“There will be no mistake,” snarled Kroy at Poulder, “you can depend on it.”

“The rest of the army can cross the Whiteflow and form up on the far bank. Then we can begin to press east and northward, towards Carleon, using the harbour at Uffrith to bring in our supplies. We have driven the enemy out of Angland. Now we must press forward and grind Bethod to his knees.” And the Marshal twisted a heavy fist into his palm by way of demonstration.

“My division will be across the river by tomorrow evening,” hissed Poulder at Kroy, “and in good order!”

Burr grimaced. “We must move carefully, whatever the Closed Council say. The last time a Union army crossed the Whiteflow was when King Casamir invaded the North. I need hardly remind you that he was forced to withdraw in some disarray. Bethod has caught us out before, and will only grow stronger as he falls back into his own territory. We must work together. This is not a competition, gentlemen.”

The two generals immediately competed with each other to be the one to agree most. West gave a long sigh, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“And so we return.” Bayaz frowned towards the city: a bright, white crescent spread out around the glittering bay. Slowly but decisively it came closer, reaching out and wrapping Jezal in its welcoming embrace. The features grew distinct, green parks peeping out between the houses, white spires thrusting up from the mass of buildings. He could see the towering walls of the Agriont, sunlight glinting from burnished domes above. The House of the Maker loomed high over all, but even that forbidding mass now seemed, somehow, to speak of warmth and safety.

He was home. He had survived. It felt like a hundred years since he had stood at the stern of a not dissimilar ship, miserable and forlorn, watching Adua slide sadly away into the distance. Over the surging water, the snapping sailcloth, the cries of the seabirds, he began to distinguish the distant rumble of the city. It sounded like the most wonderful music he had ever heard. He closed his eyes and dragged the air in hard through his nostrils. The rotten salt tang of the bay was sweet as honey on his tongue.

“One takes it you enjoyed the trip, then, Captain?” asked Bayaz, with heavy irony.

Jezal could only grin. “I’m enjoying the end of it.”

“No need to be downhearted,” offered Brother Longfoot. “Sometimes a difficult journey does not deliver its full benefit until long after one returns. The trials are brief, but the wisdom gained lasts a lifetime!”

“Huh.” The First of the Magi curled his lip. “Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever. Master Ninefingers! Are you determined to return to the North?”

Logen took a brief break from frowning at the water. “I’ve got no reason to stay.” He glanced sideways at Ferro, and she glared back.

“Why look at me?”

Logen shook his head. “Do you know what? I’ve no fucking idea.” If there had been anything vaguely resembling a romance between them, it appeared now to have collapsed irreparably into a sullen dislike.

“Well,” said Bayaz, raising his brows, “if you are decided.” He held his hand out to the Northman and Jezal watched them shake. “Give Bethod a kick from me, once you have him under your boot.”

“That I will, unless he gets me under his.”

“Never easy, kicking upwards. My thanks for your help, and for your manners. Perhaps you will be my guest again, one day, at the library. We will look out at the lake, and laugh about our high adventures in the west of the World.”

“I’ll hope for it.” But Logen hardly looked as if there was much laughter in him, or much hope either. He looked like a man who had run out of choices.

In silence Jezal watched as the ropes were thrown down to the quay and made fast, the long gangplank squealed out to the shore and scraped onto the stones. Bayaz called out to his apprentice. “Master Quai! Time for us to disembark!” And the pale young man followed his master down from the ship without a backward glance, Brother Longfoot behind them.

“Good luck, then,” said Jezal, offering his hand to Logen.

“And to you.” The Northman grinned, ignored the hand and folded him in a tight and unpleasant-smelling embrace. They stayed there for a somewhat touching, somewhat embarrassing moment, then Ninefingers clapped him on the back and let him go.

“Perhaps I’ll see you, up there in the North.” Jezal’s voice was just the slightest bit cracked, in spite of all his efforts. “If they send me…”

“Maybe, but… I think I’ll hope not. Like I said, if I was you I’d find a good woman and leave the killing to those with less sense.”

“Like you?”

“Aye. Like me.” He looked over at Ferro. “So that’s it then, eh, Ferro?”

“Uh.” She shrugged her scrawny shoulders, and strode off down the gangplank.

Logen’s face twitched at that. “Right,” he muttered at her back. “Nice knowing you.” He waggled the stump of his missing finger at Jezal. “Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s got a touch with the women.”

“Mmm.”

“Aye.”

“Right.” Jezal was finding actually leaving strangely difficult. They had been almost constant companions for the last six months. To begin with he had felt nothing but contempt for the man, but now that it came to it, it was like leaving a much-respected older brother. Far worse, in fact, for Jezal had never thought too highly of his actual brothers. So he dithered on the deck, and Logen grinned at him as though he guessed just what he was thinking.

“Don’t worry. I’ll try to get along without you.”

Jezal managed half a smile. “Just try to remember what I told you, if you get in another fight.”

“I’d say, unfortunately, that’s pretty much a certainty.”

Then there was really nothing Jezal could do but turn away and clatter down to the shore, pretending that something had blown into his eye on the way. It seemed a long walk to the busy quay, to stand next to Bayaz and Quai, Longfoot and Ferro.

“Master Ninefingers can look after himself, I daresay,” said the First of the Magi.

“Oh, yes indeed,” chuckled Longfoot, “few better!”

Jezal took a last look back over his shoulder as they headed off into the city. Logen raised one hand to him from the rail of the ship, and then the corner of a warehouse came between them, and he was gone. Ferro loitered for a moment, frowning back towards the sea, her fists clenched and a muscle working on the side of her head. Then she turned and saw Jezal watching her.

“What are you looking at?” And she pushed past him and followed the others, into the swarming streets of Adua.

The city was just as Jezal remembered it, and yet everything was different. The buildings seemed to have shrunk and huddled in meanly together. Even the wide Middleway, the great central artery of the city, felt horribly squashed after the huge open spaces of the Old Empire, the awe-inspiring vistas of ruined Aulcus. The sky had been higher, out there on the great plain. Here everything was reduced, and, to make matters worse, had an unpleasant smell he had never before noticed. He went with his nose wrinkled, dodging between the buffeting flow of passers-by with bad grace.

It was the people that were strangest of all. It had been months since Jezal had seen more than ten at one time. Now there were suddenly thousands pressed in all around him, furiously intent on their own doings. Soft, and scrubbed, and decked out in gaudy colours, as freakish to him now as circus performers. Fashions had moved on while he was away facing death in the barren west of the World. Hats were worn at a different angle, sleeves had swollen to a wider cut, shirt collars had shrivelled to a length that would have been thought preposterously short a year before. Jezal snorted to himself. It seemed bizarre that such nonsense could ever have interested him, and he watched a group of perfumed dandies strutting past with the highest contempt.