And then she stepped forward. They had not noticed her before. She must have been caged on the other vehicle, or even kept separate entirely. Che felt Salma twitch as he saw her, tense for a moment. Che glanced from him to the woman uncertainly.

She was… for a moment Che thought she must be a Moth-kinden, because she possessed their featureless white eyes. When the firelight caught her, though, Che started in surprise, because her skin was moving.

She had been grey as grey a moment ago, a Moth indeed. That was plain enough to see. She wore only the briefest of clothes, a loincloth, a band of cloth tied across her breasts. Now something was happening to her. Shadows were chasing themselves across her flesh. No, not shadows: colours. The ruddy firelight tried to hide it, but as they watched, a fleeting patchwork of reds and purples, dark blues and pale pieces were flitting and skipping over the contours of her body.

A pipe and drum struck up from somewhere. Che twisted round to see it was the lanky, sallow-skinned man playing, keeping time on the drum with his foot. And then she danced.

It was a wild thing, and she led where the pipe only followed. It was not like the carefully orchestrated Collegium terpsichoreans or the rustic folk dances Che had previously seen. This was not the lewd invitation of a brothel. It was like nothing in the experience of a Lowlander. It was furious and angry, it was beautiful, it was sad. Every man’s eye was on her, most women’s as well. When Che tore her gaze away, she passed it across the yearning faces of the prisoners, to the guards beyond. The Wasp soldiers were lost in it, utterly. There was something stripped from their faces that she had never seen them without, as though some buried knife had been sheathed for this moment only. The impassive helms of the slavers showed nothing, of course, but many of them had taken them off to see better, and the same bereft, gentle look was on them. There was lust there, certainly, and all the ugly baggage that it brought, but it was shackled, in those men of chains, by something wholly other.

And she danced, to the skirling wail of the pipe, the skittering of the drum. The music spoke not of her but of the desperate, hopeless need of her audience as it chased and chased and never caught her.

Che glanced aside to make some comment to Salma, but his face was stricken with amazement, all of his haughty smiles and hidden laughter cut away from him.

She danced, and then she was done, a bitterly scornful obeisance to those who watched from beyond the palisade, leaving the pipe to squeal to a close along with her. She stayed there, motionless, bending forward so that her forehead almost touched the sand, one arm flung forward, one leg straight and the other folded beneath her. The dead silence the pipe had bequeathed stretched on and on.

And when she raised her head it was to Salma that she looked and that outflung arm became a desperate entreaty, her obeisance a plea. Help me. Save me.

At last it was Brutan who said, ‘All right, feed the bastards,’ and the Wasp-kinden picked up the vices they had, for an instant, put away, and remembered they were conquerors and warriors.

The dancer stood, looking uncertain now, and drained, and so very sad. Che felt a movement beside her and realized that Salma was standing. The dancer saw him, flinched back a moment and then looked again. She was making a first step towards him when three slavers muscled into the palisade and took hold of her, leading her off. She did not resist but she cast a last glance back at Salma that made him flinch too.

‘What was that?’ Che said. ‘I mean… Salma, are you listening to me?’

‘Of course I am,’ but he still seemed preoccupied as he sat down again.

‘Salma, did you recognize her or something?’

‘I don’t… No, not her. I know what she is, though.’

‘And?’

‘There are a few communities in the Commonweal – “In” meaning within, rather than a part of. They are… different. Butterfly-kinden, you know. I’d never seen one before. Only heard people talk about them. And it’s true, all they say. For the love of lords and princes!’ he exclaimed.

Che had never seen him so shaken. ‘So she danced well. So what?’ she said, feeling a little ill disposed to this dancing Butterfly already.

‘What?’ he asked her, trying for jovial. ‘You think I’ll abandon you and go off with her?’

‘I do know everyone seemed to be turned into a drooling idiot the moment she appeared, but you were king of the idiots, if you ask me,’ she grumbled.

His smile was coming back, and very much at her expense. ‘Cheerwell Maker, don’t tell me that’s jealousy I’m hearing? I didn’t know that we two were handfast.’

She coloured a little, knowing that in the firelight his eyes would spot it easily. ‘No, of course not. I was just worried about you, that’s all.’

Salma was about to reply when his eye was caught by two slavers approaching. He tensed, ready for them to single him out.

It was Che, however, who had their attention. ‘You! On your feet.’

‘Why?’

He hit her so fast that even Salma could not put himself in the way, slapping her across the face with an open palm. The blade of his hand had a bone hook jutting from it, Art-grown, and, even with her head ringing, she realized he could have done a lot worse.

‘No questions, slave. On your feet.’

She didn’t need to be told a third time. Salma was half on his feet too, but the second slaver directed a hand at him that crackled with energy.

‘No more heroics from you, Wealer,’ he warned. ‘Don’t think anyone would miss you.’

‘Where are you taking her?’ Salma demanded.

The energy blazed up in the man’s hand, and Che cried out, ‘I’m going with them. It’s all right. Don’t hurt him.’ It was anything but all right, but Salma was leashed to the pen and they would have been able to kill him at their leisure. ‘Please, I’m going.’

The soldier severed her leather with the spurs on his hands, and the two of them virtually dragged her from the pen, not giving her time to get her feet underneath her.

‘What have I done?’ she asked, but they just dragged her out through the palisade and let other slavers reset the stakes.

She repeated the question and one of the soldiers raised a hand to strike her again. She quailed away, tried to hide her face, but they had her arms secure. The man gave a guttural laugh.

‘Full of questions, this one,’ he said.

‘Shouldn’t be asking ’em,’ said his companion. ‘She won’t like the answers.’

And they dragged her off into the dark. She had one last glimpse of Salma’s agonized face before the pen was way behind her, and she was being hauled alongside the looming bulk of one of the automotives. She had a brief glimpse of a Wasp-kinden artificer tinkering with it, glancing at her with disinterest and then returning to his work.

‘What’s this?’ She recognized the gruff tones even as her escorts slowed and stopped. The broad-shouldered figure of Brutan the slavemaster had intercepted them. ‘What’s going on, lads?’

‘Orders, Sarge,’ said one of them.

‘You take my orders, lads,’ said Brutan. He took Che’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, yanked her head up. She could see almost nothing of him within his helm. ‘Someone got a taste for Beetle flesh, is it? I don’t recall giving you any orders, lads, so who’s been meddling in my operation.’

‘Captain Thalric, sir,’ said the other slaver awkwardly.

‘Well Captain Thalric can kiss my arse,’ Brutan declared. ‘If he wants a whore he can speak to the pimp.’

‘I don’t know, sir-’ began one of the slavers.

‘Mind you,’ Brutan said, ignoring him completely, ‘it’s a poor pimp that hasn’t dipped his wick in all the bottles.’ The blank mask of his helm was very close to Che’s face, and there was nowhere she could pull away to. ‘Not exactly a prizewinner, is she? But I’m not feeling choosy so bring her over here.’