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a bad feeling ’bout this contract.’
    ‘No kidding.’
    ‘Gonna end in tears.’
    ‘As always,’ Murk answered beneath his breath as he squinted to the stern deck where the sponsor of their current contract was speaking with the ship’s captain.
    ‘Miss Nibs is gonna be the death of us,’ Sour continued, aware of his partner’s shift in attention.
    ‘Only if you keep makin’ passes at her.’
    ‘It’s those legs o’ hers. They just go on forever.’
    Murk grunted his agreement at that. The woman wore the most amazing outfits: tall leather boots as high as her knees, tight trousers, a shape-hugging leather hauberk over a lacy white silk shirt. She looked like someone’s fever dream out of a bordello. But the sword strapped to her belt was well worn, and early in the voyage a single punch from her had floored one of the mercenaries for some suggestive remark, real or imagined.
    Most oddly, she insisted on the name Spite.
    Murk smiled now in remembrance of Sour’s remark when she’d given that name. Sour had screwed up his frog eyes and asked, “Would that be Miss or Mrs Spite?” Sometimes the squirrelly guy really did crack him up.
    Orders sounded and the crew began readying the launch and unstowing cargo. ‘Something tells me we’re gonna earn our pay on this one,’ Sour said. Murk let a breath hiss between clenched lips. ‘Gonna be hairy.’
    ‘
Enough!
Would you just – keep it to yourself for a change?’
    Sour pulled at the tiny tuft of a beard he kept on his chin, frowned while he eyed the coast. ‘Might not make it out.’
    Murk clenched the railing and hung his head in defeat.
    The mercenaries went first to secure the landing. They were a scruffy lot Spite said she picked up on the southern coast of Genabackis. Pirate territory, that. None of them admitted to taking imperial coin. But he could tell they had served their time – though he had yet to call any of them on it, as the same could be said for him and Sour. Their leader, Yusen he gave as his name, smelled especially of officer material. Had that demeanour: that old familiar
you’re an idiot
look he gave them whenever they had anything to say.
    Reminded him of their days as imperial mage cadre.
    Not much later the scouts returned to the shore to sign the all-clear and the unloading of equipment began.
    They watched the ship’s crew and the mercenaries busy unstowing the crates and sacks, lowering them to the launch, and arranging them in the bobbing craft.
    Some time into the process Murk became aware of the tall slim figure of their employer, Spite, at his side, her arms crossed and her eyes, an amazing rich golden hazel, on them. He nudged Sour and they touched their brows. ‘Ma’am.’
    ‘Things would go much quicker if everyone lent a hand.’
    ‘Just keepin’ an eye out for trouble,’ Sour volunteered.
    One shapely eyebrow arched. ‘Really? When I hired you – or should I say rescued you? – from certain arrest and imprisonment in Unta , I was under the impression that you were
not
a mage of Ruse. Are you a mage of Ruse?’
    Sour lowered his confused gaze and kicked at the decking. ‘No, ma’am.’
    ‘Then tell me – how could you be any help here at sea should there be any … trouble?’
    The squat mage raised his head, his mouth open to speak, paused, frowned as he reconsidered, and scratched his scalp instead.
    Spite continued: ‘I want you two to go ashore and reconnoitre.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    ‘And do
not
enter the circle of the dolmens, yes?’
    ‘Dolmens?’ Sour asked. ‘Is that what them pillar things is called?’
    ‘Yes,’ Spite answered as if addressing the village idiot. ‘That’s what they’re called. Don’t enter their formation. Range around. I want to know who’s in the immediate vicinity. Do you think you two can manage that?’
    ‘Oh yes, ma’am.’
    ‘Well and good. That is something at least.’ And she turned away.
    They watched her walk off; Murk could swear she put an extra