'And you thought that'd fool me? Forget it. Sure, the trail was cold, but not cold enough. And now I got you, a suspect wanted for questioning.'

The alley opened out onto a wider street. Off to their left was a bridge. Scowling, Hellian yanked her prisoner towards it.

'I told you the first time, Sergeant!' Banaschar snapped. 'I had nothing to do with that slaughter – the same thing had happened in every damned temple of D'rek, at precisely the same time. You don't understand – I have to get to Mock's Hold. I have to see the Imperial High Mage-'

'That snake! I knew it, a conspiracy! Well, I'll deal with him later.

One mass-murderer at a time, I always say.'

'This is madness, Sergeant! Let go of me – I can explain-'

'Save your explanations. I got some questions for you first and you'd better answer them!'

'With what?' he sneered. 'Explanations?'

'No. Answers. There's a difference-'

'Really? How? What difference?'

'Explanations are what people use when they need to lie. Y'can always tell those, 'cause those explanations don't explain nothing and then they look at you like they just cleared things up when really they did the opposite and they know it and you know it and they know you know and you know they know that you know and they know you and you know them and maybe you go out for a pitcher later but who picks up the tab? That's what I want to know.'

'Right, and answers?'

'Answers is what I get when I ask questions. Answers is when you got no choice. I ask, you tell. I ask again, you tell some more. Then I break your fingers, 'cause I don't like what you're telling me, because those answers don't explain nothing!'

'Ah! So you really want explanations!'

'Not till you give me the answers!'

'So what are your questions?'

'Who said I got questions? I already know what your answers are, anyway. No point in questions, really.'

'And there's no need to break my fingers, Sergeant, I give up already.'

'Nice try. I don't believe you.'

'Gods below-'

Hellian dragged him back. Halting, looking about. The sergeant scowled. 'Where are we?'

'That depends. Where were you taking me?'

'Back to the ships.'

'You idiot – we went the wrong way – all you had to do was turn around back there, when you first caught me-'

'Well I didn't, did I? What's that?' She pointed.

Banaschar frowned at the brooding, unlit structure just beyond the low wall they had been walking along. Then he cursed under his breath and said, 'That's the Deadhouse.'

'What, some kind of bar?'

'No, and don't even think of dragging me in there.'

'I'm thirsty.'

'I have an idea, then, Sergeant. We can go to Coop's-'

'How far is that?'

'Straight ahead-'

'Forget it. It's a trap.' She tugged him right and they made their way along the front of the Deadhouse, then through a short alley with uneven walls, where Hellian guided her prisoner left once more. Then she halted and pointed across the way. 'What place is that one?'

'That's Smiley's. You don't want to go in there, it's where rats go to die-'

'Perfect. You're buying me a drink. Then we're heading back to the ships.'

Banaschar ran a hand across his scalp. 'As you like. They say the ale brewed in there uses water run off from the Deadhouse – and then there's the proprietor-'

'What about him?'

'Related, it's rumoured, to the old dead Emperor himself – that place used to be Kellanved's, you know.'

'The Emperor owned a tavern?'

'He did, partnered with Dancer. And there was a serving wench, named Surly-'

She shook him. 'Just because I asked questions don't mean I wanted answers, especially not those kinda answers, so be quiet!'

'Sorry.'

'One drink, then we go back to the ships and take a swim-'

'A what?'

'Easy. Ain't no drowned spiders in this bay.'

'No, just blood-sucking eels! Like the one dangling from behind your ear. It's already sucked all the blood from half of your face. Tell me, is your scalp getting numb on one side?'

She glared at him. 'I never gave you no permission to ask questions.

That's my task. Remember that.' Then she shook her head. Something long and bloated bumped against her neck. Hellian reached up and grasped the eel. She yanked it off. 'Ow!' Glared at the writhing creature in her hand, then dropped it and crushed it under a heel.

Black goo spattered out to the sides. 'See that, Banaschar? Give me trouble and you get the same treatment.'

'If I hang from your ear? Really, Sergeant, this is ridiculous-'

They turned at murmuring sounds from the street behind them. Thirty or forty locals came into view, heading for Front Street. Some of them were now carrying bows, and canisters of burning pitch swinging from straps. 'What are they about?' Hellian asked.

'They think the fleet's rotten with plague,' the ex-priest said. 'I expect they mean to set a few transports on fire.'

'Plague? There ain't no plague-'

'I know that and you know that. Now, there's another problem,' he added as the mob saw them and a half-dozen thugs split away, then slowly, ominously approached. 'Those weals all over you, Sergeant – easily mistaken for signs of plague.'

'What? Gods below, let's get into that tavern.'

They hurried forward, pushed through the doors.

Inside, inky gloom broken only by a few tallow candles on blackened tabletops. There was but one other customer, seated near the back wall. The ceiling was low, the floor underfoot littered with rubbish.

The thick air reminded Hellian of a cheese-sock.

From the right appeared the proprietor, a pike-thin Dal Honese of indeterminate age, each eye looking in a different direction – neither one fixing on Hellian or Banaschar as he smiled unctuously, hands wringing.

'Ah, most sweet tryst, yes? Come! I have a table, yes! Reserved for such as you!'

'Close that ugly mouth or I'll sew it up myself,' Hellian said. 'Jus' show us the damned table then get us a pitcher of anything you got that won't come back up through our noses.'

Head bobbing, the man hobbled over to a table and, reaching out multiple times he finally grasped hold of the chairs and made a show of dragging them back through the filth.

Banaschar made to sit, then he recoiled. 'Gods below, that candle-'

'Oh yes!' said the Dal Honese gleefully, 'the few wax witches left are most generous with Smiley's. It's the history, yes?'

Sudden loud voices outside the entrance and the proprietor winced. '

Uninvited guests. A moment whilst I send them on their way.' He headed off.

Hellian finally released her grip on the ex-priest and slumped down in the chair opposite. 'Don't try nothing,' she said in a growl. 'I ain't in the mood.'

Behind her the door was pulled back by the owner. A few quiet words, then louder threats.

Hellian saw Banaschar's gaze flick past her – he had a good view of what was going on out front – and then he bolted back in his chair, eyes widening – as shrieks erupted from the mob, followed by the sounds of panicked flight.

Scowling, Hellian twisted round in her chair.

The proprietor was gone, and in the man's place stood a demon, its back to them, big enough to fill the entire doorway. A thrashing victim was in its huge hands and, as the sergeant watched, the demon tore off the screaming man's head, leaned through the doorway and threw it after the fleeing citizens. Then it flung the headless corpse in the same direction.

A strange blurring, and a sweet, spicy scent drifted back into the tavern, and then the demon was gone, in its place the old Dal Honese, brushing clean his hands, then the front of his grimy tunic. He turned about and walked back to the table.

Another smile beneath skewed eyes. 'Finest ale, then, a pitcher, coming right up!'