The Heroes

if they had witnessed a corpse clamber from its grave. All except for Bayaz, whose stare was as calculating as ever.
    ‘Finree.’ Her father started up, gathered her in his arms and held her tight. Probably she should have dissolved into grateful tears, but he was the one who ended up dashing something from his eye on one sleeve. ‘I thought maybe …’ He winced as he touched her bloody hair, as though to finish the thought was more than he could bear. ‘Thank the Fates you’re alive.’
    ‘Thank Black Dow. He’s the one who sent me back.’
    ‘Black Dow?’
    ‘Yes. I met him. I spoke to him. He wants to talk. He wants to talk about peace.’ There was a disbelieving silence. ‘I persuaded him to let some wounded men go, as a gesture of good faith. Sixty. It was the best I could do.’
    ‘You persuaded Black Dow to release prisoners?’ Jalenhorm puffed out his cheeks. ‘That’s quite a thing. Burning them is more his style.’
    ‘That’s my girl,’ said her father, and the pride in his voice made her feel sick.
    Bayaz sat forward. ‘Describe him.’
    ‘Tallish. Strong-built. Fierce-looking. He was missing his left ear.’
    ‘Who else was with him?’
    ‘An older man called Craw, who led me back across the river. A big man with a scarred face and … a metal eye. And …’ It seemed so strange now she was starting to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing. ‘A black-skinned woman.’
    Bayaz’ eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened, and Finree felt the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. ‘A thin, black-skinned woman, wrapped in bandages?’
    She swallowed. ‘Yes.’
    The First of the Magi sat slowly back, and he and his servant exchanged a long glance. ‘They
are
here.’
    ‘I did say.’
    ‘Can nothing ever be straightforward?’ snapped Bayaz.
    ‘Rarely, sir,’ replied the servant, his different-coloured eyes shifting lazily from Finree, to her father, and back to his master.
    ‘Who are here?’ asked a baffled Mitterick.
    Bayaz did not bother to answer. He was busy watching Finree’s father, who had crossed to his desk and was starting to write. ‘What are you about, Lord Marshal?’
    ‘It seems best that I should write to Black Dow and arrange a meeting so we can discuss the terms of an armistice—’
    ‘No,’ said Bayaz.
    ‘No?’ There was a pregnant silence. ‘But … it sounds as if he is willing to be reasonable. Should we not at least—’
    ‘Black Dow is not a reasonable man. His allies are …’ Bayaz’ lip curled and Finree drew Hal’s coat tight around her shoulders. ‘Even less so. Besides, you have done so well today, Lord Marshal. Such fine work from you, and General Mitterick, and Colonel Brock, and the Dogman. Ground taken and sacrifices made and so on. I feel your men deserve another crack at it tomorrow. Just one more day, I think. What’s one day?’
    Finree found she was feeling awfully weak. Dizzy. Whatever force had been holding her up for the past few hours was ebbing fast.
    ‘Lord Bayaz …’ Her father looked trapped in no-man’s-land betweenpain and bafflement. ‘A day is just a day. We will strive, of course, with every sinew if that is the king’s pleasure, but there is a very good chance that we will not be able to secure a decisive victory in one day—’
    ‘That would be a question for tomorrow. Every war is only a prelude to talk, Lord Marshal, but it’s all about,’ and the Magus looked up at the ceiling, rubbing one thick thumb against one fingertip, ‘who you talk to. It would be best if we kept news of this among ourselves. Such things can be bad for morale. One more day, if you please.’
    Finree’s father obediently bowed his head, but when he crumpled up his half-written letter in one fist his knuckles were white with force. ‘I serve at his Majesty’s pleasure.’
    ‘So do we all,’ said Jalenhorm. ‘And my men are ready to do their duty! I humbly entreat the right to lead an assault upon the Heroes, and redeem myself on the battlefield.’ As though anyone was redeemed on the battlefield. They were only killed there, as far as Finree could see. Her legs seemed to weigh a ton a piece as she made for the door at the back of the room.
    Mitterick was busy gushing his own military platitudes behind her. ‘My division is champing at the bloody bit, don’t worry on that score, Marshal Kroy! Don’t worry about that, Lord Bayaz!’
    ‘I am not.’
    ‘We have a bridgehead. Tomorrow we’ll drive the