It was a long way back to the shaft, and the tunnels were low. The Maestra walked with her head bent; she was silent , her arms hugging herself. Keiro had put Big Arko to watch her, Finn stayed right at the back behind the wounded.

In this part of the wing, Incarceron was dark and mostly uninhabited. Here the Prison rarely bothered itself to stir, putting its lights on infrequently and sending few Beetles out.

Unlike the stone transitway above, these floors were made of a metallic mesh that gave slightly underfoot; as Finn walked he saw the gleam of a rat's eyes where it crouched, dust falling on its metal scales.

He was stiff and sore, and as always after an ambush, angry. For everyone else the pentup tension had burst; even the injured chattered as they stumbled, and their loud laughter had the energy of relief in it. He turned his head and looked back. Behind them the tunnel was windblown and echoing. Incarceron would be listening.

He couldn't talk and he didn't want to laugh. A bleak stare at a few joking remarks warned the others off; he saw Lis nudge Amoz and raise her eyebrows. Finn didn't care. The anger was inside, at himself, and it was mixed with fear and a hot, scorching pride, because no one else had had the guts to be chained like that, to lie there in all that silence and wait for death to come rolling over him.

In his mind he felt the huge wheels again, high above his head.

And he was angry with the Maestra.

The Comitatus took no prisoners. It was one of the rules. Keiro was one thing, but when they got back to the Den he'd have to explain her to Jormanric, and that turned him cold.

But the woman knew something about the tattoo on his wrist, and he had to find out what that was. He might never have another chance.

Walking, he thought about that flash of vision. As always it had hurt, as if the memory—if it was one—had sparked and struggled up from some deep, sore place, a lost pit of the past. And it was hard to keep it clear; already he had forgotten most of it, except the cake on a plate, decorated with silver balls. Stupid and useless. Telling him nothing about who he was, or where he had come from.

The shaft had a ladder down its side; the scouts swarmed over first, then the Prisoners and the warband, lowering goods and the wounded. Last of all Finn climbed down, noticing how the smooth sides were cracked here and there where shriveled black ferns broke out.

Those would have to be cleared, otherwise the Prison might sense them, seal off this duct, and reabsorb the whole tunnel, as it had last year when they'd come back from a raid to find the old Den gone, and only a wide white passageway decorated with abstract images of red and gold.

"Incarceron has shrugged its shoulders," Gildas had said grimly.

That was the first time he had heard the Prison laugh.

He shivered, remembering it now, a cold, amused chuckle that had echoed down the corridors. It had silenced Jormanric in mid-fury, had made the hairs on his own skin prickle with terror. The Prison was alive. It was cruel and careless, and he was inside it.

He leaped down the last rungs into the Den. The great chamber was as noisy and untidy as ever, the warmth of its blazing fires overwhelming. As people clustered anxiously around the plunder, pulling the grain sacks open, tugging out food, he pushed through the crowd and made straight for the tiny cell he shared with Keiro. No one stopped him.

Inside, he latched the flimsy door and sat on the bed. The room was cold and smelled of unwashed clothes, but it was quiet. Slowly, he let himself lie back.

He breathed in, and inhaled terror. It came over him in a wave, appalling; he knew the hammering of his heart would kill him, felt cold sweat ice his back and upper lip. Until now he had kept it at bay, but these shuddering heartbeats were the vibrations of the giant wheels; as he jammed his palms into his closed eyes he saw the metal rims looming above him, lay in a screeching fountain of sparks.

He could have been killed. Or, worse still, crushed and maimed. Why had he said he would do it? Why did he always have to live up to their stupid, reckless reputation?

"Finn?"

He opened his eyes.

After a moment, he rolled over.

Keiro was standing with his back to the door.

"How long have you been there?" Finns voice cracked; he cleared his throat hastily.

"Long enough." His oathbrother came and sat on the other bed. "Tired?"

"That's one word for it."

Keiro nodded. Then he said, "There's always a price to pay. Any Prisoner knows that." He looked at the door. "None of them out there could have done what you did."

"I'm not a Prisoner."

"You are now."

Finn sat up and rubbed his dirty hair. "You could have done it."

"Well, yes, I could." Keiro smiled. "But then, I'm extraordinary, Finn, an artist of theft.

Devastatingly handsome, utterly ruthless, totally fearless." He tipped his head sideways, as if waiting for the snort of scorn; when it didn't come he laughed and pulled off his dark coat and jerkin. Unlocking the chest, he dropped the sword and firelock in, then searched among the heap of clothes and dragged out a red shirt flamboyantly laced with black.

Finn said, "Next time you, then."

"Have you ever known me not take my turn, brother? The Comitatus have to have our reputation pounded into their thick heads. Keiro and Finn. The fearless. The best." He poured water from the jug and washed. Finn watched wearily. Keiro had smooth skin, lithe muscles. In all this hell of deformed and starved people, of halfmen and pock-beggars, his oathbrother was perfect. And he took great care to stay that way. Now, pulling the red shirt on, Keiro threaded a stolen trinket into his mane of hair and looked at himself carefully in the fragment of mirror. Without turning he said, "Jormanric wants you."

Finn had been expecting it; even so it chilled him. "Now?"

"Right now. You'd better clean up."

He didn't want to. But after a moment he poured out fresh water and rubbed at the grease and oil on his arms.

Keiro said, "I'll back you about the woman. On one condition."

Finn paused. "What?"

"That you tell me what this is really all about."

"There's nothing ..."

Keiro threw the ragged towel at him. "Finn Starseer doesn't sell women or children. Amoz yes, or any of the hard cases. Not you."

Finn looked up; Keiro's blue eyes gazed straight back.

"Maybe I'm just getting like the rest of you." He dried his face in the gritty rag, then, not bothering to change, headed for the door. Halfway there Keiro's voice stopped him.

"You think she knows something about you."

Ruefully, Finn turned. "Sometimes I wish I'd picked someone less sharp to watch my back. All right. Yes. There was something she said ... that might ... that I need to ask her about. I need her alive."

Keiro moved past him to the door. "Well, don't sound too keen or he'll kill her in front of your face. Let me do most of the talking." He checked for listeners outside and looked back over his shoulder. "Scowl, and stay silent, brother. It's what you're good at."

THE DOOR to Jormanric's cell had the usual two bodyguards in front of it, but a wide grin from Keiro made the nearer grunt and step aside. Following his oathbrother in, Finn almost choked on the familiar sweet stench of ket, its intoxicating fumes heavy in the air. It caught in his throat; he swallowed, trying not to breathe too deeply.

Keiro elbowed through the pairs of oathbrothers, right to the front, and Finn trailed after his flashy red coat among the drab crowd.