‘I would, if I knew how. That otataral sword pushes me away-it’s what they’re made to do, isn’t it.’ Seeing the sceptical expression opposite him, he scowled. ‘What?’

‘It doesn’t push you as hard as you like to pretend it does. The risk is that the harder and deeper you push through the otataral, the more of yourself you potentially expose-and if she catches sight of you, she won’t just be close to knowing you, she’ll be certain.’ He jabbed a finger at Quick Ben. ‘And that is what you don’t want to happen, and it’s the real reason why you don’t dare push through. So, your only chance is me. Do I resume spying or not?’

‘Lostara’s suspicious-’

‘When the Adjunct is presumably alone.’

The High Mage hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Found anything yet?’

‘No. She’s not in the habit of thinking out loud, that much is obvious. She doesn’t pray, and I’ve yet to hear a one-sided conversation.’

‘Could you be blinded?’

‘I could, yes, but I’d sense the gaps of awareness. I think. Depending on how good the geas is.’

‘If it’s a geas directed specifically at your extra eyes?’

‘It would have to be. But you’re right, something specific, Mockra maybe, that slips into the rat’s tiny brain and paints a pretty picture of nothing happening. If that’s the case, then I don’t know how I could do anything about it, because with the local effect of the otataral, the source of that sorcery would be an appallingly high level-a damned god’s level, I mean.’

‘Or an Elder’s.’

‘These waters are too deep for a mortal like me, Quick Ben. My spying only works because it’s passive. Strictly speaking, riding a soul isn’t magic, not in the common sense.’

‘Then seek out something on the Wastelands, Bottle. See what you can see, because I can’t get close and neither, I think, can the Adjunct. Find a wolf, or a coyote-they like to hang round armies and such. Who’s out there?’

‘I’ll try. But if it’s that risky, you might lose me. I might lose me, which is even worse.’

Quick Ben smiled his little smile and reached into the heap of dolls. ‘That’s why I’ve tied this thread to this particular doll.’

Bottle hissed. ‘You miserable shit.’

‘Stop complaining. I’ll pull you back if you get into trouble. That’s a promise.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Bottle, rising.

The High Mage looked up in surprise. ‘What’s to think about?’

‘Quick Ben, if it’s that dangerous in the Wastelands, hasn’t it occurred to you that if I’m grabbed, you may not be the one doing the pulling on that thread? With you suddenly drooling and playing with dolls for real, the Adjunct and, more importantly, her army, are well and truly doomed.’

‘I can hold my own,’ Quick Ben growled.

‘How do you know you can? You don’t even know what’s out there. And why would I want to put myself in the middle of a tugging contest? I might well get torn to pieces.’

‘Since that wasn’t the first thing you brought up,’ said Quick Ben, with a sly look, ‘I expect you have a few contingency plans to deal with the possibility.’

‘I said I’d think about it.’

‘Don’t wait too long deciding, Bottle.’

‘Two full crates of that smoked sausage, aye. Fist Keneb’s orders.’

‘Will do, Master Sergeant.’

‘Strap them tight, remember,’ Pores reminded the spotty-faced young man and was pleased at the eager nod. Quartermaster division always pulled in the soldiers who couldn’t fight their way out of a school playground, and they had two ways of going once they’d got settled-either puppies who jumped at the snap of an officer’s fingers or the ones who built impregnable fortresses out of regulations and then hoarded supplies somewhere inside-as if to give anything up drew blood and worse. Those ones Pores had made a career out of crushing; but at times like this, the puppies were the ones he wanted.

He cast a surreptitious glance around, but the chaos swirled unabated on all sides and no one was paying him any attention. And the puppy was happy at being collared, so when accosted he could shake his head, duck down and use the various lines Pores himself used. ‘Fist Keneb’s orders, take it up with him.’ And ‘Master Sergeant’s got recruits to outfit, fifty of ’em, and Captain Kindly said to do it quick.’ Keneb was safe enough since at the moment nobody apart from his personal adjutants could even get close to him; and as for Kindly, well, the name itself usually sucked the blood from even the heartiest faces.

It was a minor and mostly irrelevant detail that Pores had somehow lost his recruits. Snatched away from the marine squads by someone nobody knew anything about. If trouble arrived Pores could look innocent and point fingers at the squad sergeants. Never make a roadblock of yourself on trouble’s road. No, make yourself a bridge instead, with stones slick as grease.

I should compose a mid-level officer’s guide to continued health, indolence and undeserved prosperity. But then, if I did that, I’d have to be out of the battle, no longer in competition, as it were. Say, retired somewhere nice. Like a palace nobody was using. And that would be my crowning feat-requisitioning a palace.

‘Queen Frabalav’s orders, sir. If you got a problem, you can always discuss it with her one-eyed torturer.’

But for now, fine Letherii smoked sausages, three crates of excellent wine, a cask of cane syrup, all for Fist Keneb (not that he’d ever see any of that); and extra blankets, extra rations, officer boots including cavalry high-steppers, rank sigils and torcs for corporals, sergeants, and lieutenants, all for his fifty or was it sixty vanished recruits-which translated into Pores’s very own private stock for those soldiers on the march who lost things but didn’t want to be officially docked for replacements.

He’d already commandeered three wagons with decent teams, under guard at the moment by soldiers from Primly’s squad. It occurred to him he might have to draw those three squads in as partners in his black-market operation, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Envy diminished the more one shared the rewards, after all, and with something at stake those soldiers would have the proper incentive when it came to security and whatnot.

All in all, things were shaping up nicely.

‘Hey there, what’s in that box?’

‘Combs, sir-’

‘Ah, for Captain Kindly then.’

‘Aye, sir. Personal requisition-’

‘Excellent. I’ll take those to him myself.’

‘Well, uhm-’

‘Not only is the captain my immediate superior, soldier, I also happen to be his barber.’

‘Oh, right. Here you go, sir-just a signature here-that wax bar, yes sir, that’s the one.’

Smiling, Pores drew out his reasonable counterfeit of Kindly’s own seal and pressed it firmly down on the wax bar. ‘Smart lad, keeping things proper is what makes an army work.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hedge’s pleasure at seeing that his Letherii alchemist had rounded up the new recruits as he had ordered quickly drained away when he cast a gauging eye on the forty would-be soldiers sitting not fifteen paces from the company latrine trench. When he first approached the bivouac he’d thought they were waving at him, but turned out it was just the swarming flies.

‘Bavedict!’ he called to his alchemist, ‘get ’em on their feet!’

The alchemist gathered up his long braid and with a practised twist spun it into a coil atop his head, where the grease held it fast, and then rose from the peculiar spike-stool he’d set up outside his hide tent. ‘Captain Hedge, the last mix is ready to set and the special rain-capes were delivered by my brother half a bell ago. I have what I need to do some painting.’

‘That’s great. This is all of them?’ he asked, nodding towards the recruits.

Bavedict’s thin lips tightened in a grimace. ‘Yes, sir.’