Lydia woke with a start, disturbed by something she could not identify. Had Meganne cried out in her sleep? Moonlight shone through the lattice shutters, casting patterns of light and shade on the pale wood floor. Her cousin lay as still and white as death, the mark of her widowhood a black slash across her throat. Meganne had not stirred. What, then, woke her?

She lay still and unmoving, reaching with her senses to try and locate the source of the disturbance. She could hear a low rumble of voices in the corridor as the guard changed shifts; heard Meganne's steady breathing. The noise returned, on the edge of hearing, so faint she wasn't sure she heard it at all. A rasping sound outside the window, and then, soft as a whisper, the cold scratch of a blade against the shutters. The room darkened, the moonlight obscured by a shadow on the narrow balcony outside the window.

Trembling, Lydia's hand crept under the pillow for her knife. She found nothing; the empty space reminded her of the reality of her situation as the remnants of sleep fled. The blade was gone. Their weapons were taken when they were arrested, and she had only her intelligence and her bare hands to defend herself. She lay frozen, mind racing, as the scratching continued at the window frame.

For a fleeting moment, Lydia considered calling the guard, but dismissed the idea. She feared the taciturn Telesians; feared the way they looked at her. The last think she wanted was them bursting into her room in the middle of the night. No, she would take her chances with the unknown intruder. Her captors may have taken everything from her, but she had some vestige of pride. Whatever it was making the noise, she would take care of it. She slipped out of bed, wrapping the thin coverlet around her body, heart thundering. She groped on the nightstand for something to use as a weapon. Her hand fell on a small iron candleholder, and she smiled in the darkness. Whoever tried to get through the shutters, whether assassin from Valery or murderous Telesian, would not find her unprepared.

Patterns of shadows on the floor shifted, as the blade caught in the catch and the shutters swung inward. The moons cast a sharp silhouette as the intruder swung one leg over the windowsill and hesitated, as if at some sound.

And Lydia struck.

Leaping like a cat out of the shadows, she smashed the candleholder into the stranger's head, sending him reeling. Her foot hooked round his ankles, and brought him to the floor. Moonlight streamed across his face as he rolled, revealing fair hair and a sun-freckled face. He scowled as he raised a hand to his bruised temple.

Lydia swore. "Stars above! I'm sorry, Alex, I thought you were come to send me North!"

He laughed softly. "You had a good go at doing that to me. What did you--" He fell silent as she laid a hand across his lips. A footfall in the corridor outside drew their attention to an anxious voice, speaking slow and careful Telesian.

"Are things well?"

Lydia picked up a smattering of Telesian over the past four moons, enough to lie with. "All well," she replied. "I fell ... from bed."

"Hurt?"

"No."

"Good."

Lydia's conversations with Neshwine tended to be monosyllabic. She wondered if he would say more, but he must have been content with her excuse, as his footsteps moved away. She helped her husband to his feet, and he sat down on the bed, grinning at her nervousness.

"What are you doing here? If you get caught again, you'll get us both into a cartload of trouble."

"I wanted to see you," he said. "To talk to you without the guards listening. To do this..." He slipped his arms around her and kissed her, and the warmth of his skin soothed her as the bed sheet fell away.

She sighed, and snuggled close. "I've missed this."

"Me too. I was lying in bed, thinking of you, and Bale suggested I try going out of the window and climbing the creeper under your balcony. To be honest, he was sickened by my ranting and he wanted to be rid of me for a time."

"And I welcomed you with a clout round the ear!"

"A fine welcome for one who loves you, I must say."

Her fingers flickered over the lump on his temple. "You scared the sunshine out of me, that's why. I was asleep; I thought you were Valery. Why didn't you call out?"

"And bring the guards in here before I had a chance to lie down with you? I thought you'd know it was me. I didn't think you'd be dreaming."

"When do I not dream?" She pulled a sour face. "Ah, let's not spoil the night by speaking of Valery. How does Bale?"

"Unhappy. They won't let Sev fly. They think Bale's going to send messages to our friends in the north, and they might rescue us."

