The man Del named as Sir Kester took the lead as the band approached, turning his head to shout a command as they picked through the last of the rocks. A soldier came forward, bearing a white flag of his own, though a rather more shoddy version. He planted it down in the earth five metres from their own. “We have parley,” Sir Kester Droyn declared ringingly.

“We have parley,” repeated the Wall.

The Gullimer knight looked at him. He knew him, obviously. Everyone knew the Wall on sight even if they’d never met him. “We had not thought to have seen you here, Sir Ralston.” Sir Kester had yellow eyes to go with his yellow beard, but his hair was almost black. He looked no older than five and twenty. “Nor you, my lady,” he added, smiling at her.

My lady. They know me as well, then. She should not have been too surprised by that. Doubtless her story had spread by now among the ranks of Robbert’s army. Several dozen of the prince’s men had watched as Joy tore Cedrik Kastor’s throat out, after all, and mauled him to a bloody mess, Lord Gullimer himself among them.

“My name is Sir Kester Droyn,” the knight told them, not knowing that they knew. “Of Smallweather.” He inclined his head in a courteous bow. Beneath a cloak of soft grey wool, slashed with crimson stripes, he wore godsteel breastplate, gauntlets, gorget and greaves over a chainmail hauberk of regular steel. His cloak was held at the throat by a brooch in the likeness of a howling wolf with a bloody maw. If that was his sigil, it was not one Saska knew. Nor Smallweather, wherever that was. “May I ask why you have come?”

“To see Lord Gullimer,” Saska said. “Is he here?”

“He is, my lady.” Droyn motioned behind him. Among the shoddy tents and shelters was a larger pavilion, though not by much. “His lordship commands from there. I will bring you to him.”

“We would sooner invite Lord Gullimer to join us out here,” the Wall rumbled.

Saska raised a palm. “No. It’s fine.” She was not about to summon a lord to come out to her, a middling lord though he might be. This was his camp and she would go to him, as a courtesy if nothing else. She dismounted her mare. The other soldiers were peering at her like she was some strange creature, and truly, she was. Not often was a lady seen dressed in a suit of such exquisite godsteel plate, with a broadsword at one hip and an ancient, glowing dagger at the other. Imagine if they knew whose dagger that once was. And who I am. The deep olive skin tone, radiant blue eyes and youthful visage only made her all the more queer to these men. “Sir Ralston will come with me, as escort,” she said.

Sir Kester nodded. “As you will, my lady.” He gave the Butcher a side glance, not much liking what he saw, then noticed Del for the first time. The shadow of recognition crossed his eyes, but he said nothing. “And these others?”

“Will stay here,” Saska said. “I trust that will maintain the terms of parley?”

“It will, my lady.”

Sir Ralston swung a massive leg over Bedrock, landing on the ground with a thump that shook the earth. Several of the men quelled from him, but not Sir Kester Droyn. He looked up at the giant with a smile. “You are even larger in person, sir,” he observed.

The Wall only grunted, as if he’d heard that a thousand times before, and plonked his greathelm down upon his head, clicking it into his gorget. “Lead on, Sir Kester,” he boomed from within that bucket.

Sir Kester nodded, turned, and led them across the rocks. He had a courtly way about him, offering Saska a hand each time they reached a treacherous section. She did not need his aid, of course, but accepted anyway, to show her thanks. He seemed happy with that. “I never liked Lord Cedrik,” he confided in her, as they went. “Not to say his manner of death was my preference, but perhaps there was some justice in that.”

“There is justice in the Long Abyss,” Saska said.

“Indeed. And his crimes will see him there, I am certain. One does not lightly break the terms of parley, my lady. That alone is enough to incur the wrath of the gods.”

Harrowmoor, Saska thought. She had been a spy in the warcamp when Lord Cedrik incited blood at the parley outside the fortress walls. His crimes preceding that were of greater consequence to her, however. “Did you know him well?” she asked.

