Gods below!

Kalam arrived like a charging bhederin, long-knives licking out even as he hammered his weight into one Claw, then another, sending both sprawling.

There in the gloom before the wall of Raven Hill Park, a savage frenzy of close-in fighting, a second Hand joining what was left of the first. A dozen rapid heartbeats, and it was over.

And there was no time to pause, no time for a breath to recover, as quarrels began pounding into the wall.

Kalam waved mutely to run along the wall, westward, and somehow – impossibly – T'amber once more took the lead.

Screams erupted behind them, but there was no time to look. The wall curved southward, forming one side of the street leading to Admiral Bridge, and there stood the stone span, unlit, so buried in shadows that it might have been at the base of a pit. As they drew closer, that sorcery wavered, then died. Revealing… nothing. No-one in sight.

'T'amber!' Kalam hissed. 'Hold up!'

Whatever had struck in their wake had snared the attention of the pursuing Claws – at least for the moment. 'Adjunct, listen to me. You and T'amber, get down into the river. Follow it straight to the harbour.'

'What about you?' Tavore demanded.

'We haven't yet encountered a third of the Hands in the city, Adjunct.' He nodded towards the Mouse. 'They're in there. I plan on leading them a merry chase.' He paused, then spat out a mouthful of phlegm and blood. 'I can lose them eventually – I know the Mouse, Tavore. I'll take to the rooftops.'

'There's no point in splitting up-'

'Yes, Adjunct. There is.' Kalam studied T'amber for a moment. Yes, despite everything, not much longer for you. 'T'amber agrees with me.

She'll get you to the harbour.'

From the streets and alleys behind them, ominous silence, now. Closing in. 'Go.'

The Adjunct met his eyes. 'Kalam-'

'Just go, Tavore.'

He watched as they moved to the edge of the river, the old sagging stone retaining wall at their feet. T'amber climbed down first. The river was befouled, sluggish and shallow. It would be slow going, but the darkness would hide them. And when they get to the harbour… well, it'll be time to improvise.

Kalam adjusted his grips on the long-knives. A last glance behind him.

Still nothing there. Odd. He fixed his gaze on the bridge. All right.

Let's get this over with.

Lostara Yil made her way across the concourse, leaving Rampart Way and the bodies at its foot behind her. The sounds of rioting were still distant – coming from the harbour and beyond – while the nearby buildings and estates were silent and unlit, as if she had found herself in a necropolis, a fitting monument to imperial glory.

The small figure that stepped out before her was thus all the more startling, and her disquiet only increased upon recognizing him. '

Grub,' she said, approaching, 'what are you doing here?'

'Waiting for you,' the boy replied, wiping at a runny nose.

'What do you mean?'

'I'll take you where you need to go. It's a sad night, but it will be all right, you'll see that one day.' With that he turned around and headed off along the avenue, southward. 'We don't need to stay on the path, not yet. We can take the first bridge. Lostara Yil-' a glance back, 'you're very pretty.'

Suddenly chilled despite the sultry air, she set off after him. 'What path?'

'Doesn't matter.'

Skittering sounds in the shadows off to her left. She closed a hand on her sword. 'Something's there-'

'That's okay,' Grub said. 'They're my friends. There won't be any trouble. But we should hurry.'

Before long they reached the bridge leading into Centre District, whereupon Grub angled them westward for a short time, before turning south once more.

They soon came upon the first of the bodies. Claws, sprawled in small groups at first – where rats and wild dogs had already come out to feed – and then, as they neared Raven Hill Park, the street was literally filled with corpses. Lostara slowed her pace as she approached the elongated scene of slaughter – heading southward, as if a bladed whirlwind had raced through a hundred or more imperial assassins – and, slowly, Lostara Yil realized something, as she looked upon one cut-up figure after another… a pattern to the wounds, to their placements, to the smooth precision of every mortal blow.

Her chill deepened, stole into her bones.

Three paces ahead, Grub was humming a Wickan drover's song.

Halfway across Admiral Bridge, Kalam lodged one weapon under an arm and reached for the acorn tucked into the folds of his sash. Smooth, warm even through the leather of his tattered glove, as if welcoming.

And… impatient.

Ducking into a crouch along one of the low retaining walls on the bridge, Kalam flung the acorn to the pave-stones. It cracked, spun in place for a moment, then stilled.

'All right, Quick,' Kalam muttered, 'any time now.'

In a cabin on the Froth Wolf, Adaephon Delat, seated cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed, flinched at that distant summons. Closer to hand, he could hear more fighting along the harbourfront, and he knew the Perish were being pushed back, step by step, battered by sorcery and an evergrowing mass of frenzied attackers. Whilst above decks Destriant Run'Thurvian was maintaining a barrier against every magical assault on the ship itself. Quick Ben sensed that the man was not exactly hard-pressed, but clearly distracted by something, and so there was a hesitation in him, as if he but awaited a far more taxing calling – a moment that was fast approaching.

Well, we got trouble everywhere, don't we just?

It would not be easy slipping through the maze of warrens unleashed in the streets of the city this night. Pockets of virulent sorcery wandered here and there, mobile traps eager to deliver agonizing death, and Quick Ben recognized those. Ruse, the path of the sea.

Those traps are water, stolen from deep oceans and retaining that savage pressure – they crush everything they envelop. This is High Ruse, and it's damned ugly.

Someone out there was waiting for him. To make his move. And whoever it was, they wanted Quick Ben to remain precisely where he was, in a cabin on the Froth Wolf. Remain, doing nothing, staying out of the fight.

Well. He had unveiled four warrens, woven an even dozen sorcerous spells, all eager to be sprung loose – his hands itched, then burned, as if he was repeatedly dipping them in acid.

Kalam's out there, and he needs my help.

The High Mage allowed himself the briefest of nods, and the rent of a warren opened before him. He slowly rose to his feet, joints protesting the motion – gods, I think I'm getting old. Who'd have thought? He drew a deep breath, then, blinking to clear his vision, he lunged forward – into the rent-and, even as he vanished he heard a soft giggle, then a sibilant voice: 'You said you owed me, remember? Well, my dear Snake, it's time.'

Twenty heartbeats. Twenty-five. Thirty. Hood's breath! Kalam stared down at the broken acorn. Shit. Shit shit shit. Forty. Cursing under his breath, he set off.

That's the problem with the shaved knuckle in the hole. Sometimes it doesn't work. So, I'm on my own. Well, so be it, I've been getting sick of this life anyway. Murder was overrated, he decided. It achieved nothing, nothing of real value. There wasn't an assassin out there who didn't deserve to have his or her head cut off and stuck on a spike. Skill, talent, opportunity – none of them justified the taking of a life.

How many of us – yes you – how many of you hate what you are? It's not worth it, you know. Hood take all those blistering egos, let's flash our pathetic light one last time, then surrender to the darkness. I'm done, with this. I'm done.