Kalam saluted then left.

Whiskeyjack stepped down from the rock, his boots sinking into the moss. “Tell me, Moranth, might a squadron of your Black be patrolling this area two weeks from now?”

The Moranth's head swivelled audibly towards the lake. “Such unscheduled patrols are common. I expect to command one myself in two weeks” time.”

Whiskeyjack gazed steadily at the black-armoured warrior standing beside him. “I'm not quite sure how to take that,” he said eventually.

The warrior faced him. “We are not so unalike,” he said. “In our eyes deeds have measure. We judge. We act upon our judgements. As in Pale, we match spirit with spirit.”

The sergeant frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Eighteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine souls departed in the purge of Pale. One for each Moranth confirmed as a victim of Pale's history of enmity towards us. Spirit with spirit, Bird That Steals.”

Whiskeyjack found he had no response. The Moranth's next words shook him deeply.

“There are worms within your empire's flesh. But such degradation is natural in all bodies. Your people's infection is not yet fatal. it can be scoured clean. The Moranth are skilled at such efforts.”

“How exactly,” Whiskeyjack paused, choosing his words carefully, “do you intend this scouring?” He recalled the wagons piled with corpses winding out of Pale, and struggled against the ice tingling along his spine.

“Spirit with spirit,” the Moranth answered, returning his attention to the city on the south shore. “We depart for now. You will find us here in two weeks” time, Bird That Steals.”

Whiskeyjack watched the Black Moranth walk away, pushing through the thicket surrounding the clearing where his riders waited. A moment later he heard the rapid thud of wings, then the Quorl rose above the trees. The Moranth circled once overhead, then turned north, slipping between the bearded boles and heading upslope.

The sergeant sat down on the bedrock again, his eyes on the ground as the members of his squad arrived, hunkering down around him. He remained silent, seeming unaware that he had company, his brow furrowed and jaw bunching as he ground his molars with a slow, steady precision.

“Sarge?” Fiddler said quietly.

Startled, Whiskeyjack looked up. He drew a deep breath. Everyone had gathered with the exception of Quick Ben. He'd leave Kalam to fill in the wizard later. “All right. The original plan's been scrapped, since it was intended to get us all killed. I didn't like that part, so we'll do it my way and hopefully get out alive.”

“We ain't going to mine the city gates?” Fiddler asked, glancing at Hedge.

“No,” the sergeant answered. “We'll put those Moranth munitions to better use. Two objectives, two teams. Kalam will lead one, and with him will be Quick Ben and:” he hesitated “: and Sorry. I'll lead the other team. The first task is to get into the city unnoticed. Out of uniform.” He looked to Mallet. “I take it the Green delivered?”

The healer nodded. “It's a local make, all right. Eighteen-foot fisher, four oars, should get us across the lake easy enough. Even a couple of nets included.”

“So we'll do some fishing,” Whiskeyjack said. “Coming into the harbour without a catch would look suspect. Anybody here ever fished?”

There was silence, then Sorry spoke up. “I have, a long time ago.”

Whiskeyjack stared at her, then said, “Right. Pick whoever you need for that.”

Sorry smiled mockingly.

Whiskeyjack pulled his gaze from hers with an oath under his breath.

He eyed his two saboteurs. “How much munitions?”

“Two crates,” Hedge replied, adjusting his leather cap. “Cussers all the way down to Smokers.”

“We could cook a palace,” Fiddler added, shifting about excitedly.

“Good enough,” Whiskeyjack said. “All right, everyone listen and pay attention, or we won't come out of this alive:”

In a secluded glade in the forest, Quick Ben poured white sand in a circle and sat down in its centre. He took five sharpened sticks and set them in a row before him, pushing them to various depths in the loam. The centre stick, the highest, rose about three feet; the ones on either side stood at two feet and the outer ones at a foot.

The wizard uncoiled a yard's length of thin gut string. He took one end and fashioned a scaled-down noose, which he tightened over the centre stick near the top. He ran the line to the left, looping it once over the next shaft, then crossed over to the right side and looped it again. He brought the string across to the far left stick, muttering a few words as he did so.