“Not well, no. More by reputation. There was a knight, a friend of mine…Sir Alistair Suffolk. A good and noble man. Sir Alistair the Abiding, we called him. Not a man to suffer gross injustice and villainy, my lady, such as Lord Cedrik and his Greenbelts perpetrated. Alistair saw fit to challenge him before the men and even threw down his gauntlet and demanded a duel to the death. Lord Cedrik’s response? To drive a dagger into his neck when he wasn’t looking.” His face twisted in disgust. “He proved his ignobility then, if not before.”

Before, Saska thought. Longbefore, Sir Kester.

Droyn glanced back behind them. “That boy with you…he was one of Prince Robbert’s charges, was he not?”

“His squire, for a short time.”

“Ah. The squire.” He smiled. “Yes, I thought it was so. I heard he helped to save our noble prince from that snake Sir Wenfry Gershan. He is well thought of around here.”

That made Saska happy to hear.

“The prince left a chest of treasures, as a reward,” the knight went on. His eyes gave her a quick study. “This plate of yours…”

“Was a gift of Robbert’s, yes,” she confirmed. “And Del’s armour as well, and his bow.” She felt a pang of nerves as she prepared to ask the next question. “The prince…do you know what has become of him, Sir Kester?”

“Alas no, my lady,” he said, with a deflated sigh. “Our fleet suffered sorely during the storms, and of the prince there had been no sign. We lost sight of Hammer long weeks ago. As we did Landslide and Shadow and most others. After a time there was only us and Harvest.” He gestured with a hand to the waters of the bay. Some two hundred metres from the shore Saska could see masts poking out from the surf, a ship submerged beneath. “We had lashed ourselves together as we battled up the coast, but it soon became a losing struggle. Eventually, the tides and currents ran us aground, but Harvest didn’t make it. The old girl had her belly torn upon by a shoal, and went down, but we managed to get her men ashore. Most, at least. Some were taken by sharks.”

Of those men there were many, Saska saw. Hundreds. Kaa Sokari had not been wrong. “You were trying to get up the coast, did you say?”

“Yes, my lady. When we left our anchorage to the south it was agreed that we would regroup in the waters below Eagle’s Perch, should we be scattered by storms. Whether anyone made it there, though…” He gave a shrug.

By then they had passed the last of the rocks and entered the small encampment. Men stopped in their tasks to watch her pass, eyes squinting in recognition. Their ordeal at sea had not been pleasant, that was clear. Many had crusted sores on their faces and red blisters on their hands and feet, with dry cracked lips that spoke of men in desperate want of water. Here and there a cookfire chugged smoke, with fish roasting on spits, and Saska saw a small shark as well, and a bucket of crabs all scrambling over one another as they tried to escape their tin prison. But elsewise food appeared scarce.

They found Lord Gullimer’s pavilion at the heart of the makeshift camp, its walls of common canvas rippling limply in the coastal wind. A banner had been posted outside bearing the apple orchard sigil of his house, and Saska could hear the strains of raised voices coming from within.

“Wait here a moment. I will announce you.” Sir Kester Droyn stepped inside. The voices died away abruptly, sinking to murmurs, and a few moments later some disgruntled men came bustling out, muttering among themselves. One was so lost to his grumblings that he almost stepped right into the Wall, and staggered away in fright when he saw him. “It is quite all right, Lord Tymson,” Sir Kester chuckled. “The Whaleheart is here under terms of parley.” He opened out a hand. “Please, come this way.”

The pavilion interior was as simple as its exterior. On a floor of hard dark sand and chunks of stone, a small pallet bed had been unrolled and there was a table as well, no more than a ragged slab of driftwood raised on legs of the same. A few camp stools had been brought in, and from the support poles hung a pair of oil lanterns, currently unlit.

