Temar turned to Glane. “Where are these prisoners?”

The boy led him across gravel and dusty turf to a sullen gathering guarded by grim-faced men from Edisgesset. Some were blank faced with fear, staring dejected at the ground, some not even easing the painful bonds constraining them. Others huddled in twos and threes warily alert for any chance to flee, eyes vicious as feral dogs. One woman sat silent, hugging her knees, green dress bloodied around the hem and scorched on one sleeve, the skin beneath red and blistered. Temar felt she was not so much beaten as slyly husbanding her strength. Her hair was still secure in a tidy black braid pinned around her head.

“Build a gallows,” he said in matter-of-fact tones. “Fit to hang a handful at a time.”

A few faces disintegrated into sickened rage or wretched whimpers, his words confirming their worst fears. Consternation wracked the rest, several trying to stand for all the bonds hampering them. Their protests came thick and fast.

“No, your honour—”

“Your mercy, we beg you—”

“They forced me—”

“Silence!” Temar held up his hands. “You’ll all have your chance to plead for pardon.”

“And to bear witness?” A bedraggled girl struggled to her bruised feet, tied hands awkwardly clutching a blanket some mercenary had thrown her to cover her ragged chemise. “Hang me if you wish, Messire. I don’t care but don’t let that bitch escape the death she deserves!” She turned on the woman in the green dress whose eyes were still fixed on the ground. “Muredarch’s whore, the filthy slut, she kept all his secrets.” She broke into wild sobs, kicking at the silent woman. “She made a whore out of me! Let any of them use me—” As she lashed out again, the woman in green tripped her with a deft foot. The hysterical girl fell hard and other prisoners turned on the woman in green and then on each other.

“Break it up!” Temar ordered. Edisgesset men were already wading into the melee, pulling apart the struggling bodies, merciless with some, more gentle with others.

One stood, the trampled girl unconscious in his arms. “What do I do with her, Sieur?”

“Take her to join the wounded.” Temar gestured towards the edge of the woods where those hurt were being nursed away from the bloodstained battleground. He studied the woman in the green dress who was sitting still and silent once more. Her braid was ripped askew and a bruise purpled one cheek.

“What’s your name?” asked Temar.

“Ingella,” one of the other prisoners snarled.

“Were you truly Muredarch’s woman?” Temar demanded.

Ingella did not answer, her gaze not wavering from a tuft of grass that seemed to fascinate her.

Temar was aware that every other eye was on him. “Keep your own counsel,” he said mildly. “Muredarch wasn’t the only one with Artifice to call on. We will have your guilt or innocence out of you one way or another.”

Ingella’s face came up with a jerk, horror in her dark eyes.

Temar indicated the others who betrayed new terror with rapid jabs of his finger. “Those, take them and lock them securely in the bottom hold of the Dulse. No one will escape punishment for their crimes here. As for the rest of you, I won’t hang any who don’t deserve it. You may work or you may be confined in the cargo deck of the ship.”

Some looked at him with faint hope rising above their despair and Temar walked briskly away before anyone could see the sudden tremor in his hands or the quake in his spine as the full weight of his responsibility bore down on him.

“What is it?” Halice appeared at his side. He hadn’t even seen her approaching.

“My grandsire was always determined to tell me rank brings duty as well as privilege. Now I know why.” Temar gritted his teeth. “I must see Guinalle. We’ll have to set up a proper assize. If we’re to separate those who went willingly to Muredarch from those who were coerced, I need her to work a truthsaying and a powerful one at that.” Temar saw Halice was looking even grimmer than she had before. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible. “What is it?”

“Darni’s died,” Halice said shortly.

Temar realised it was possible to feel worse than he did already. “Perhaps it was for the best,” he said after a long pause. “His face was smashed beyond hope of repair.”

“And his arm. I was all but ready to give him a clean death myself once he’d seen us kill Muredarch.” Halice sighed. “Then I wondered if Artifice might save him.” She scowled. “It was easier when there was no chance of such things.”

Black despair threatened to overwhelm Temar. “He has a wife, doesn’t he? And a child?”

“Two.” Halice bit the word off.

“I wish Ryshad was here.” The words came unbidden from Temar’s lips.

“And Livak.” Halice scrubbed a sketchily washed hand through her short, unruly hair. “Have you been aboard this morning? Usara might be awake by now, or Allin.”

“I think Guinalle would have sent word.” Temar looked at Halice. “We should see how they are though.” They were walking towards the shingle strand, pace increasing with every step, Temar matching Halice stride for stride.

“You there!” She hailed a sailor pushing off a laden longboat with a single oar over the stern. “We’re for the Dulse.”

Temar stayed silent for the short crossing to the ship, nothing to say as he climbed the rope ladder up to the deck.

“Demoiselle Guinalle?” Halice caught a passing sailor with her question.

“Cabin.” He nodded backwards before going on his way.

Temar’s feet felt leaden. Halice looked back at him. “Not knowing won’t make any difference.” She opened the door like the best-trained lackey in his grandsire’s house. He took a deep breath and went in.

“Temar.” Female voices greeted him, both fraught with emotion and exhaustion.

“Guinalle.” He felt weak with relief. “Allin. How are you, both of you?”

The demoiselle sat on a low stool, leaning back against the wooden hull of the ship. “Weary but time will mend that.”

Allin was sitting on her bunk, hair tangled around her pale face. Temar knelt and held her close. The mage-girl drew a long shuddering breath, slipped her arms around him and held tight.

“If you’re going to hug me, Halice, do be careful.” Lying on the other bunk, Usara attempted to prop himself on one elbow. “I feel as if I might snap.”

“You look like a death’s head on a mopstick,” Halice told him with friendly concern.

“I rather thought I might.” Usara gave up the uneven struggle and lay back down.

“What happened?” Temar realised that was a foolish question even as he sat on the bunk beside Allin.

“Guinalle saved us.” Allin’s reply was muffled as she hid her face against Temar’s neck.

“I couldn’t let any mage suffer Otrick’s fate.” Guinalle did her best to sound matter-of-fact. “And your own defences proved themselves against the Artifice.”

“Nice to know I hadn’t been wasting my time with Aritane,” remarked Usara.

“Larissa’s dead, isn’t she?” Allin clung to Temar. “I felt her die, didn’t I?”

He eased free of her embrace so he could see her face. “Yes, my love. I’m so sorry.”

Grief welled up in Allin’s eyes. Temar held her close again and felt her warm tears on his skin.

“The adepts found her first,” Guinalle explained with bitter regret. “That’s what alerted me to their plan for you all to share their death. She held out long enough for me to ward you two from the worst of their malice.”

“That’s scant consolation for her loss.” Usara rolled his head to look at them all. “There must be some reason we’re so cursed vulnerable to Artifice when we’re working wizardry.”

Temar opened his mouth to try and describe what he had seen of Larissa’s fate but Guinalle spoke first. “I believe I have some insight into that now.”

Allin stiffened in Temar’s arms, her words putting any other considerations to flight. “If the pirates are dead, can’t we get them home, Livak and Ryshad and Shiv?”