'What can they have meant?'whispered Fulthor. 'To send that?'

But Tomb was intrigued by the departed assassin, and stared pensively after him. He went over and closed the.door. 'Does he know whose sword it was?'he asked Fulthor absently. 'Did he guess?'But Fulthor only rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, 'He is a liar and a jackal.'

The dwarf sniggered. 'So am I.'He picked up the discarded sword and mail; smiled at Methvet Nian. 'That was a valiant try, my lady. A stone would have unbent to you. Shall I put these away?'

'One of you go after him and give them to him,'she replied. 'Wait. I will do it.'

When they stared at her, she laughed. 'I meant him to have them.'She would let them say no more, but finished:

'He saved the girl out of compassion, though he will never understand that.'

But for a peculiar interruption, Fulthor, at least, would have pursued the matter: indeed his mouth was already open to form a protest when Cellur – who had been slumped for some minutes in his chair, a variety of expressions, each more unreadable than the last, chasing themselves across his face – gave a queer high-pitched cry and struggled to his feet as if he had woken suddenly from some implacable nightmare. His skin was grey. His accipitrene eyes were fixed on the door, as though Hornwrack still stood there; they were bright with anguish. When Methvet Nian touched his shoulder he hardly seemed to notice her, (beneath the odd embroidery of his robe, the bones were thin and unpredictable; brittle), but muttered desperately, 'Fulthor! Tomb! No time to lose!'

'Old man, are you ill?'

'You did not hear it, Methvet Nian, the voice from the Moon, with its “great wing against the sky”. The insect's head; the landings at night; the Sign of the Locust: all are one! I must go North immediately. All are one!'

'Cellur, what is it?'begged the Queen.

'It is the end of the world if we are too late.'

We value our suffering. It is intrinsic, purgative, and it enables us to perceive the universe directly. Moreover, it is a private thing which can neither be shared nor diminished by contact. This at least was Galen Hornwrack's view, who, by the very nature of his calling, had been much concerned with pain. It was a view enshrined in the airless room above the Rue Sepile, and in his relationship with the boy, whose function had been less that of a nurse, than of heirophant at his master's lustral agonies. As Hornwrack had grown used to the smell of self recrimination – which in the Rue Sepile as nowhere else is compounded of dead geraniums, dry rot, and one's own blood squeezed out of towels – he had also grown to welcome it; as he welcomed the black 'fevers of his deeper wounds, in which rediscovered a symbolic re-enactment of his crimes.

In Methvet Nian's infirmary, however, he had found none of this, but instead open casements and cheerful voices: and worst of all, that good-humoured competence by which the professional nurse – who otherwise could not bear it

demeans the pain and indignity suffered by her charge. In short: they had stitched him up but refused to let him brood. Some three days after the events in the Queen's sitting room, therefore, he had extricated himself from the place and now stalked the corridors of the palace in an uncertain temper.

His cloak had been returned to him, washed and mended. Beneath it he wore the mail of Methvet Nian, and at his side hung the unaccustomed sword. Both chafed, as did the manner in which he had come by them. He had, it is true, gone to some trouble to find for the sword a scabbard of dull moulded leather, and it looked well on him. Nevertheless, the sword is a weapon chiefly of the High City, and he felt ill-at-ease with it. He had had little training in its use. As he hurried toward the throne-room for what he hoped would be the last time, he touched the knife hidden beneath his cloak, to assure himself he was not unarmed. As for the Queen's intentions, he understood none of them. She had first tried to bribe and latterly to patronize him; he was full of resentment. It was a dangerous frame of mind in which to encounter the Queen's dwarf, who had on his face a sardonic grin.

His short legs were clad in cracked black leather, his thick trunk in a sleeveless jerkin of some woven material, green with age; his bare forearms were brown and gnarled; and his hands resembled a bunch of hawthorn roots. Indeed he looked very like a small tree, planted up against the throne-room doors, stunted and unlovely against their serpentine metallic inlays and ornamental hinges. On his head was a curious truncated conical hat, also of leather and much worn.

'Here is our bravo, with his new sword,'he said matter-offactly.

'So the dwarf says,'murmured Hornwrack, pleasantly enough. 'Let me pass. '

The dwarf sniffed. He looked along the passage, first one way and then the other. He crooked a finger, and when Hornwrack bent down to listen, whispered, 'The thing is, my lord assassin, that I understand none of this.'

And he jerked his horny thumb over his shoulder to indicate, presumably, the throne-room.

'Pardon?'

'Voices, from above. Insects. Madmen, and mad women too. One comes back from the dead (albeit he's a good friend of mine), while another runs like a greyhound at the sound of a song. Both old friends of mine. What do you think of that?'

He looked around.

'The Qyeen,'he said, lowering his voice, 'gives away the sword of tegeus-Cromis!'

He laughed delightedly at Hornwrack's start of surprise, revealing broken old teeth.

'Now you and I are plain men. We're fighting men, I think you'll agree. Do you agree?'

'This sword,'said Hornwrack. 'I – '

'That being so, us being ordinary fighting men, we must have an understanding, you and I. We must treat gently with one another on this daft journey north. And we must look after the mad folk; for after all, they cannot look after themselves. Eh?'

Hornwrack made as if to pass into the throne-room.

'I'll make no journey with you or anyone else, Dwarf. As for gifts, they can be easily returned. You are all madmen to me!'

He had not gone so much as a step towards the inlaid doors when a terrific blow in the small of his back pitched him forward on to his face. Tears filled his eyes. Astonished and desperate – he thought the dwarf had stabbed him – he fumbled for his knife and scrabbled into a kneeling position:

only to find his tormentor grinning ironically at him, unarmed but for those disproportionate arthritic hands. Before he could haul himself to his feet, the dwarf- whose head was now on a level with his own – had first embraced him lightly, then spat in his ear and hit him again, this time somewhere down below his ribs. His knife clattered away. His breath deserted him. Through his own heaving and choking he heard the dwarf say coldly -'I like you, Galen Hornwrack. But that is the sword of my

old friend, which was given you in good faith.'

Hornwrack shook his head and took his chance. He reached forward and clasped with both hands the nape of the dwarf's neck; then pulled him forward sharply. As their heads connected, the dwarf's nose broke like a dry stick.

'Black piss,'he said surprisedly, and sat down. They went seriously at it then, and neither could get the advantage: for though the dwarf was cunning, old and hard, the assassin was as quick as a snake; and both of them knew well the culde-sacs and wineshop floors where the anonymous chivalry of the Low City settles its quarrels amid the slime and the sawdust.

It was Cellur who discovered them there twenty minutes later. There was a yellow malice in their eyes as they staggered about in the bloody-mouthed gloom taunting one another in hoarse, clogged voices – but it was fading like a sunset, and as he watched, in the puzzled manner of someone who doesn't quite know what it is he's watching, he heard this final exchange: