In the desert nothing disguised time’s cruel face. Its skin was stretched to the bone, its lone eye burned the sky and its gaping mouth was cold and airless as a mountain peak. The traders understood this. They were as much a tribe of the desert as anyone, after all. They gave htm bladders of water-enough to take him to the nearest garrison outpost ‘Ave. give the Mezla that-they know how to build waystations and equip them well. They turn no one away, friend.’

They gave him the strongest of the raiders’ horses, a fine saddle, jerked meat and dried fruit. They gave him feed for the mount to last four days and, finally, they showed him the track he would take, the path that cheated death and yes, it was the only one.

Death stalked him, they said. Waited, for now, out beyond the glare of the dung-fires, but when Barathol finally rode out the reaper with the long legs would set out after him, singing of time, singing of the hunger that never ended, never slowed, never did anything but devour all in its path.

‘When longing comes to you, friend, step not into its snare, for longing is the fatal bait-find yourself in its snare and you will be dragged, dragged through all the time allotted you, Barathol Mekhar, and nothing you grasp will remain, all torn from your fingers. All that you see will race past in a blur. All that you taste will be less than a droplet, quickly stripped away. Longing will drag you into the stalker’s bony arms, and you will have but a single, last look back, on to your life-a moment of clarity that can only be some unknown god’s most bitter gift-and you will understand, all at once, all that you have wasted, all that you let escape, all that you might have had.

‘Now ride, friend. And ‘ware the traps of your mind.’

Too late. Those two words haunted him, would perhaps for ever haunt him.

The cruel chant had filled his head when he’d looked down upon Chaur’s drowned face. Too late!

But he’d spat into that gleeful cry. That time, yes, he had. He had said no and he had won.

Such victories were without measure.

Enough to hold a man up for a while longer. Enough to give him the courage to meet a woman’s eyes, to meet unflinching what he saw there…

In cavorting, clashing light, faces smeared past as they walked through the crowd. Rollicking songs in the local tongue, jars and flasks thrust at them in drunken generosity. Shouted greetings, strangers in clutches by walls, hands groping beneath disordered clothing. The smell of sex everywhere-Barathol slowed and half turned

Scillara was laughing. ‘You lead us into most unusual places, Barathol. This street called out to you, did it?’

Chaur was staring at the nearest pair, mouth hanging open as his head unconsciously began bobbing in time with their rhythmic thrusts.

‘Gods below,’ Barathol muttered. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention.’

‘So you say. Of course, you were on that boat for a long time, pretty much alone, I’d wager-unless Spite decided-’

‘No,’ he cut in firmly. ‘Spite decided nothing of the sort.’

‘Well then, the city beckons with all its carnal delights! This very street, in fact-’

‘Enough of that, please.’

‘You can’t think I’ll ease up on you, Barathol?’

Grimacing, he squinted at Chaur. ‘This is disturbing him-’

‘It is not! It’s exciting him, and why wouldn’t it?’

‘Scillara, he may have a man’s body, but his is a child’s mind.’

Her smile went away and she nodded thoughtfully. ‘I know. Awkward.’

‘Best we leave this,’ Barathol said.

‘Right. Let us find somewhere to eat supper-we can make plans there. But the issue won’t go away, I suspect-he’s caught the scent, after all.’

Moving to either side of Chaur, they turned him about and began guiding him away. He resisted briefly, but then fell in step, joining in a nearby chorus of singers with loud, wordless sounds not quite matching their somewhat better efforts.

‘We really are the lost ones, aren’t we?’ Scillara said. ‘We need to find ourselves a purpose… in life. Aye, let’s grasp our biggest, most glaring flaw, shall we? Never mind what to do tomorrow or the day after. What to do with the rest of our lives, now there’s a worthy question.’

He groaned.

‘Seriously. If you could have anything, anything at all, Barathol, what would it be?’

A second chance. ‘There’s no point in that question, Scillara. I’ll settle for a smithy and a good day’s work, each and every day. I’ll settle for an honest life.’

‘Then that’s where we’ll start. A list of necessary tasks. Equipment, location, Guild fees and all that.’

She was trying hard, he could see. Trying hard to keep her own feelings away from this moment, and each moment to come, for as long as she could.

I accept no payment, Scillara, but I will take your gift. And give you one in turn. ‘Very well. I can certainly use your help in all that.’

‘Good. Look, there’s a crowded courtyard with tables and I see food and people eating. We can stand over a table until the poor fool sitting at it leaves. Shouldn’t take long.’

Blend withdrew her bared foot from Picker’s crotch and slowly sat straight. ‘Be subtle,’ she murmured, ‘but take a look at the trio that just showed up.’

Picker scowled. ‘Do you always have to make me uncomfortable in public, Blend?’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re positively glowing-’

‘With embarrassment, yes! And look at Antsy-his face is like a sun-baked crabshell.’

‘It’s always like that,’ Blend said.

‘I don’t mind,’ Antsy said, licking his lips. ‘I don’t mind at all what you two get up to, in public or in that favourite room you use, the one with the thin walls and creaking floor and ill-fitting door-’

‘A door you were supposed to fix,’ snapped Pieker, only now half turning to take in the newcomers. She flinched, then huddled down over the table. ‘Gods below. Now, don’t that grizzed one look familiar’.’

‘I been trying to fix it, honest. I work on it all the time-’

‘You work all right, with one eye pressed to the crack,’ Blend said. ‘You think we don’t know you’re there, sweating and grunting as you-’

‘Be quiet!’ Picker hissed. ‘Didn’t you two hear me? I said-’

‘He looks just like Kalam Mekhar, aye,’ Antsy said, poking with his knife at the chicken carcass on the platter in the centre of the table. ‘But he’s not Kalam, is he? Too tall, too big, too friendly-looking.’ He frowned and tugged at his moustache. ‘Who was it said we should eat here tonight?’

‘That bard,’ said Picker.

‘Our bard?’

‘For the rest of the week, aye.’

‘He recommended it?’

‘He said we should eat here tonight, is what he said. Is that a recommendation? Might be. But maybe not. He’s an odd one. Anyway, he said it would be open till dawn.’

‘The chicken was too scrawny. And I don’t know who they got to pluck the damned thing, but I’m still chewing on feathers.’

‘You were supposed to avoid the feet, Antsy. They didn’t even wash those.’

‘Of course they did!’ Antsy protested. ‘That was sauce-’

‘The sauce was red. The stuff on the feet was dark brown. Want something to get embarrassed about, Picker, just drag Antsy along to supper.’

‘The feet was the best part,’ the Falari said.

‘He’s Seven Cities for sure,’ Picker noted. ‘All three of them, I’d wager.’

‘The fat one likes her rustleaf.’

‘If she’s fat, Antsy, then so am I.’

Antsy looked away.

Picker cuffed him on the side of the head.

’Ow, what was that for?’

‘I wear armour and quilted underpadding, remember?’

‘Well, she’s not, is she?’

‘She’s delicious,’ Blend observed. ‘And I bet she don’t get embarrassed by anything much.’

Picker offered her a sweet smile. ‘Why not go stick your foot in and see?’

‘Ooh, jealous.’

Antsy sat up, suddenly excited. ‘If your legs was long enough, Blend, you could do both! And I could-’