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So, she laughed. And later she would drink some courage and would barely sleep at all and hope that Hseth decided she didn’t really want to kill them all anyway.

‘Here,’ said Kissen, drawing open her cloak and pulling out a familiar dagger. She flipped it in her hand and gave it to Inara, who looked at it, frowning.

‘Osidisen’s dagger?’ she asked.

‘Won’t be good for shaving, but it’ll do you for stabbing, threatening, or annoying sea gods.’

Inara snorted, but took it, turning it over in her hands. ‘You don’t want to keep it?’

‘He can do me no good. And every girl needs a good knife. Anyway, I know you wouldn’t like one made of briddite.’ She nodded at Skedi, who had settled back down at his stew. He twitched his whiskers back at her.

‘I thought I’d managed to find a haven away from the drunkards and merrymaking,’ came a voice, familiar, soft and deep. ‘But here you are cackling like fisherfolk at a festival.’

Inara looked up, tucking the blade into her belt. ‘Mama, try some!’

Lessa was dressed in a mail tunic fitted with a light cuirass from throat to hip, along with bracers and greaves. Covering it was a tabard of green and silver, and with her sword at her waist and her long black hair braided around her head, she looked like a warrior from an old tale.

‘I’ve eaten, thank you,’ said Lessa, though Kissen suspected from the way Skedi fluffed his fur that it was a white lie.

They all faced battles in different ways: some fed the nausea in their bellies; some starved it.

She could hear drums now, and singing, some raucous, some tuneful.

She wondered if someone was making a sacrifice, hoping for good fortune.

‘I’ll have some,’ said another woman, stepping out of the dark behind Lessa. She was tall, with dark skin that shone warm in the firelight, and thick, tightly coiled hair that she wore in fine plaits that had grown out some, and were now tied on top of her head with patterned cloth.

‘Naiala,’ said Elo, standing.

Kissen didn’t recognise her, but she clearly knew Elo. She signed to Inara: Who ?

Inara replied with a combination of two words: ‘fight back’. Rebel.

The woman didn’t look like a rebel, she looked like a healer, a wealthy one. Something about her warm eyes.

‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’ said Elo hesitantly.

After a moment, Naiala managed a smile and reached out to him. Elo clasped her hand in his, firm and warm. ‘They said you campaigned for our release,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.’

She gave him a sad, soft expression, then glanced at the food on the fire and her eyes widened. ‘You have plantago?’ she said, looking at the long, doughy fruit. ‘How?’

‘My mother sent it with the Craiers. Please … sit.’ Elo gestured to the logs and half barrels they had gathered around for seating. ‘My lady, you are welcome as well.’

Inara patted the bench next to her, and Lessa came to sit down. Damned woman made even a muddy log look like a velvet throne.

‘Are you wearing that cloak to fight?’ she asked Kissen.

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Not enough protection, and too much flash. That cloak was for show till you had all those pockets sewn in.’

‘I like pockets,’ said Kissen.

Lessa sighed, but then Inara pressed her bowl into her hands insistently. ‘Try it,’ she said.

Lessa looked at her daughter, then affectionately chucked her chin, and took the bowl.

‘Anyone in the gaols was recruited,’ Naiala was saying. ‘Some joined the clerics’ singers, but I work managing food distribution. Most of the inkers weren’t caught. Nor Canovan; I haven’t seen him since. Faroch did what he could for us. After you and the king disappeared, everything was chaos.’

All these names meant little to Kissen, apart from Canovan, whom she heartily hoped had suffered a long and painful death, and that his bitch-god had abandoned him.

‘I’m so sorry, Naia,’ said Elo.

She took the bowl he offered her, with a generous helping of plantago. ‘And here you are,’ she said. ‘Back at the king’s side. Wearing my grandfather’s armour still.’ She looked at the scratched lapis lion on Elo’s chest. She sounded tired, not accusatory. ‘Why? You said you would kill him.’

‘He tried to,’ said Kissen, before Inara piped in. ‘I stopped him.’

‘Kissen …’ said Elo.

‘Oh.’ Naia seemed to look at her more intently. ‘You’re the veiga?’

Kissen nodded.

‘You stopped him?’

‘I thought you were the rebel against violence,’ said Kissen. ‘Isn’t king-killing a bit messy?’

‘He attacked my city.’

‘Aye, I heard. It was my city too, and now we’re all here in his army.’

