A subtle bastard Weasel was, for all his country poacher’s manners.

He was right though. Rik did need it. The wind was bitter and that was not the worst of it. They were high up on the side of the mountains, moving along a narrow path between the trees, the rock-strewn slope descending steeply to their right. No wagon could have negotiated that narrow way, but the bridgebacks, larger and heavier by far, picked their way along with steps of surprising delicacy. Rik supposed the huge beasts were not any keener than he was to go tumbling down the mountainside, which was reassuring in its way. If they did, those in the howdahs would have been swiftly crushed beneath their weight.

The wind brought tears to his eyes till he was crying like a drunken whore at a low melodrama. Snow drifted down, forcing him to squint, burning on his cheeks, melting on his tongue when he left his mouth open for a second. The path was shadowed and wound around the hills so that part of the line of wyrms was always out of sight.

There was plenty of heather at this height and plenty of big boulders to hide behind. The hill-men were famed for their ambushes. Had the Foragers been afoot they would have matched them, for skirmishing and sneaking was a Forager’s trade, but mounted on these high beasts they were just nice juicy targets.

Rik wondered how well the side of the howdah would stop a musket ball. The flesh of his back crawled as he imagined eyes measuring it as a resting place for a bullet. Too much imagination had always been his curse.

Rik kept a wary eye out for Master Severin but the wizard had shown no further interest, even as they broke camp.

What would it be like to study the deep dark mysteries Severin had been initiated into? He would never know. The laws were strict; only pure-blooded Terrarchs were allowed to pursue the Art. Supposedly only they could study the dark secrets of magic without risking body and soul.

Not that Rik gave a toss about the law. All of his life it had been used to oppress him, and it had once seemed to him that in the Art lay a way of gaining some power over his life, a power that he had never possessed and supposed he never would. Dark as the path of the mage was, – and it was very dark, for madness, degeneration and vice seemed to lie along its entire length, at least for humans – it had always seemed the only real road to wealth and power open to the likes of him.

Despite all the laws and the Inquisition, there were, and always had been, human wizards, and their services commanded a high price. He regretted not learning more from the Old Witch when he had the chance.

By such lures does the Shadow seek to entrap our souls, Rik thought, remembering the words of the priests at the orphanage and shivering, not just with the cold.

He had seen what became of some human wizards before they were taken off to bedlam or the burning stake. He knew the warnings against magic were not simply propaganda put about by the Terrarchs but the simple truth, and yet he was still drawn to the Art.

Enough primitive faith had been beaten into him by the priests at the orphanage to make him fear for his soul because of it. What use was mere earthly power when your immortal soul was in peril? Ah, but what if the secret of terrestrial immortality was in your hands, the wicked part of him countered? What then? Guilt stabbed him and he knew it was this guilt that made him so nervous around the Magister.

He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped his rifle tight as he surveyed his surroundings. It was more for reassurance than because he had any great faith in his marksmanship from atop this moving platform. His plan was to duck first and respond later if he caught sight of any would-be sniper. Better a live coward than a dead hero. He would leave the musketry to better shots like Weasel and Leon.

“What is it?” Handsome Jan asked, glancing up from the shard of mirror in which he had been admiring his noble profile. The others held their weapons ready.

Rik saw nothing even as he scanned the undergrowth and jutting rocks. He did his best to ignore the vistas of dizzying drops that were sometimes revealed. It came to him that they must be running parallel to Broken Tooth Pass and that it was even possible that they had crossed the border into Kharadrea. No shots came. The moment of fear departed, leaving only a small residue burning in the pit of his stomach.

“Nothing,” Rik said.