"We haven't any friends, in the north or elsewhere. There's Najphet, I suppose, if she is a friend."

"She wasn't expecting our arrest any more than I was. She's going to plead with her father on our behalf, and I trust her. If she--" He broke off at a sound from the other bed, a muffled cry as Meganne rolled over in her sleep. "Now, there's one we should worry about. She walks like one halfway North. Is it as bad as it seems?"

"I fear so." Lydia sighed. "She clings to life, no more than that. In a way, I'm glad they took our knives. Which reminds me, where did you get this?" In the dim silver light, she pointed to the knife Alex used to force the shutters. It had an edge that wouldn't slice milk.

"I took it from the dinner table while Berucat wasn't looking."

Lydia stretched on her back, enjoying the sensation of his fingers trailing along her bare torso. "You planned it well."

"You see the risks a man will take to lie with a beautiful woman?" In one supple movement, he kicked out of his threadbare breeches and enfolded her in his arms, smiling at her ardent response. "Be quiet," he urged, curling one hand over her hip. "You never know--"

His plea died on his lips as the door crashed open, spilling yellow lantern light over the bed. Lydia tugged the thin sheet up to protect herself from the prying eyes of the intruder standing on the threshold, dwarfed by two hefty guards. She heard the insult in her husband's voice as he propped himself up on his elbows and addressed the invader in Telesian.

"Do you never tire of chasing me, you bastard son of a flea-ridden armpit?"

Berucat's nostrils flared in response to the abuse. "You think you can sting me with words? I have heard far worse in the gutters of Cape Carey."

"And tell me," Alex was almost sneering, "are you proud to be the spawn of a Northern dog? How does your mother hold her head up in the street?"

"You will not sully my mother by speaking of her. My father showed his Barbarian courage by leaving us in poverty. Your nation is a dungball, a breeding ground for maggots. And you, King Maggot, I will relish crushing under my boots. Get up." He indicated with his good arm for Alex to rise. The other, withered and deformed, he held closely to his side.

"This is the third time I find you here, indulging in fornication--"

"If only I had the chance," Alex muttered.

Berucat swept on. "It will not be tolerated. As a recipient of Telesian hospitality, you must accord the proper respect. You have not done so; despite the warnings I issued. You must be punished."

"He's done nothing wrong." Lydia sat up, indignant. "Your hospitality is flawed, Berucat. Why should a man not lie with his wife?"

"My Lord has forbidden it. You are fortunate, Lady. You lack the intelligence to realise you are being led astray, so, on this occasion, I will not have you beaten. But if it should happen again..." He left the threat hanging, turning to Alex, who retrieved his breeches and looked rebellious. "For you, I think time in the cage will burn the desires from your mind. Take him away."

"I can walk, thank you." Alex shook off the guard's hands. "What is this cage you speak of?"

The translator and jailer smiled thinly. "You will see, false King. And believe me, you will not swiftly forget."

The Guesthouse, as it was always called, was a large rectangular building constructed around two courtyards, linked by an archway. As Lydia stepped from the cool marbled interior into the women's ward, heat struck her face like a furnace. Strange reptiles, brightly coloured with many legs, scuttled away and fled up the walls, hissing indignation as she crossed the yard. She ignored them, heading towards the main gate, which stood wide open to capture any breeze. There was little need for security, as Berucat explained to his guests on the first day. Lydia had tried to concentrate on his words, her mind still hazy with the drugs they had forced her to swallow.

"If you go out of the gate," Berucat said, gesticulating with a thorn that was easily two feet long, "the iron thorn bushes will flay the flesh from your bones. If you survived, you would have to swim across the river. In the water live serpents as long as ten men, with poison fangs thicker than my leg, and biting frogs to reduce you to a skeleton the moment you put a toe in the water. The living reeds reach to strangle you as you come near. It is impossible to cross the river. Even if you could, the desert stretches a thousand miles in every direction. The nearest waterhole is ten days walk, and you weak Northerners would die of heat and thirst before you got a mile. I suggest you do not attempt it."