The rebel woman pressed her lips together. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

‘Nor did Elo. It was kill him and bow to a fire god, or bow to him and fight back.’

‘Kissen …’ said Elo. ‘I don’t need you to defend me.’

‘Well, you’re shit at doing it for yourself,’ said Kissen with a shrug. ‘You should get to eat your dinner before your ethics are questioned.’

‘Coming from you?’ said Elo, the fire dancing along his jaw. ‘You’ve insulted me over unbroken bread more times than I can count.’

‘Well, I’m special,’ said Kissen.

Naia looked at Elo, then at the bowl in her hands, and laughed hollowly.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘My city is lost – everything I tried to protect – and now I join an army to fight for a king I don’t believe in.

’ She turned the bowl in her hand, then used the flatbread to pinch up some plantago and vegetables.

‘I would like to quibble with you, Lion of Lesscia, if we survive. For now, I’m glad you lived. ’

They sat talking till the fire burned low. Inara and Lessa shared pieces of her bowl, till Inara fell asleep with her head on Skedi’s back, and Lessa took her away.

They spoke of Irisia, Bahba and Wsirin, which delighted both Naia and Elo.

Some of Elo’s other comrades joined them briefly, bringing wine or hipgin and thanking him for sending them some of the plantago fruit.

One had braids that were similar to Elo’s, and he and her knight held hands for a sad, long moment, before they departed.

Kissen even had some visits from veiga she had met before in Blenraden, most but not all wearing the colours of the king’s bloody ‘gods’ army’, to tell her the stocks they had for their plan against Hseth. Kissen drank some bootswill, feeling the burn of the alcohol drip into her cheeks.

The rest of their army’s sea of flames and lamps was still thick with the sounds of making merry.

The scents of smoking herbs, alcohol and the sharp burn of bile from emptied stomachs mingled together with mud, cookfires and bodies.

There was an active sector of tents with red-lit lanterns, for people getting in their last fucks before they could fuck no more.

Kissen had considered it, though now it was just her, the knight and Naiala, and she was waiting for the teacher-rebel to leave so she could proposition him.

‘Commander General Elogast.’

The moon had risen, round and full. Their fire was low, and a runner had come.

‘The king requests your presence,’ she said, a young woman who looked as if she had recently been crying. Or carousing. Likely both.

Someone else had beaten Kissen to the proposition. Elo paused, looking up at the runner, then glanced across at Kissen.

‘I’d better go,’ said Naiala, standing. She was a bonny one, Kissen thought, but didn’t look as if she had any desire to dally.

Elo looked uncertain, apologetic, but if he were to share one more night with someone before a battle, she knew who it should be.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll finish this flask, then find my tent.’

Still, he hesitated. That was flattering at least. ‘Piss off, knight,’ she said, pointedly this time, and Naiala grinned.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Kissenna,’ she said, then moved away into the dark.

‘Tell him I’ll be there soon,’ said Elo.

The runner nodded and raced off.

Elo stood up and came towards her. Flames glimmered over his braids, across his cheekbones.

He really was one of the most beautiful men she had ever met.

And he seemed more comfortable in his skin, in his life, his choices.

He had accepted everything that he was, the bad and the good, and there was freedom in that. Power.

He knelt before her and put his fingers to her chin. Then he leaned in, giving her a long, tender kiss before breaking away.

‘For luck,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Then he stood, and left Kissen alone in the dark.

‘Bastard,’ muttered Kissen, touching her hand to her lips. She used to like solitude. Wandering, fighting, hating, loving. It had been a good life. One she had been proud of. After a few minutes, she held a flask up to the fading embers.

‘Fuck you, fire god,’ she said. Then, as she took a swig, she realised she wasn’t quite as alone as she had thought.

Lessa Craier had come back. She stood, haloed by the silver moon, while Kissen sat bronzed by flame and gold. They looked at each other in silence.

‘I was wondering if you might help me out of my armour,’ said the lady at last.

Kissen’s heart burst into action, slamming hard against her ribs.

‘Tarin would usually do it, and I sent the armourer to rest, I didn’t think …’

‘Of course,’ said Kissen. She got to her feet using her staff, then tucked it under her arm and followed in Lessa’s wake to her tent, which looked similar to the first one Kissen had met her in.

Small cot, table, chair. A lantern gave them soft warmth, and a bit of light.

The night was warm, the air tense with the apprehensive quality of a brewing storm.

