After they'd disappeared, Blend grunted. 'What night thankfully hides …'

'Not well enough, alas,' Picker muttered, poking at the fire with a splintered spear-shaft.

'Well, she'll probably be gagging him right now, then ripping off his-'

'All right all right, I take your point.'

'Poor Hedge.'

'Poor Hedge nothing, Blend. If it didn't get him going it wouldn't still be going on night after night.'

'Then again, we're soldiers one and all.'

'And what's that mean?'

'Means we know that following orders is the best way of staying alive.'

'So Hedge had better stand to attention if he wants to keep breathing? Is that what you're saying? I'd have thought terror'd leave it limp and dangling.'

'Detoran used to be a master sergeant, remember. I once saw a recruit stay at attention for a bell and a half after the poor lad's heart had burst to one of her tirades. A bell and a half, Picker, standing there dead and cold-'

'Rubbish. I was there. It was about a tenth of a bell and you know it.'

'My point still stands, and I'd bet my whole column of back pay that Hedge's is doing the same.'

Picker stabbed at the fire. 'Funny, that,' she murmured after a while.

'What is?'

'Oh, what you were saying. Not the dead recruit, but Detoran having been a master sergeant. We've all been busted about, us Bridgeburners. Almost every damned one of us, starting right up top with Whiskeyjack himself. Mallet led a healer's cadre back when we had enough healers and the Emperor was in charge. And didn't Spindle captain a company of sappers once?'

'For three days, then one of 'em stumbled onto his own cusser-'

'And then they all went up, yeah. We were a thousand paces up the road and my ears rang for days.'

'That was the end of companies made up of sappers. Dassem broke 'em up after that, meaning that Spindle had no specialist corps to captain any more. So, Picker, what about it?'

'Nothing. Just that none of us is what we once was.'

'I've never been promoted.'

'Well, surprise! You've made a profession of not getting noticed!'

'Even so. And Antsy was born a sergeant-'

'And it's stunted his growth, aye. He's never been busted down, granted, but that's because he's the worst sergeant there ever was. Keeping him one punishes all of us, starting with Antsy himself. All I was saying was, we're all of us losers.'

'Oh, that's a welcome thought, Picker.'

'And who said every thought has to be a nice one? Nobody.'

'I would, only I didn't think of it.'

'Ha. Ha.'

The slow clump of horse hooves reached them. A moment later Captain Paran came into view, leading his horse by the reins.

'Been a long day, Captain,' Picker said. 'We got some tea if you'd like.'

Paran looped the reins over the saddle horn and approached. 'Last fire left among the Bridgeburners. Don't you two ever sleep?'

'We could ask the same of you, sir,' Picker replied. 'But we all already know that sleep's for weaklings, right?'

'Depends on how peaceful it is, I'd think.'

'Captain's right on that,' Blend said to Picker.

'Well,' the corporal sniffed, 'I'm peaceful enough when I sleep.'

Blend grunted. 'That's what you think.'

'We've had word,' Paran said, accepting the cup of steaming herbal brew from Picker, 'from the Black Moranth.'

'They reconnoitred Setta.'

'Aye. There's no-one there. Not breathing, anyway. The whole city's one big necropolis.'

'So why are we still marching there?' Picker asked. 'Unless we're not…'

'We are, Corporal.'

'What for?'

'We're marching to Setta because we're not marching to Lest.'

'Well,' Blend sighed, 'I'm glad that's been cleared up.'

Paran sipped his tea, then said, 'I have elected a second.'

'A second, sir?' Picker asked. 'Why?'

'Obvious reasons. In any case, I've chosen you, Picker. You're now a lieutenant. Whiskeyjack has given his blessing. In my absence you're to command the Bridgeburners-'

'No thanks, sir.'

'It's not up for discussion, Picker. Your lieutenancy is already inscribed in the rolls. Official, with Dujek's seal on it.'