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three. In that,” said Soth Bell, “the elements that, together, join to form the world and with it men and their gods, are met. Water, air, and earth, the three roads upon which mortal kin travels the World.” A fourth element, fire, was said by Soth Bell to represent “the gods, and in this analogy the object of theft. A thief once burnt is in future a more careful one. Or dead.” Gorel, who had little time for books, and who in any case would never have heard of Soth Bell (who disappeared in the far reaches of the north of the World on a quest whose purpose he had never divulged but who, by his supposed demise, was later to birth a new cult of thief-monks called the Order of Om-Gan), did not plan on remaining in a set of three indefinitely. He was, in fact, thinking that a bullet between the eyes of an unwanted accomplice can solve a lot of problems. And that a more accurate representation of the old four elements hypothesis could be summed up as urine, goat’s shit, smoke and intestinal gas. He was not much enamoured of poetry, either.
    The third member of their party was an unwanted addition brought on by Kettle’s insistence. The way it happened was so:
    A week out of Falang-Et Gorel and Kettle stopped and made camp on the banks of a tributary of Tharat. Kettle was perching on a high branch, sleeping. Gorel was building a small fire and planning to make eel stew. Kettle was good at catching fish. All was quiet. The graal was sitting motionless in the grasses, absorbing the last rays of the sun. Nothing stirred. Gorel’s few belongings were resting against a tree trunk close to the water’s edge. The water murmured as it bubbled past. Gorel added kindling to the small fire and shifted two larger branches close. The wood not being dried enough, it smoked. Which made Gorel think of gods’ dust, and of the dwindling supply in his bag. And so, by chance alone, he turned – just in time to see a slippery, green-blue hand with long, adroit fingers rise from the water and make a grab for his belongings.
    He lunged forward. The hand was already fastened on his bag and pulling it into the water. Gorel closed fist on delicate wrist and gave a violent tug. From below the surface of the water someone said, ‘Hey!’ and bubbles rose to the surface. Gorel tugged again, harder, and pulled. He felt, without looking, Kettle awaken and fall down like a shadow from the tree. ‘What have you got there, Gorel?’ he inquired, not quite stifling a yawn. ‘A bit late to be fishing.’
    ‘Not for some, it seems,’ Gorel said (Kettle barked a laugh like the call of a large, predatory bird) and pulled someone small and wet from the water.
    ‘Hey, let me go!’ the someone said. In reply, Gorel backhanded the speaker. The small figure fell back and flopped to the ground, and the gun was in Gorel’s hand, and pointing. ‘Don’t point that thing at me, human! Your mouth is like the asshole of a nyak. Your head is the misshapen skull of an aborted foetus. Your penis is a shrivelled leaf unsuitable for smoking by even the lowest frog-spawned bitch in all Tharat. Your –’
    Gorel pressed the trigger. Earth exploded between the speaker’s legs. ‘Shut up,’ Gorel said.
    ‘Now, where are your manners,’ Kettle murmured, and crouched down beside Gorel, his wings opening. Gorel had to stop himself from slipping a hand in between the Avian’s wings, in that sensitive, erogenous zone where the Avian’s skin was softest. ‘Now, what do we have here?’
    ‘A thief,’ Gorel said. Kettle flashed him a brief smile and turned back to their captive. ‘A thief, of course. But what kind of a thief?’
    ‘Not a very good one?’ Gorel suggested.
    ‘Hey! Watch your mouth!’ the captive said.
    ‘Got caught, didn’t you?’
    ‘You got lucky, human!’
    ‘Let me shoot him.’
    ‘No, Gorel,’ Kettle said, and smiled again. ‘Not a he, I don’t think.’
    ‘A woman?’ Gorel peered closer at their captive, who was glaring at him