The vision of Karos Invictad had struck him with the force of revelation, yielding such perfect clarity and, indeed, peace in what had been, at times, a soul in turmoil-battered and assailed on occasion by a world blurry with confusion and uncertainty-that all that raged within him settled out as certainty arrived, blazing and blinding in its wondrous gift of release.

He now lived an untroubled life, and so set an example to his fellow agents in the palace. In their eyes he had seen, again and again, the glimmer of awe and fear, or, equally satisfying, a perfect reflection of his own-flat, remorseless, as impervious to every deceit the enemy might attempt as he himself was.

Untroubled, then, he gestured to two burly Patriotists who stepped forward and kicked in the door. It virtually flew off its flimsy hinges, crashing down into the opulent chamber beyond. A scream, then another, from the gloom to the left-where the handmaidens slept-but already the lead agents were crossing the room to the door opposite. More violence, wood splintering beneath heavy boots.

Sprawled in the hallway behind Sirryn was the corpse of a Tiste Edur-someone had set a guard. Curious, but of little consequence. Poisoned quarrels had proved both quick and virtually silent. Already two of his men were preparing to carry the corpse away-just one more Edur who mysteriously vanished.

Sirryn Kanar positioned himself in the centre of the first chamber, as another agent arrived with a hooded lantern to stand off to one side, shedding just enough light. Too much would not do-the shadows needed to be alive, writhing, confusion on all sides. Sirryn delighted in precision.

His men emerged from the inner room, a figure between them-half naked, hair tousled, a look of disbelief-No. Sirryn Kanar’s eyes narrowed. Not disbelief. Resignation. Good, the traitor knew her fate, knew she could never escape it. Saying nothing, he gestured for his agents to take her out.

Three handmaidens, weeping now, huddled against the wall, near their sleeping pallets. ‘Attend to them,’ Sirryn commanded, and four from his squad moved towards them. ‘The senior one will be questioned, the other two disposed of immediately.’

He looked around, pleased at the ease of this operation, barely noticing the death-cries of two women.

In a short while, he would deliver his two prisoners to the squad waiting at a side postern of the palace, who would move quickly through the night-alone on the streets this long after curfew-to the headquarters of the Patriotists. Deliver the two women into interrogation cells. And the work would begin, the only release from the ordeal full confession of their crimes against the empire.

A simple, straightforward procedure. Proven effective. Traitors were invariably weak of will.

And Sirryn Kanar did not think the First Concubine would be any different. If anything, even more flimsy of spirit than most.

Women delighted in their airs of mystery, but those airs vanished before the storm of a man’s will. True, whores hid things better than most-behind an endless succession of lies that never fooled him. He knew they were contemptU’ ous of him and men like him, believing him weak by simple virtue of his using them-as if that use came from actual, genuine need. But he had always known how to wipe the smirks from their painted faces.

He envied the interrogators. That bitch Nisall-she was no different from his wife, he suspected.

Our enemies are legion, Karos lnvictad had said, so you must understand, all of you-this war, it will last for ever. For ever.

Sirryn Kanar was content with that notion. Kept things simple.

And it is our task, the Master of the Patriotists had continued, to ensure that. So that we are never expendable.

Somewhat more confusing, that part, but Sirryn felt no real compulsion to pursue the notion. Karos was very clever, after all. Clever and on our side. The right side.

His thoughts shifting to the bed that awaited him, and the whore he’d have delivered to him there, the lieutenant marched down the empty palace corridor, his men falling in behind him.

Bruthen Trana stepped into the chamber. His eyes settled on the corpses of the two handmaidens. ‘How long ago?’ he asked the Arapay warlock who was crouched over the bodies. Two other Edur entered the First Concubine’s bedroom, emerged again a moment later.

The warlock muttered something inaudible under his breath, then said in a louder voice, ‘A bell, perhaps. Shortswords. The kind used by the Palace Guard.’

‘Gather ten more warriors,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘We are marching to the headquarters of the Patriotists.’

The warlock slowly straightened. ‘Shall I inform Hannan Mosag?’

‘Not yet. We cannot delay here. Sixteen Edur warriors and a warlock should suffice.’

‘You mean to demand the release of the woman?’

‘There are two, yes?’

A nod.

‘They will begin interrogations immediately,’ Bruthen Trana said. ‘And that is not a pleasant procedure.’

‘And if they have wrung confessions from them?’

‘I understand your concern, K’ar Penath. Do you fear violence this night?’

The other warriors in the chamber had paused, eyes fixed on the Arapay warlock.

‘Fear? Not in the least. With confessions in hand, however, Karos Invictad and, by extension, Triban Gnol, will be able to assert righteous domain-’

‘We are wasting time,’ Bruthen Trana cut in. ‘My patience with Karos Invictad is at an end.’ Arui where is the guard I set in the hallway outside? As ifl cannot guess.

A new voice spoke from the outer doorway: ‘Personal enmity, Bruthen Trana, is a very dangerous guide to your actions.’

The Tiste Edur turned.

The Chancellor, with two bodyguards hovering in the corridor behind him, stood with hands folded. After a moment he took a step into the room and looked about. An expression of regret when he saw the two dead women. ‘Clearly, there was some resistance. They were most loyal servants to the First Concubine, probably innocent of all wrongdoing-this is tragic indeed. Blood on Nisall’s hands now.’

Bruthen Trana studied the tall, thin man for a long moment, then he walked past him and out into the hall.

Neither bodyguard was suspicious, and neither had time to draw their weapons before the Edur’s knives-one in each hand-slid up under their jaws, points driven deep into their brains. Leaving the weapons embedded, Bruthen Trana spun round, both hands snapping out to grasp the Chancellor’s heavy brocaded collar. The Letherii gasped as he was yanked from his feet, flung round to face Bruthen, then slammed hard against the corridor’s opposite wall.

‘My patience with you,’ the Edur said in a low voice, ‘is at an end as well. Tragic demise for your bodyguards. Blood on your hands, alas. And I am not of a mind, presently, to forgive you their deaths.’

Triban Gnol’s feet dangled, the stiff-tipped slippers kicking lightly against Bruthen Trana’s shins. The Letherii’s face was darkening, eyes bulging as they stared into the Edur’s hard, cold gaze.

I should kill him now. I should stand here and watch him suffocate in the drawn folds of his own robe. Better yet, retrieve a knife and slice open his guts-watch them tumble onto the floor.

Behind him, K’ar Penath said, ‘Commander, as you said, we’ve no time for this.’

Baring his teeth, Bruthen Trana flung the pathetic man aside. An awkward fall: Triban Gnol threw a hand down to break his descent, and the snap of finger bones-like iron nails driven into wood-was followed immediately by a gasp and squeal of pain.

Gesturing for his warriors to follow, Bruthen Trana stepped over the Chancellor and marched quickly down the corridor.

As the footfalls echoed away, Triban Gnol, clutching one hand against his torso, slowly climbed to his feet. He glared down the now empty corridor. Licked dry lips, then hissed, ‘You will die for that, Bruthen Trana. You and every other witness who stood back and did nothing. You will all die.’