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‘What if they just stand off and shoot?’ she asked.

Whitehand glanced back at her. ‘They have few good bows amongst them. Our reach is greater and our aim better, or else the flower of the Commonweal has fallen far since last it was tested.’

The last time it was tested was the Twelve-year War, she reflected. Even though she knew, as a matter of absolute faith, that the odds did not matter, that the greater the foe the greater the glory, and the more chance she had to show her skill, some small sane part of her was noting that this action would stand or fall on the organization of the brigands, and the speed with which the relief force arrived.

She met Gaved’s gaze, and saw the same knowledge reflected in his eyes. And you will fly for your life, if it comes to that. The thought occurred to her, almost hungrily, that it would be easy enough to be rid of him in the fight, and nobody need know. The idea of shedding a Wasp’s blood seemed vastly attractive: this Wasp, any Wasp . . .

For a moment she felt almost dizzy with the number of conflicting thoughts inside her head. She remembered Sef, and the former slave’s simple happiness. She remembered how she had been a guest in Gaved’s house, that she had fought alongside him.

‘Stay away from me, when it starts,’ she forced out, fighting with herself to get the words spoken.

He regarded her doubtfully and she spat, ‘I don’t care what Felipe told you to do, just stay clear of me. I might . . . I can’t . . .’ She bit down on the words, either reasserting control or losing it. Something of the strangeness about her had got through to him, though, and he backed off. She could only hope it was enough warning. She also hoped it would not be enough. She had saved him, she would kill him: she felt a desperate need to simplify her world by going elbow deep in the blood of her enemies. Any enemies.

At that point she spotted the first outrunners of the brigands, a few scattered bands at first, but it was as though the woods were oozing with them, forming ever-deepening pools of shabby, patchily armoured men and women that gathered at the treeline, staring outwards. Whitehand walked to the fore, waiting for them with his clawed gauntlet on his hand, distinctive in his pale grey leathers. Tynisa guessed that his name would be passing among their enemies: the champion of the Salmae had come in person to meet them.

She moved to the Mantis’s side. ‘And if they won’t come against us?’

‘Then they’re more craven than I thought,’ he replied smoothly.

‘Our archers may outreach them, but they have more. Once they’ve found their range, why should they not stay out there and just drop arrows on us?’

He glanced at her, expressionless. ‘Then we shall have to go to them.’

She nodded, satisfied, and went to find a horse. There were plenty spare, of course, but few of them in any proper condition to go out and fight, worn down as they were by the night’s ride. But then I won’t need one for long, Tynisa reflected, and saddled the most promising mount, as best she could.

The brigands were advancing from the woods now, creeping forward cautiously and no doubt trying to discern where the rest of Whitehand’s force was hidden. They gathered out of bowshot, a great unruly mass of villains, and milled and tried to order themselves, clearly unwilling to commit to the fight. They could see the glittering armour of the nobles and even now, at the height of their rebellion, the sight of their former lords and masters in such numbers was unsettling them. No doubt they were expecting hundreds of peasant levy to spring up from the earth. Still, the idea must be trickling through their ranks: What if this is all there is?

‘Archers ready,’ Whitehand called, not loud, but his voice carried to the last of his followers. The brigands were building up their courage, realizing that, yes, they really did outnumber the enemy five to one. A quick strike now could stand as revenge for any number of punishments and slights received from the aristocracy.