blinking, Torvald Nom looked up. ‘Cousin! Listen! I’m sorry, all right? I never meant it, honest!’

‘What in Hood’s name are you going on about, Tor?’ Rallick Nom was wiping blood from his tjaluk knives. ‘I’d swear you were scared of me or something.’

‘I didn’t mean to steal her, Rallick. That’s no lie!’

‘Tiserra?’

Torvald stared up at his cousin, wide-eyed, his heart bounding like an antelope with a hundred starving wolves on its stumpy tail.

Rallick made a face. ‘Tor, you idiot. We were what, seven years old? Sure, I thought she was cute, but gods below, man, any boy and girl who start holding hands at seven and are still madly in love with each other twenty-five years later-that’s not something to mess with-’

‘But I saw the way you looked at us, year after year-I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t sleep, I knew you’d come for me sooner or later, I knew…’

Rallick frowned down at him. ‘Torvald, what you saw in my face was envy. Yes, such a thing can get ugly, but not with me. I watched in wonder, in admira-tion. Dammit, I loved you both. Still do.’ He sheathed his weapons and reached down with a red-stained hand. ‘Good to see you, cousin. Finally.’

Torvald took that hand, and suddenly-years of guilt and fear shedding away-the whole world was all right. He was pulled effortlessly to his feet. ‘Hang on,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Helping out, of course.’

‘Taking care of me-’

‘Ah, that was incidental, in truth. I saw you on the rooftop earlier. There’d be a few trying that way. Anyway, you did a nice job of catching their attention.’

‘That quarrel through that one’s head was from you?’

‘At that range, I never miss.’

They turned then as Studious Lock, limping, emerged from the wreckage of the main entrance. And behind him strode the Lady of the house. She was wearing leather gloves that ran up to the elbow on which dagger-sheaths had been riveted. Her usual voluminous silks and linens had been replaced by tight-fitting, fighting clothes. Torvald squinted thoughtfully.

Studious Lock was making his way towards the heap of bodies.

Lady Varada saw Rallick and Torvald and approached.

Rallick bowed. ‘Did the mage give you any trouble, Mistress?’

‘No. Is the rooftop clear?’

‘Of course.’

‘And Seba?’

‘Probably scampering for his warren as fast as his legs can take him.’ Rallick paused. ‘Mistress, you could walk back in-’

‘And who is left in my Guild, Rallick? Of any worth, I mean.’

‘Krute, perhaps. Myself. Even Seba would manage, so long as he was respon-sible for a single cell and nothing more.’

Torvald was no fool, and as he followed this conversation, certain things fell into place. ‘Lady Varada,’ he said. ‘Er, Mistress Vorcan, I mean. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? And you probably hired me, and Scorch and Leff, because you believed we were useless, and, er, expendable. You wanted them to get through-you wanted them all in here, so you could wipe them out once and for all.’

She regarded him for a moment, one eyebrow lifting, and then turned away and headed back to her house.

Torvald made to pursue her but Rallick reached out a hand and held him back. ‘Cousin,’ he said in a low voice, ‘she was Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild. Do you think she’s anything like us? Do you really think she gives a damn if we live or die?’

Torvald glanced over at Rallick. ‘Now who’s the fool, cousin? No, you’re right, about me and Scorch and Leff-and those fallen Seguleh over there-she doesn’t care. But you, Rallick, that’s different. Are you blind? Soon as she stepped out, her. eyes went to you, and all the stiffness relaxed, and she came over to make sure you weren’t wounded.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘And you can’t be so stupid, can you?’

At that moment the main gates crashed open and two bloody figures staggered in.

‘We was attacked!’ Scorch shouted in outrage.

‘We killed ’em all,’ Leff added, looking round wildly, ‘but there could be more!’

Torvald noted his cousin’s expression and softly laughed, drawing Rallick’s at-tention once more. ‘I got some wine in my office,’ Torvald said. ‘We can sit and relax and I can tell you some things about Scorch and Leff-’

‘This is not the night for that, Tor-are you deaf?’

Torvald scowled, then thumped at the side of his head. Both sides. ‘Sorry, got water in my ears. Even you here, you sound to me like you’re under a bucket.’

The thumping worked, at least for one ear, and he could hear now what every-one else was listening to.

Screams, all through the city. Buildings crashing down. Echoing howls. Recall-ing the fireball he’d seen, he looked skyward. No stars in sight-the sky was filled with smoke, huge bulges underlit by wildfires in the city. ‘Gods below!’

Harllo ran down the road. His knees were cut and deeply scored by his climb up the slope of scree, and blood ran down his shins. Stitches bit into his sides and every muscle was on fire. And Venaz was so close behind him that he could hear his harsh gasps-but Venaz was older, his legs were longer, and it would be soon now, no matter how tired he sounded.

To have come so far, and everything was about to end… but Harllo would not weep. Would not plead or beg for his life. Venaz was going to beat him to death. It was us simple as that. There was no Bainisk to stand in the way, there were no rules of the camp. Harllo was not a mole any more; he was of no use to anyone,

People like him, big and small, died all the time. Killed by being ignored, killed because nobody cared what happened to them. He’d walked the streets of Darn jhistan often enough to see for himself, to see that the only thing between those huddled shapes and himself was a family that didn’t even want him, no matter how hard he worked. They were Snell’s parents, and Snell was what they’d made between them, and nothing in the world could cut through those tethers.

That was why they let Snell play with Harllo, and if he played using fists and feet and something went bad, well, that stuff happened all the time, didn’t it? That’s why they never came to get him. And the one man who did, Gruntle, who always looked down at him with sad eyes, he was dead now, too, and it was this fact that eased Harllo’s mind. He was happy to go where Gruntle had gone. He would take hold of that giant scarred hand and know that, finally, he was safe.

‘I got you! I got you!’

A hand snagged at the back of his shirt, missed.

Harllo threw himself forward-maybe one last spurt-away, fast as he could-

The hand caught a handful of tunic, and Harllo stumbled, and then a thin sweaty arm wrapped tight round his neck, lifting him from his feet.

The forearm pressed against his throat. He could not breathe. And all at once Harllo did not want to die.

He flailed, but Venaz was too big, too strong.

Harllo was forced down to the stony surface of the road, then pushed over on his back as Venaz straddled him and closed both hands round his neck.

The face glaring down at him was flushed with triumph. Sweat ran muddy streaks down it; something had cut one cheek and white threads of cave-worms clustered round the wound-they’d lay eggs and that cut would become a huge welt, until it burst and the grubs crawled out, and the scar left behind would never go away and Venaz would be ugly for the rest of his life.

‘Got you got you got you,’ Venaz whispered, his eyes bright. ‘And now you die. Now you die. Got you and now you die.’

Those hands squeezed with savage strength.

He fought, he scratched, he kicked, but it was hopeless. He felt his face swell, grow hot. The darkness flushed red.

Something cracked hard and Venaz was reeling back, his grip torn loose. Hands closed on Harllo’s upper arms and dragged him a short distance away. Gasping, he stared up at a strange face-another boy-who now stepped past him, advancing on Venaz.