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he’ll make a most educational show, I’m sure!’
    Pike flicked another pinch of crumbs to his gathering flock. ‘The methods we leave to you, captain general. We would only ask that there be something left in the ashes to annex.’
    ‘As long as you realise a Company of mercenaries is more club than scalpel.’
    ‘His Eminence has chosen the method and understands its limitations.’
    ‘An inspirational man, the Arch Lector. We are close friends, you know.’
    ‘His one firm stipulation, clear in the contract, as you see, is that you avoid any Imperial entanglements. Any and all, am I understood?’ That grating note entered Pike’s
voice again. ‘Legate Sarmis still haunts the border like an angry phantom. I do not suppose he will cross it but even so he is a man decidedly not to be trifled with, a most bloody-minded and
bloody-handed adversary. His Eminence desires no further wars at present.’
    ‘Do not concern yourself, I avoid fighting wherever possible.’ Cosca slapped happily at the hilt of his blade. ‘A sword is for rattling, not for drawing, eh?’
    ‘We have a gift for you, also.’ Superior Pike indicated the fortified wagon, an oaken monster bound in riveted iron and hauled by a team of eight muscular horses. It was halfway
between conveyance and castle, with slitted windows and a crenelated parapet about the top, from which defenders might presumably shoot at circling enemies. Far from the most practical of gifts,
but then Cosca had never been interested in practicalities.
    ‘For me?’ The Old Man pressed his withered hands to his gilded breastplate. ‘It shall be my home from home out in the wilderness!’
    ‘There is a . . .
secret
within,’ said Lorsen. ‘Something his Eminence would very much like to see tested.’
    ‘I love surprises! Ones that don’t involve armed men behind me, anyway. You may tell his Eminence it will be my honour.’ Cosca stood, wincing as his aged knees audibly clicked.
‘How does the Paper of Engagement appear?’
    Temple looked up from the penultimate page. ‘Er . . .’ The contract was closely based on the one he had drawn up for their previous engagement, was watertight in every particular,
was even more generous in several. ‘Some issues with supply,’ he stammered, fumbling for objections. ‘Food and weaponry are covered but the clause really should
include—’
    ‘Details. No cause for delay. Let’s get the papers signed and the men ready to move. The longer they sit idle, the harder to get them off their arses. No force of nature so dangerous
to life and commerce as mercenaries without employment.’ Except, perhaps, mercenaries with employment.
    ‘It would be prudent to allow me a little longer to—’
    Cosca came close, setting his hand on Temple’s shoulder again. ‘Have you a legal objection?’
    Temple paused, clutching for some words which might carry weight with a man with whom nothing carried any weight. ‘Not a legal objection, no.’
    ‘A financial objection?’ offered Cosca.
    ‘No, General.’
    ‘Then . . . ?’
    ‘Do you remember when we first met?’
    Cosca suddenly flashed that luminous smile of which only he was capable, good humour and good intentions radiating from his deep-lined face. ‘Of course. I wore that blue uniform, you the
brown rags.’
    ‘You said . . .’ It hardly felt possible, now. ‘You said we would do good together.’
    ‘And haven’t we, in the main? Legally
and
financially?’ As though the entire spectrum of goodness ranged between those twin poles.
    ‘And . . . morally?’
    The Old Man’s forehead furrowed as though it was a word in a foreign tongue. ‘Morally?’
    ‘General, please.’ Temple fixed Cosca with his most earnest expression. And Temple knew he could be earnest, when he truly believed. Or had a great deal to lose. ‘I beg you. Do
not sign this paper. This will not be war, it will be murder.’
    Cosca’s brows went up. ‘A fine distinction, to the