A chilly morning found them even in the bowels of the earth, creeping in through the tight breathing holes and warming Tirce’s face. She was still fatigued from her sarkomancy and was slow in rising. Meanwhile the chancer was already up and preparing breakfast for them all. He’d taken out a small pot and a ball of lard and was frying up little flat cakes of barley meal and water. The smell made her stomach juices gurgle with anticipation.

“Good morning,” Kyber greeted her.

“Morning,” she replied with a shaky smile.

“Cor, but what’s the matter darling? Didn’t get enough rest last night?” Yleine asked anxiously. The couple had suddenly become very fond of Tirce overnight, doubtless because of her role in saving Neisha yesterday, and were treating her like a favourite niece.

“Not much. And small wonder, considering…” she looked at Ravelin and decided not to say more. Modlin ate well enough for two men, wolfing down his share of the barley cakes, pausing only suck greedily at his wooden dentures with his tongue. The sound he made doing it was enough to put off anyone’s appetite.

“You going to finish that?” said Modlin to Kyber, picking at his black gums with a dirty fingernail.

“I can’t,” Kyber said, offering him his plate and watching in morbid fascination as Modlin inhaled its contents. Neisha played with her food and cut out little figures with her spoon. She made doves and carriages and castles until her mother cuffed her on the back of the head and told her not to waste food.

Tirce ate hers slowly, savouring every mouthful of the fried bread and the sour wine that went with it. She would need every ounce of energy today, she knew.

Ravelin rubbed the plates clean with a rag and people stowed them in their rucksacks, and then they were off, once more on the road. They traversed the rest of the sapper’s trenches past the gun batteries whose corroded cannons had forever fallen silent. In only an hour they were clear of all the earthworks and had reached the circumvallation walls of the outer siegeworks.

Tirce wondered at it all. It had taken the Iron Axiom three years to cross the distance they had just travelled in under a day, and every meter of dirt purchased with its weight in corpses. A tenacious bunch, those Axiomites. If only they hadn’t gone and blown themselves up, Tirce and her kind could very well be living wild and free, as the Crone Mother intended.

Now they reached the fortifications of the Axiom where they had built a wide wall to block out any reinforcements from reaching the city.

Here the reverse had occurred and the League had poured enormous quantities of men and material to break the Axiom’s stranglehold on the city. But the dwarves had simply turned their cannons around and blasted column after column of infantry into giblets and buzzard food.

Indeed, the only reason the Lufthaven was still standing, or so the story went, was because of a desperate strafing run launched by the dragonauts of Encaladon. Led by Searitch the Cindermage, the devastating raid had also cost the fleet an estimated three quarters of their airworthy wyrms. That sacrifice alone had delayed the siegeworks of the Iron Axiom long enough to allow the Wasting to obliterate their confederacy.

Tirce still remembered looking out from the top of the walls as a child and seeing piles of dragon bones scattered like so many trodden leaves as far as the eye could see. Stahlka had even set up a reward system that paid every chancer a corresponding weight of silver for every bone they recovered. It was for propagandistic reasons, of course; nobody wanted the roundels to be reminded that the greatest army in the world could be decimated by a ragtag band of farmhands, human lordlings and merchant burghers.

This happy arrangement had lasted until it was discovered that some of the chancers had been mixing in the bones of large oxen, resulting in another ban on chancing. So much for arrangements of mutual benefit.

Tirce breathed in the crisp autumn air and thanked the Crone Mother that her aches and pains had lessened somewhat. But as she breathed, in her nostrils caught the scent of people moving upwind of her.

“We’re not alone,” she told the chancer who was striding ahead, his arms tucked into his armpits of his greatcoat to hide them from the chill.

“That’ll be the bazaar setting up shop,” he said through chattering teeth, “Don’t pay them no nevermind.”

From the parallel trenches on either side of them came other groups staggering in from the cold. There were many Shaemish among them, with a smattering of humans, ogrish and other species, all carrying collapsible tents and tables. In threes and fours they tramped up to the palisades and began putting out their goods for sale.

There among the detritus and calamity of the old war came the prospectors of new opportunities. Some of the humans wore iron masks on their faces and were covered in bandages and at whose approach all withdrew in fear—the blight-touched lepers who had seen too much of the Wasting and had returned with studded with cankers and weeping sores.

Shaemish were present in great numbers and sold food meant for hard travelling: pemmican and smoked cod, dried berries and nuts all ground up and pressed into glutinous bars that smelled delicious. At the end of the bazaar was a shop from which came the flash and bang of black powder; an armorer and his clients were busy proofing his wares.

