Swan cursed softly, steadily, as the battle situation worsened.

The fourth man did not belong. The team would not have had him if he volunteered. People called him Smoke. Officially, he was the fire marshall of Taglios, the city-nation whose army was losing. In reality he was the Taglian court wizard. He was a nut-brown little man whose very existence annoyed Swan.

"That's your army out there, Smoke," Willow growled. "It goes down, you go down. Bet the Shad-owmasters would love to lay hands on you." Sorceries yowled and barked on the battlefield. "Maybe make marmalade out of you. Unless you've cut a deal already."

"Ease up, Willow," Mather said. "He's doing something."

Swan looked at the butternut-colored runt. "Sure enough. But what?"

Smoke had his eyes closed. He mumbled and muttered. Sometimes his voice crackled and sizzled like bacon in an overheated pan.

"He ain't doing nothing to help the Black Company. You quit talking to yourself, you old buzzard. We got a problem. Our guys are getting whipped. You want to try to turn that around? Before I turn you over my knee?"

The old man opened his eyes. He stared across the plain. His expression was not pleasant. Swan doubted that the little geek's eyes were good enough to make out details. But you never knew with Smoke. With him everything was mask and pretense.

"Don't be a moron, Swan. I'm one man, too little and too old. There are Shadowmasters down there. They can stomp me like a roach."

Swan fussed and grumbled. People he knew were dying.

Smoke snapped, "All I can do-all any of us can do-is attract attention. Do you really want the Shadowmasters to notice you?"

"They're just the Black Company, eh? They took their pay, they take their chances? Even if forty thousand Taglians go down with them?"

Smoke's lips shrank into a mean little prune.

On the plain a human tide washed around a mound where the Black Company standard had been planted for a last stand. The tide swept on toward the hills.