself for surlord. Anyone who fancied that position for himself would have to deal with seven feet, twenty stone of Eye.

"I still say we keep our men together," Jon Burden said. "Take the left flank. Stay out of the river"

Marafice shook his head once, hard. They were riding between rows of open-fronted rawhide tents, their horses' hoofs sinking deep into the mud. Camp priests had been busy before dawn, spreading the sacred ash. The strange tingly odor of burned nightshade was released with every step. "If the gate falls the Whitehog could cut us off. A dozen horsemen placed just right, and he could hold us back while Hog Company rides through. This way we'll be on him. Garric Hews will be seeing so much red he'll think his head's split open."

Jon Burden grunted. He was a stocky, powerfully built man with thick blond hair and a full beard that was showing gray. The killhound brooch that fastened his battle cloak boasted two mosquito-size rubies for eyes. Those rubies denoted twenty years service as a captain of the watch. In his time Jon Burden had expelled the Forsworn from the city, quelled the hunger riots during the bitter winter following Penthero Iss' ascension to Surlord, led the force that rode against Hound's Mire at Choke Creek, crushed the Nine-Day Rebellion led by the Lord of the Mercury Granges, and foiled numerous assassination attempts on Iss. Jon Burden knew what it took to win. He had argued to take the center, and Marafice had nearly let him have it, but a conversation he'd had with Penthero Iss ten weeks ago in Spire Vanis had stopped him.

"How do I lead this army of misfits?" Maraffee had demanded of Iss, his voice echoing across the marble-entombed space of the Blackvault. "The grangelords, the darkcloaks, the watch?"

"You have been Lord Protector of Spire Vanis for eighteen years," Iss had replied, cool as well water. "You already know how to lead. Now you must learn how to use."

Marafice shivered as he remembered his surlord's words. Iss' brand of cold cagalation was foreign to him, but of all the men he knew Penthel Iss had risen the farthest and stayed put the longest. That meant something to the Knife. Iss was the son of an onion farmer from Trance Vor; it served a butcher's son well to listen and learn.

So he would use Garric Hews and Whitehog Company by giving them the honor of taking the center during the assault. The greatest danger lay in the center-it was the spearhead of the attack, open to the worst Ganmiddich could fire at them-and Marafice's first instinct had been similar to Jon Burden's: We will take this peril as our own. Yet when he had asked himself Would Iss have done this? he had paused and changed his course.

The simple fact was that Whitehog had superior training and weaponry. Marafice knew it. Hews knew it. Doubtless Jon Burden knew it too but his pride got in the way. Whitehog Company had been training in battle formation for years. They were tight. Their captains had decades of experience patrolling the southern border against the Glaive, and their leader was sharp and aggressive. Rive Company were fine men, but a good third were over forty-and a high portion of that number hadn't seen active service in years. Much though he would have liked to cherry-pick the best seven hundred from the watch Marafice had taken only those who had volunteered. The result was a motley band of seasoned fighters, thrill-seekers, zealots, old men dreaming of recapturing their glory days and scroungers in need of cash. It wasn't an ideal force by any reckoning, but Marafice took some pride in the fact that none were here against their will.

Besides, it was in his interest to keep Spire Vanis secure in his absence. Deplete the watch too badly and he put the Surlord's security at risk. An assassination while he was here, a thousand leagues and twenty-one days' hard travel from the city, was the last thing Marafice wanted. If anything ever happened to the Surlord he needed to be close to claim his prize.

"Lead an army for me, Knife," Iss had murmured all those months ago in the Blackvault, "and in return I will name you as my successor."

Marafice blew air from his mouth. While he'd stood here thinking, mud had turned to chalk on his horse's hooves.

"Jon," he said brusquely. "I will hear no more arguments. Split the men. We ride within the quarter."

He waited until Jon Burden met his gaze and nodded, and then kicked his horse toward Mud Camp, where the mercenary companies were forming ranks. This business of surlording won no friends. Even though Jon Burden had no love for Garric Hews and Whitehog Company, he could not be told the second reason Marafice had let them take the center. Hews would be leading his men. He had ridden at the head of the line on every raid and sortie Hog Company had undertaken since leaving Spire Vanis. Today that placed him at the center of the center—bull's-eye by Marafice's reckoning.

The Knife would not deceive himself. It would suit him well if Garric Hews was picked off by a sharp-eyed clannish bowman. No duels or backstabbing need be done. No risk of open grangewars between the Eastern Granges and the High Granges, no repercussions, ill feelings, or mistakes.

Marafice Eye shrugged shoulders the size of full-grown sheep. A

man could always hope.

Mud Camp was situated at the north of the encampment hard against the treeline. Two creeks, which the mercenaries had named the Ooze and the Pisser, ran like open drains through the ranks of tents. Within the camp the mercenaries had formed clans The pro-fessional companies had chosen the most defensible ground backing onto thick stands of stone pine. Upstream of the other mercenaries they had the fresher water and higher ground. Their cover consisted of giant sheets of waxed canvas hung over birch poles. Sourwoods, uprooted for use as windbreakers, had been lashed into lines in place of walls. Marafice admired the design. It was trim and economical, and had the advantage of leaving the mercenary companies light on their feet. They didn't haul a dozen cartloads of tent supplies from camp to camp like the grangelords. They carried everything they needed on eight packhorses.