Her surveillance of environment routine was interrupted by Porett's voice.
        "I have a theory," he announced, "that there's only one sniper hassling us. There's never more than a single shot per attack, and the choice of target has been gradually refined, like someone's been patiently searching for a suitable weak spot."
        She grunted. "If you'd let us put on our helmets..."
        "Then your heads would be numbed full of cold-aches. Metal and low temperatures don't mix; even the thickness of padding wouldn't stop you feeling like you were wearing an ice box." He leant back, unbuckled the top of a saddlebag. "Use them only when we're under sustained attack."
        She looked about. Her troops were quiet, their cloaks drawn about them, heads down, thoughts private. Ahead, through the falling snow, she could make out the shapes of her two secondary scouts in the darkness. Beyond them, invisible from here, would be the three primaries. Safe enough: so far, the sniper had struck only at the group's main body, either side of the mule-towed wagons.
        Porett was holding something out to her. She took it. "An arrow? What's this for?"
        "It's zipped, it won't miss. If you release it in roughly the right direction, and don't undershoot your target, it'll hit. Be careful, I only have the one."
        She slid her bow off her shoulder. "Reusable?"
        "I have to pass a few gestures over it after each shot. Five minutes?"
        "I see." She cocked her bow, gave a test pull. "So what do we do if there's more than one sniper?"
        He grinned, pointed to his ear. "Only one set of footsteps; heavy, so probably male. They fade in and out, he must keep a horse just beyond my hearing. He takes a shot, then he rides off before we can react, waits for us at the next ambush point along."
        "And are the footsteps in or out at the moment?"
        "The snow deadens them, but they're in." He pointed. "Over to the ri - "
        The arrow thudded into the rib-cage of the leading mule. Instinctively, Malva drew, loosed her reply more in rage than intent. It curved a beautiful trajectory, disappearing behind a clump of trees.
        She heard a small cry - an infant's?
        The three flank guards followed her as she galloped through the whitened rough, towards the sporadic bawls. Was Porett behind her? She didn't care, discarded - lost - all thoughts, all notions from her mind, but one: save him!
        The sniper had taken it in the back. Her long, braided hair was already accepting its covering of snow, giant flakes aging the blonde to silver. Under the tree was her baby, wrapped in ragged folds of linen, whimpering. Malva became aware that she'd dismounted, was running to the youngster. Gods, let him be unharmed!

        She looked up. Porett was standing before her, magic arrow in hand. How long had he been there? Where were her men? Ridden off? She cradled the baby, soothing, snuggling. "He's hungry," she said, like it explained everything.
        "You want to go back to Trilith?"
        Trilith? "No, of course not, I..." She stopped. What in heaven had happened?
        He reached out, ready to pull her up. "They had you sussed good and proper, didn't they? Cracked you open like a coconut."
        "They? Who's they?" She took his hand, still clutching the babe to her, tightly. "We can't leave him here."
        "The Elets. They must have been watching you for months, cooked a neat way to neutralise you without creating a martyr to unite the rest of your mercs. I'll have a hard time holding the band together now, without your leadership to bind them."
        "What? But I'm staying! How could - " The baby had cried again, sudden, she'd broken off to calm him.
        "It's over, Malva, you've got the miracle you always wanted, you're useless here now. Take him with you, stay on as my agent in Trilith. Tell Kenrith he's now relieved of that duty - it'll only please him, he never liked it anyway. Better, have him call me, I want to arrange the death of an erstwhile associate of mine..."

        The snow was drifting. Sometimes, Porett thought he could hear distant horses, their whinnies carried by the wind. Where were the Elets? Were they deliberately keeping away? Surely they'd have to use the road now, with this life-awful weather? Carts can't possibly be moved over unpaved terrain with a knee's depth of Winter dumped on it! Did they have sleds? Where were the tracks?
        He'd sent a volunteer out on a sortie, to find someone - anyone. She'd not returned. He'd tagged her, knew roughly where she lay, but didn't retrieve the body. It was too close.
        Things were tumbling out of control, free, spiteful. And yet, he still preferred the malevolent cold, the dark skies, the gnawing danger, to the safe, bland solitude of com-3 isolation.