‘Did it work?’ Kissen asked, taking off her cloak and draping it on Lessa’s chair.

‘She won’t stir,’ said Lessa. ‘I have not used sless seeds before. Skedi is watching over her.’

Sless seeds. Sleeping seeds. Lessa had used some sleight of hand to ensure that enough were tucked into the food she had shared with her daughter.

‘Good,’ said Kissen. It felt bitter, to have lied to Inara as her last choice. She didn’t tell lies. It wasn’t in her nature. But then, she’d said she didn’t kill people, and she had done so. That she hated gods, and she no longer hated them all.

It seemed she did break promises.

‘The children’s guard will take them to the coast,’ said Lessa. ‘She should be far enough away by the time she wakes that she won’t be able to come back. I just … wish I could have said goodbye this time. Properly.’

It was the softest thing Kissen had heard her say. Inara deserved a mother. Deserved someone.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t fight at all,’ said Kissen.

‘I have many faults, veiga, but I am loyal to my land.’

‘And you won’t give the king the satisfaction of calling you more of a coward than him.’

‘Just so.’

She began unbuckling her gauntlet, and Kissen leaned her staff against the table then took her hand from her, undoing it herself, slipping the leather from her hand.

Lessa’s nails were short, the ridges of her palm and thumb calloused from ropes, swords, her fingers marked from bowstrings.

Kissen wanted to put her lips to her wrist, her fingers. She wanted to feel her tremble with it.

She resisted. Instead, she took off the lady’s tabard and unbuckled her chestplate at her ribs, her neck.

Lessa watched her, her skin glowing in the heat and flickering light, as Kissen moved in front of her, opening up the metal and lifting it free.

She was careful. After setting it down, she was careful as she went for her bracers.

She wouldn’t let her touch come too close to the lady’s skin, the soft crook of her elbow. She had not been asked.

‘Lift your arms,’ said Kissen.

Lessa did, and Kissen pulled up the mail, lifting it over her pinned braids of hair, taking the weight of it from her shoulders and into her own hands.

She laid the mail out on the table, ready for the morning, its links clicking into place, one after the other.

She breathed in, and released it, then looked at the lady, who hadn’t moved.

Her padded jacket beneath the mail was cotton-white, stark against her shining skin, her dark brows, her hawk-like nose.

She could undress herself now, if she wanted.

‘Is that all, my lady?’ asked Kissen.

Lessa lifted her chin slightly. Her look was a challenge. ‘You know it is not, my godkiller,’ she said.

Kissen swallowed. Could she? Should she?

But if she died tomorrow, could she not have tonight?

She stepped closer to Lessa and reached up, pulled a pin delicately, carefully, from her hair.

Then, another, another. The braids fell down around her shoulders in a river of thick, shining black.

Lessa tipped her mouth up higher. A kiss.

She wanted Kissen to kiss her. What miracle was this?

Kissen didn’t care if she was being used, because right now there was a beautiful woman standing between her arms, wanting to be kissed.

But Kissen wouldn’t give in that easily. No, she was not one to be commanded here.

Instead, she pulled at the threads of Lessa’s padded jacket. One after the other, she tugged them loose, opening the cotton, then unlaced the shirt beneath till she found the softness of her breasts, the brown of her belly. Lessa’s breath quickened.

Kissen put her hands around Lessa’s waist to support herself, and slowly, surely, descended to her right knee, shifting the heavy weight of the prosthesis beneath.

Here, she could kiss the bottom of Lessa’s ribs, between her breasts, but she put her mouth instead to the top of the lady’s trews and, with her teeth, took the drawstring and pulled it loose.

Then, she slid them down Lessa’s thighs, past her boots, to the floor.

She looked up then. Lessa was breathing fast, staring down at Kissen with a look of hunger, and Kissen met her eyes. Then she slid her hands up, slowly, over her waist, her ribs, then ran her fingers over her breasts, featherlight. She moved the shirt aside with one hand to tease her dark nipple.

‘Do you want more, Lady Craier?’ said Kissen. She didn’t like to kneel, but she liked to see the flush of the pirate’s face, the trembling of her lips.

‘Yes,’ Lessa said. ‘Please.’

Kissen smiled and brought her hand back down, slipping her fingers between the press of Lessa’s thighs, stroking her gently. There: the tremble. ‘I’m going to make you very glad you didn’t cut out my tongue,’ she said.