Walking through the gates, Lydia stared at the impenetrable bushes which were hacked in a rough semicircle, leaving space for a small, reed-woven sentry hut. The man on duty squatted in the dust, retipping his spear with a fresh thorn. He looked up as she approached, and smiled.

"Good day, Lady," he said, in his native tongue.

"Good day, Iddis." Lydia couldn't help smiling. She was fond of Iddis, who tried in his bumbling way to make life easier for the Northerners, despite his junior status and fear of Berucat. He had gone as far as learning a few words of their language. He grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth, and tried a sentence in the alien tongue.

"What I can do you for then, Lady?"

"I seek Alex."

His smile vanished with a shake of his head. "Bad thing. Come." He abandoned his spear, and indicated for her to follow, into the courtyard and through the arch in the dividing wall to the men's quarters. He raised a finger to his lips, and pointed. Screens in the corner, which Lydia had previously assumed were erected to conceal the midden, had been taken down to reveal a wire mesh box, not tall enough for a man to stand upright, nor wide enough that he could stretch. She realised by the shadows that once the sun reached its zenith, the cage would be caught in the full glare throughout the hottest part of the day. Alex crouched in the dust, the wire casting strange patterns across his skin. He smiled through dry lips as she dropped beside the cage, and reached out to link a finger with hers.

"If Berucat sees you--" he said.

"Berucat can eat sand. How long have you been here?"

"Since last night. It's bitter after dark; I didn't realise how cold it gets. I was glad to see the sun this morning, but now I'm not so keen."

"What about water?"

"No water. That's part of the punishment. Three days in here, no food, no water. Berucat said it would teach me my place."

Lydia spat in disgust. "How can these people call us barbarians? It's beyond reason. Would you have me talk to Berucat?"

"He won't listen to you. You're just a woman; what do you know? But here's Bale coming."

The Hawkman hurried towards them, thin face tight with concern, eyes darting side to side; watchful as the birds he loved. "You shouldn't be here," he said, dropping to his knees beside Lydia. "How does Meganne?"

Bale nurtured a deep passion for Meganne since the day they met, but friendship with her lost husband, and her bereavement, prevented the good-hearted Hawkman speaking of his passion. The redhead seemed oblivious to his adoration, obvious as it was to everyone else.

Lydia shrugged. "Same as usual. No worse."

Through the mesh Bale pressed a soft fruit into Alex's hand. "It's a bit squashy," he apologised. "I stole it from the morning table, and I've had it in my pocket since then. Best I could do, I'm afraid."

"Bale, you're a hero." The pulp in Alex's mouth muffled his delighted words. "If I must be imprisoned in a foreign country with anyone, I'm glad it's you."

Bale coloured. "I do my best. But it's fearsome hot. Is there anything more I can do?"

"Watch me roast like a hog on a turnspit, I suppose. At least we can speak freely, for a time. Have you heard anything of use, Lydia?"

"Nothing from our side," she said. "And no sign of the secret way either, though not through want of looking."

Alex guessed shortly after their arrival that people and supplies travelled to and from the Guesthouse via a secret tunnel under the river, but none of them had yet located the entrance. It had become an obsession as the burden of imprisonment chafed him.

"If we did find it," Bale reasoned, "we'd still have to cross the desert. Our best wager is to sit tight and see what happens, as I said before. King Fassad won't keep us forever."

Alex shifted in his cramped prison. "You say to sit tight, and certainly I don't have any choice at the moment. But it rests hard with me, Bale. I value my freedom more than I realised."

"And there's Meganne," Lydia added. "She--"

"What of me, cousin?" Meganne approached and stood, swaying in the heat, hands folded into the sleeves of her flowing black gown. Her hair hung limp, damp with sweat, and her eyes were dull. Bale moved to make space for her to sit, but she seemed not to notice.

"I said you didn't want to be here, any more than the rest of us," Lydia explained.

"Oh."

"Did you come looking for me?"

"What? Yes." Meganne picked at a scab between her knuckles. "Berucat's looking for you."

"Is he angered?"