Tirce watched as a customer bought a cuirass and thigh guards, the armorer strapping them onto himself and waddling out to the firing range that was filled with broken bottles and jars for target practice.

“Ready,” said the armorer, staggering beneath the weight of his own wares. He was a short man with frazzled grey hair that stuck out from under his leather bald cap. Without further ado the customer whipped out a pistol and shot him in the chest at thirty paces. There was a shower of sparks as the flattened itself on steel which proved true, the force of it sitting him down in a hurry. Caught by surprise, the armorer forgot himself and let out a loud fart.

“What the devil do you think you’re playing at?” he scolded the prospective buyer.

“What?” the customer protested, “You said you were ready, didn’t you?”

“I think I just shat myself! A count would’ve been appreciated.”

“Well, I’m buying the set, so congratulations. The armour speaks for itself.”

“Whoop-de-do,” the armorer said with ill grace, “So it does. And the armor says: ‘That’ll be a hundred and ten calors, sir.”

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“You said ninety!”

“It was, until I realized I was dealing with an prick!”

An argument broke out. Tirce waited patiently until the customer went away with a wallet ninety-five calors lighter than it had been, but weighed down with as fine a piece of steel as had ever been hammered to fit a torso.

“What can I do you for?” the armorer said upon spying her, “The name’s Boykan, but my friends call me Bullet-Catcher. On account of that display you just witnessed.”

“They should call you Tin-Smith,” Ravelin joked, “On account of your wares are useless at ten paces or closer.”

Boykan looked round for who had slandered his wares, snatching up a nearby forge hammer in outrage. But his expression cooled when he saw Ravelin.

“Ravi!” he said, embracing the young man, “What brings you out in these parts? I thought Viago’s boys only ever risked moving through the Breach.”

“The times, they are a-changing,” Ravelin replied, “You got any spiderweave padding, by any chance?”

“Fraid not. Rebels bought up all my stock back in the city.”

“Hmph. That doesn’t bode well. It’s to be war, you think?”

“Who knows? Who cares? It’ll just mean more honest business for me.”

It was surprising to know that Boykan had a regular stock of spiderweave, since the completely bullet proof and lightweight garment was solely the product of gloomweavers in the Pale Woods. Once again Tirce had to admit that the chancer scum had their uses to the terranist movement.

“Honest business would be giving your customers a full charge of powder when they proof your armor,” Ravelin was saying.

“R-right,” Boykan looked around to see if anyone else had heard, “Just a little joke on my part, I’m sure you understand.”

“Times are hard and metal isn’t cheap,” Tirce broke in impatiently, “Do you sell any headwear?”

Boykan graced her with a beatific smile.

“That’s what I like in a woman! She comes here knowing exactly what she wants. How about a surprise, miss?”

Tirce considered it. A surprise was a steel cap worn under a person’s hat of choice, a concealed piece of armor that offered almost as much protection as a militiaman’s helmet with the added benefit of not detracting from the flash and style of one’s outfit. But then Tirce remembered that wearing her hat would be tantamount to hanging a sign round her neck that read: “I am a Mad hatter.”

“A surprise?” she said, wisely feigning ignorance, “What kind of surprise?”

As Boykan condescendingly explained the concept to her, Tirce caught Ravelin examining her with renewed interest. Hoping her cover had been convincing, she bought the surprise anyway for fifteen calors and twenty-five demidons. It was a snug fit.

“It looks pretty as a picture on you, if I do say so myself,” said Boykan.

“She looks like an absolute arsehat,” countered Ravelin, “Like the top end of a boiled egg. It needs something to cover it, otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Well, yes,” Boykan admitted, “But still. Better to be ugly and alive than pretty and dead.”

Tirce came away feeling as though she’d made a fool of herself. The others couldn’t help but smile when they saw how silly she looked but had the decency not to make fun of her. But she felt even more of a lackwit when Ravelin walked next to her and said under his breath:

“No one will mind if you wear your true colours on your head. If I’ve worked out that you’re a Mad Hatter, it’s a matter of time before the others will too.”

She whirled to face him and saw him standing with a stupid fat grin on his face. The others had peeled off to inspect the wares of the bazaar out of curiosity, leaving only the two of them alone.

“What gave it away?” she said coldly.

“The kicking you gave me earlier. It was a thoroughly one-sided affair, I’ll grant you that, that is until you got careless. That, and the way you went after me and the girl by the water-rise.”

“It was Neisha’s welfare I was concerned with. You happened to be bound to her, remember?”

“As you say,” he said, spreading his hands, “As you say. And yet I wonder why you didn’t let me fall.”

“Perhaps I should have. It’s not like you’ve been much use so far.”

