She narrowed her eyes. This stupid fool in front of her, a man making one long eyebrow do the work of two, was serving them slops and foul vinegar just before they marched off to war—

“Thith beer,” said Igor, on her right, “tathteth of horthe pith.”

Polly stood back. Even in a bar like this, that was killing talk.

“Oh, you’d know, would you?” said the barman, looming over the boy. “Drunk horse piss, have you?”

“Yeth,” said Igor.

The barman stuck a fist in front of Igor’s face. “Now you listen to me, you lisping little—”

A slim black arm appeared with amazing speed and a pale hand caught the man’s wrist. The one eyebrow contorted in sudden agony.

“Now, it’s like this,” said Maladict calmly. “We’re soldiers of the Duchess, agreed? Just say ‘aargh’.”

He must have squeezed. The man groaned.

“Thank you. And you’re serving up as beer a liquid best described as foul water,” Maladict went on in the same level, conversational tone. “I, of course, don’t drink… horse piss, but I have a highly developed sense of smell, and really would prefer not to list aloud the things I can smell in this murk, so we’ll just say ‘rat droppings’ and leave it at that, shall we? Just whimper. Good man.” At the end of the bar, one of the new recruits threw up. The barman’s fingers had gone white. Maladict nodded with satisfaction.

“Incapacitating a soldier of her grace in wartime is a treasonable offence,” he said. He leaned forward. “Punishable, of course, by… death.” Maladict pronounced the word with a certain delight. “However, if there happened to be another barrel of beer around the place, you know, good stuff, the stuff you’d keep for your friends if you had any friends, then I’m sure we can forget this little incident. Now, I’m going to let go of your wrist. I can tell by your eyebrow that you are a thinker, and if you’re thinking of rushing back in here with a big stick, I’d like you to think about this instead: I’d like you to think about this black ribbon I’m wearing. Know what it means, do you?”