"Not as much as you'd expect, but your chaperone took a kicking. I didn't hear all of what happened, but I think he had a message from Tellis."

Alex glanced up. "What did it say?"

"Someone's due to arrive tomorrow. Someone important, by the fuss he's making."

"An emissary from Fassad? Najphet's come through for us; I knew she would!" He tried to rise, hit his head against the cage, and sank down.

Meganne frowned and shook her head. "He said nothing of that. It would be unwise to hope for much."

"We could ask him," Bale said, for the man in question strode across the courtyard towards them, flanked by ever-present bodyguards. His robes flapped in his haste, and he waved his good arm in agitation. Lydia's eyes narrowed.

"I think we're in for a mouthful now, Meganne. We'd best go." She stood, brushing dust from her robe, and inclined her head at the Telesian.

"My ladies, in view of the occasion, I shall overlook you walking out without your chaperones this once, if you return to your quarters now."

"Why the hurry, Berucat?" Lydia asked, stalling. "What occasion?"

"The Paschamir is coming. The Paschamir of the Medagir Quadrant, here! I never thought to be so honoured..." He cleared his throat, and glared at her. "But I forget myself. You are only a woman. You need not concern yourself with such things. Go back to your rooms and prepare to be presented." He flapped the women away, but Lydia lingered as Bale caught the Telesian's billowing sleeve.

"And what of Alex?" he said.

"What of him, Birdman?"

"He'll be in no state to be presented to this Paschamir if you leave him here. And you wouldn't want him to report to King Fassad that we were being mistreated, as we're such honoured guests." A glint of fear brightened Berucat's eyes. "Or worse, he might think you use the cage because you've no control of us. What would he say to that?"

Berucat wavered for a moment before unhooking the massive bunch of keys from his belt and tossing them to a companion. "Let him out then," he said. "But I warn you, any Barbarian insolence in the presence of the Paschamir, and you will be very sorry indeed."

The Paschamir of the Medagir Quadrant, arriving the following morning, was an immensely fat man. Bloated with his own self-importance, he waddled into the dining hall. He combed his thinning hair forward and plastered it to his head to make the best of what little he had, stroking it repeatedly. The hand he extended to Berucat was as greasy and slippery as rancid meat, and the translator was careful to stand away from him. The combined stench of sweat and alcohol brought water to his eyes.

But however repulsive the man, he was the Paschamir, cousin to the King, and his word meant life or death to one such as Berucat. So the translator scampered behind him, fawning, treading on his robes in eagerness to please until the Paschamir rounded on him.

"Berucat, you spawn of a maggoty gutter bitch! I can inspect the guests with no further help from you. Stand aside until you are needed, and let me work!"

Berucat retreated, stung by the harsh words, and humiliated in the face of the Barbarians. He made an offensive gesture behind the Paschamir's back. Let him deal with them without a translator then, he thought, and much good may it do him.

The Paschamir seemed unconcerned, stroking a hand over his multiple chins and wiping it down his robe. "So these are the Barbarian Northlanders that have been such fleas in the armpit of my beloved cousin? Tell me, Berucat, speak they our tongue?"

"Barely a word, Paschamiri, but for--"

The Paschamir cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Then maybe I can have a little fun here after all." He leant into Alex, inspecting his blank face.

"But Paschamiri--"

"Berucat, you festering pile of dung, when I want your opinion I shall ask for it!" The Paschamir lifted one of Alex's arms, and squeezed the bicep. "Very little, are these Barbarians. Little and weak, look here!" He lifted Alex's shirt and jabbed a thick forefinger into his torso. "No muscle at all have they, and no hair either, as a fine man should have. I wonder, are all their parts so small and hairless?" He brayed with laughter at his own joke, and turned his attention to Bale.

"Fwaugh! This one stinks like a birdcage! Do they not wash; these people? Do they think they can overpower us on the battlefield by stench alone?"

"It may be so, Paschamiri." Berucat wondered that the Paschamir could smell the Northerners at all over his own sweaty odour, and bit his tongue.

"I know not how their women can stand to be bedded by them, the reeking dung-dwellers."

