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.
Most of them were halfmen. Some had metallic claws for hands, or plastic tissue in patches where the skin had gone. One had a false eye that looked exactly like a real one, except that it was blind, the iris a sapphire. They were the lowest of the low, enslaved and despised by the pure; men whom the Prison had repaired, sometimes cruelly, sometimes just on a whim. One, a dwarfish, bent man with wiry hair, didn't step out of the way fast enough. Keiro floored him with one blow.
Keiro had a peculiar hatred for the halfmen. He never spoke to them, and barely acknowledged they existed, rather like the dogs that infested the Den. As if, Finn thought, his own perfection was insulted by their existence.
The crowd fell back, and they were among the warband. The Comitatus of Jormanric was a shambling and feckless army, fearless only in its own imagination. Big and Little Arko; Amoz and his twin, Zoma; the frail girl Lis, who went berserk in fights; and her oathsister, Ramill, who never said a word. A crowd of old lags and brash big- mouthed boys, sly cutthroats, and a few women expert in poisons. And, surrounded by his muscle-bound bodyguard, the man himself.
Jormanric, as always, was chewing ket. His few teeth worked automatically, scarlet with the sweet juice that stained his lips and beard. Behind him his bodyguard chewed in unison.
He must be totally immune to the drug, Finn thought. Even if he couldn't do without it.
'Keiro!' The Winglord's voice was a drawl. 'And Finn the Starseer.'
The last word was heavy with irony. Finn scowled. He pushed past Amoz and stood shoulder to shoulder with his oathbrother.
Jormanric sat sprawled in his chair. He was a big man, and the carved throne had been made especially for him; its arms were notched with raid tallies and stained with ket. A slave known as the dog-slave was chained to it; he used them to taste his food for poison, and none of them ever lasted long. This one was new, taken on the last raid, a huddle of rags and tangled hair. The Winglord wore a metallic warcoat and his hair was long and greasy, plaited and knotted with charms. Seven heavy skull-head rings were squeezed on his thick fingers.
He eyed the Comitatus with a hooded glare.
'A good raid, people. Food and raw metal. Enough for everyone's share to be plentiful.'
A buzz from the room. But everyone meant only the Comitatus; the hangers-on would live on the scraps.
'And yet not as profitable as it might have been. Some fool annoyed the Prison.' He spat out the ket and took another piece from the ivory box at his elbow, folding it carefully into his cheek. 'Two men were killed.' He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Finn. 'And a hostage was taken.'
Finn opened his mouth, but Keiro trod firmly on his foot. It was never a good idea to interrupt Jormanric. He spoke slowly, with irritating pauses, but his appearance of stupidity was deceptive.
A thin sliver of red spittle hung on Jormanric's beard. He said, 'Explain, Finn.'
Finn swallowed, but Keiro answered, his voice cool. 'Wing-lord, my oathbrother took a great risk back there. The Civics could easily not have stopped or even slowed. Because of him we have enough food for days. The woman was a whim of the moment, a small reward. But of course the Comitatus is yours, the decision yours. She means nothing, one way or the other.'
The of course was a silken sarcasm. Jormanric didn't stop chewing; Finn couldn't tell whether the needle- stab of such a veiled threat had even registered.
Then he saw the Maestra. She was standing at the side, guarded, chains linking her hands. There was dirt on her face, and her hair was coming undone. She must have been terrified, but she stood tall, her gaze on Keiro and then, icily, on him. He couldn't meet that scorn. He looked down, but Keiro nudged him and at once he forced himself upright, outstaring them all. To seem weak, to look doubtful here, was to be finished. He could never trust any of them, except Keiro. And then only because of the oath.
Standing arrogantly he returned Jormanric's glare.
'How long have you been with us?' the Winglord demanded.
'Three years.'
'Not an innocent anymore, then. The blankness has gone from your eyes. You no longer jump at screams. You no longer sob when the lights go out.'
The Comitatus tittered. Someone said, 'He hasn't killed anyone yet.'
'About time he did,' Amoz muttered.
Jormanric nodded, the metal in his hair clinking. 'Maybe that's so.' His eyes watched
Finn, and Finn stared straight back, because this was a bleary mask the Winglord wore, a bloated, slow disguise over his shrewd cruelty. He knew what was coming now; when
Jormanric said, almost sleepily, 'You could kill this woman,' he didn't even blink.
'I could, lord. But I'd rather make some profit. I heard them call her Maestra.'
Jormanric raised a ket-red eyebrow. 'Ransom?'
'I'm sure they'd pay. Those trucks were heavy with goods.' He paused, not needing Keiro to tell him not to say too much. For a moment the fear shivered back, but he fought it down. Any ransom would mean Jormanric would take a share. Surely it would sway him.
His greed was legendary.
The cell was dim, its candles guttering. Jormanric poured a cup of wine, tipped a splash down for the small dog-creature, and watched it lap. Not until the slave sat back, unharmed, did he drink himself. Then he raised his hand and turned it outward to show the seven rings. 'Do you see these, boy? These rings contain lives. Lives I stole. Each one of them was once an enemy, killed slowly, tormented in agony. Each one of them is trapped here in