“My lady.” Lord Wilson Gullimer stood beside the driftwood table, bearded, sunburned, and somewhat shabby, but still handsome for all that. When last she’d seen him, he’d been dressed in full plate armour, stained by blood and battle, with a sooty cloak at his back. Now he wore but linens and leathers of simple styling, and no cloak at all in the heat. “Pray forgive the inelegance of my dress,” he said. “My finer clothes are aboard the ship and I had not expected such company.” He looked at Sir Kester. “Serve the lady a cup of wine, if you would. Sir Ralston, will you partake?”

The Wall removed his greathelm, and shook his great head. “My thanks. No.”

“As you wish.”

Sir Kester went to the driftwood table and did the honours, pouring two cups, one for Lord Gullimer and one for Saska. She didn’t really want any, but knew it was polite to at least take a sip. She did so. She was no expert in wine, but this was sour stuff, most unpleasant.

Her face must have shown that, because Lord Gullimer gave a hoarse laugh. “Poor fare, I know, but it’s all we have left. Soon the rum will run dry and we’ll have real problems.” He had a drink of his own and set his cup aside on the table. “The men can do without water, but rum? Gods forbid they should die sober.”

“You’re not going to die,” Saska found herself saying. She was not sure what else to say, in truth. Or even why she was here. She had wanted to find out about Prince Robbert, and she had. What else was she hoping for? I can’t help them, she told herself. Not after waving away a hundred other pleas.

“I’m glad you think so, my lady. But some will, and soon. We have many sick men among us, and some wounded as well. And these waters are perilous to fish. Only this morning a man was taken by a shark, and another so badly bitten he is likely to follow come nightfall.”

Saska did not imagine being killed by a shark was a pleasant way to go. “Do you have medicine with you…for the sick?”

“Scant little. Harvest had some decent stocks in the hold, but retrieving it isn’t so easy. Not with those sharks prowling about the bay. I believe they call that a conundrum.” He gave a bitter hack, picked up his cup, took a sip, and set it down again. “So how is it you’ve come to be here? You’re a long way from Aram, Lady Saska.”

“That is not your concern,” the Whaleheart said.

“My concern?” Lord Gullimer repeated, studying the giant with a frown. “No, I suppose you’re right. I have enough here to be concerned about, Sir Ralston, than to worry over you. But I am interested.” He looked at Saska again. “You won a great victory in Aram, my lady. I would have thought it prudent to remain there, rather than venturing a thousand miles from home.”

Aram isn’t my home, she thought. Willow’s Rise was the only proper home she’d ever known, and who knew what had become of it? “I came to find out about Prince Robbert,” she only said. “Sir Kester says you lost him during the storms.”

“Weeks ago, yes. We’ve had a sighting or two of some other vessels, but for the most part the fleet is scattered and likely destroyed. How we managed to limp this far, only the gods will know. But far as we’ve come, I fear we will go no further. Alas my Orchard has grown withered, and I do not believe she’ll bear new fruit.”

“We saw the ship,” the Wall said. “You’re to say she can’t be repaired?”

“Well enough to be seaworthy? I would doubt it. Lest a strong mast should float ashore, and we find some bales of sailcloth among the flotsam, I fear she may be lost to us.”

“This land is not empty of trees,” the Wall told him. “One ought to serve for a mast.”

“One problem among many,” the apple lord said. “We lack for nails as well, and tar, and our defensive weapons have been ravaged. We have four hundred and fifty men among us, from Orchard and Harvest, too many to fit on a single vessel. I fear a strong wind will see us founder, much less a storm of the like we have seen. And already the men are talking of marching. Perhaps you heard the voices before you entered? Half the men want to rest here a while and hope the ship is repaired, while the rest would have us continue afoot to the northern coast. Eagle’s Perch,” he said. “That was our rendezvous point.” He pointed to a map on the table, an old crumpled thing curling at the corners, the ink all smudged and faded. “It’s not so far from here, only a hundred miles or so. Even with our wounded we might be able to make it in less than a week, and who knows, perhaps we’ll find help there? Another of our ships, or…”