"Maybe you should ask them, Paschamiri?" Berucat caught Alex's eye, seeing the young Barbarian holding his anger in check. A true man, a Telesian, would have spoken out; these Northerners had no pride.

"You have spent too long among them, if you believe I would lower myself to ask a woman for her opinion on anything." The Paschamir turned from Bale with a final disdainful sniff, and his eye fell on the women, standing apart from their companions. Meganne stared at the floor, but Lydia had her fists clenched, and the tightness of the muscles in her jaw suggested she had understood enough of the conversation to take offence. If the Paschamir had lecherous intentions towards either of the women, he would soon learn his error, and Berucat felt a secret delight at the prospect.

"So these are their females?" He looked them up and down. "If you flung them in the river, the diputacho would find no meat to strip from their bones. Which one do they call their queen?"

"The smaller one, with the brown hair," Berucat told him.

"A less regal specimen I have yet to see. And yet I hear the fair one would risk a spell in the cage to bed her. Why is that, do you suppose?"

"That I do not know, Paschamiri." Berucat frowned, and resolved whoever let that piece of information slip would hear from him as soon as the Paschamir was away.

"I hear he would not be the only one driven to madness by her bony frame. Did not her bedding of one of his comrades cause their entire pathetic civil war? Truly the women of the North are sluts and whores."

"Paschamiri?"

"What?" The Paschamir turned, and his florid face paled as he looked into Alex's eyes. "You speak--?"

Alex's fist caught him hard across the face and he staggered back, clutching at the edge of the table to stop from falling, eyes wide as the Barbarian advanced on him. "What are you doing? Berucat, stop him!"

"Little and weak, am I now?" Alex spoke in flawless Telesian as he wiped the blood from his knuckles. "That may be true, but I will not stand aside while you heap insult on the people I love. Stand, and I will show you the strength of the New Kingdom. Or do you fear to fight?"

He tensed again as the Paschamir pushed upright, and the hands of Berucat's bodyguards fell on his shoulders. The translator scampered past in an attempt to help, but the Paschamir waved him away. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, surprised at the blood. His nose was bent unnaturally, and the flesh under his left eye swelled and darkened. He shook his head, sending drops of blood flying in every direction, and advanced on Alex.

"You--" The Paschamir's forefinger trembled as he waved it under his assailant's nose. "If my cousin had not ordered your lives preserved for the moment, I would take pleasure in having you chained and dismembered before my eyes!" The blood frothing from his broken nose trickled into his mouth as he spoke, and he spat into Alex's face.

"Look, you are too proud even to flinch! You think yourself so important. You dare to lay hand on me, the Paschamir of Medagir? Believe me," he spat again, "believe me, I shall be calling for your execution, and when that day falls, I shall be the one to send you into the next world!"

Blood dripped from his chin now, thickening and staining his robe, but he seemed not to care. "I go now to my cousin, you bedder of whores, to tell him you should be put straight to the sword. He will not want to waste time putting you through the ordeal now!"

He pushed his attendant guards and Alex aside and swept away, demanding Berucat follow him and give an explanation for the prisoner's behaviour, and the translator hurried after, swearing they would be punished, and punished hard. Berucat threw Alex a dark look. It would be a long time before he heard the last of this day's work. Berucat's bodyguards followed; for the moment at least, the prisoners were left alone.

Alex slumped into a dining chair and rubbed his hands across his face, cursing. Lydia laid a hand on the back on his neck and he roused at the touch. "I'm not sorry," he said, "no matter how much trouble it brings."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing I'd care to repeat. He can speak as he wishes about me, but I'll not let him say ill of you, especially not in a strange tongue so you can't defend yourself. The Telesians pay such regard to respect; you'd think they could extend it to others."

"Do you think King Fassad will listen to him? Have you put to death?" Bale asked.

"If it was me, I'd pay no heed to a blustering thug. And hopefully Najphet will have charmed him. The Paschamir seemed to think Fassad already had a plan for us."

Bale frowned. "That worries me. What did he mean by the ordeal?"