“Oh, I know the reason,” he went on, ignoring her insults, “But are you honest enough to admit it to yourself?”

“And what’s that?” Tirce growled.

“You’re a good person,” Ravelin said, moving closer and confiding it like it was some guilty secret, “And coincidentally, a fool.”

“Are you begging for another beating? Because I know your little boot trick now, and you won’t be catching me lacking again.”

“I’m a chancer. I’ve got a bagful of tricks. But bringing about a new world order where everyone is fed and clothed and all species are held in equal honour, why, that’s an illusion I’ll never pull off. Neither will you terranists, it seems.”

“I thought you said you didn’t talk politics?”

The last thing Tire had been expecting was a discussion of Terranism with Ravelin of all people. But she couldn’t resist; this was her bread and butter, after all.

“On the contrary,” she began, “It’s already been achieved. The Ephalim just had to go and stamp it out of existence.”

Ravelin raised both eyebrows and said dryly;

“Heaven right here on earth? And I wasn’t around to see it? Of all the rotten luck.”

“You laugh, but the facts are recorded in the annals of my people. How many lived alongside the forest folk in peace, each cleaving to his own, commoners living in settlements that elected their own leaders into power and in which even the poorest had their say in the moot. Where all the land was held in common ownership and allotted by the council, each according to his own ability.”

“Yet there were still lords,” Ravelin countered, “The land of Utregost and your precious peasant communes were ruled by the Powder Barons, all of them nobility, though none of it elfin.”

“But the fact remains that it was possible,” came Tirce’s lightning-quick riposte, “The Powder Barons couldn’t crush the peasant communes—they’d already tried it in the Wagon Wars. As the war with the League dragged on, they were forced to abandon the feudal levy system and take on the task of a true assembly, one whose representatives elected one of their own into the position of High Hetman, who were themselves elected by mere commoners!”

“And here are those commoners now,” Ravelin pointed. Tirce saw a line of Shaemish entering the bazaar, dozens of gaunt, thin, horror-stricken faces fresh from the city. That was all she needed to see to know that the pogroms had begun in earnest.

“If the communes were the final solution to the problem of speciesism,” Ravelin said, “Then they should have won.”

“And we will,” she snarled at him, her teeth lengthening without her even noticing, “The die has struck the earth, but it is still turning. Who knows which face the future will wear?”

“I hope for all our sakes that it isn’t yours.”

“We know the price of freedom,” Tirce said, echoing her uncle, “And we pay it gladly.”

But looking at the bedraggled wretches hobbling their way north, she had to admit they did not look entirely happy.

With one very noisy exception. One the masked lepers had set out three-legged stool and produced with a flourish a collection of shiny toys. Among them were sea hydras that blew gossamer soap bubbles, rubber balls that once released never stopped bouncing, animals with wheels for feet that when yanked back would roll doggedly forward for twice the distance, gnomish finger traps made of nothing but folded paper, a nonagon with nine coloured faces on each side that rotated in every direction and served no other purpose. In fact it was easier to list the wonders the leprous toy sellers did not possess. Neisha goggled at a bronze clockwork parrot that held cymbals in its wings and eyes of pure agate. She clutched at her mother’s arm, saying: “Oh, Mummy, lookit! They’ve got everything!”

“Indeed we do, miss,” gurgled the leper, “The choicest articles straight from Glaumschfel.”

The disgusting creature took out a carven whistle and blew on it, producing a shrill note.

“Waark! Batten down the hatches!” cried the parrot, “Waark! Nor-by-nor east! Waark! We’re blowed, mateys!”

It bashed its cymbals together and spun its head in dizzying circles.

“Do it again! Again!” cried Neisha, clapping her hands in delight. The blighted one blew on the whistle once again and the parrot pecked at the stool.

“Come away from there!” Yleine commanded, dragging her daughter away by the ear, “Shoo! Shoo, you nasty thing!” she told the leper, flapping her arms at him so that he recoiled.

“My sin,” it wheezed, “My own grievous sin hath brought about mine suffering. Have ye no mercy, Marm?”

“But Mummy!” Neisha whined.

“No buts! Those toys came from Glaumschfel. It is a cursed place, girl.”

Tirce shook her head. It struck her as cruel to deny the child what few comforts were available over some superstitious claptrap. Glaumschfel had just been a city caught in the centre of the spell-blight, nothing more. She saw Ravelin eyeing the leper with genuine dislike and said:

“What’s the matter? You don’t like what the future holds? I’ve been told all chancers end up like that sooner or later.”

“It’s true,” he said, “But for my part I’d rather it was later rather than sooner. As for what’s truly bothering me, I cannot say.”