‘I'm sorry…?’

He turned to her, shrugging. ‘I could make it look like the Claw…’

Ghelel stared, her hand fell from the dirk. Make it look like the… Dessembrae, no! What a terrifying offer! She felt sick, wiped her palms on her cloak. ‘What an awful thing to suggest.’

He gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be best to wait until you are actually married. Then kill him.’

‘That's not what I meant!’ she shouted, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Molk listened, cocking his head. After a moment he waved off any worries. ‘No? Really? Well, of course the problem is that the man's already married.’

‘What?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then what…’

A shrug of regret. ‘Well, her blood is not nearly as rich as yours…’

‘He wouldn't…’

Molk sipped his wine. ‘An ambitious man, our Marquis.’

Through clenched teeth Ghelel hissed, ‘You're enjoying this far too much, Molk.’

He stepped closer, lowered his voice even further. ‘This is what I do, Ghelel. What I'm good at. My business… Now you face an important choice. A major fork in the path of one's life, so to speak. Do you want to stay in the business or do you want out? Which will it be?’

Ghelel almost said immediately that she wanted out but a small voice whispered: just what are his orders from Amaron regarding me? To guard me and, if failing that… to kill me? Is that what he means by ‘Out’? She walked away, saying, ‘I have to think,’ then turned back with the dirk bared and ready. ‘What if I said I did want out, Molk. What would you do?’

His broad mouth stretched in a large smile. He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I would say too bad – you have the right crafty turns of mind. But no, nothing like that. Suffice it to say that if I wanted to kill you – you'd be dead already.’

Ghelel did not lower the blade. ‘So you say now. But how can I believe you?’

The smile melted away. He raised a hand, cupping the fingers, and a darkness blossomed within. A dancing flame of night. ‘Believe me.’

Oh. She straightened, sheathed the dirk. ‘I see. Now what?’

‘Get dressed for travel. We'll leave tonight.’

Assenting, she pulled aside the inner hangings.

When they were ready, Ghelel having gathered all the food and water they could pack, Molk went to the rear wall of the tent and stood listening for a time. He waved her over then pulled up its staked lip. She gave him a glare and he shrugged. ‘Simplest is always best,’ he mouthed, and urged her on.

She didn't know if he used his arts to disguise their passage, but they made it out of the camp without being seen or any alarm sounding. They climbed a hill north of the sheltered, hidden forest depression the Sentries had chosen as their retreat and she could now hear the roar of the distant falls, Broke Earth Falls, where they tumbled down Burn's Cliff on their way to Nap Sea. ‘Now what?’ she asked him.

‘We'll cross at the falls. Lots of rafts ‘n’ such there. After that I'll escort you back.’ He looked to her. ‘I presume you do mean to return to Quon?’

‘Yes. And you'll… let me go?’

A waved agreement. ‘Oh yes. It's plain to me you don't have the, ah, stomach for this life. Way too many scruples. No, best get out before you're killed, or become something you despise…’ He looked away, clearing his throat. ‘And I wish you luck.’

The night was perilously old by the time they reached the lagoons east of the falls. The flat diffuse light of a false dawn lit the swampy shore with its ghostly tangle of logs, uprooted trees and broken timbers all clogged downriver of the falls. A cool mist kissed Ghelel's face. The roar of the falls was a deep bass rumbling that seemed to vibrate her entire body.

They crouched for a time in the cover of the nearest treeline. Molk studied the apparently deserted lakeside. Standing, he waved her forward. They reached the littered shore. ‘Now, we just have to find one of the rafts or a small boat. There's lots about. Locals-’

The man was knocked backwards off his feet and lay face up, the finned end of a crossbow bolt standing from his chest. ‘Oh shit!’ he gasped.

Ghelel cried her shock and surprise and spun, drawing her sword and heavy fighting gauche. There, a slim man in charcoal-hued clothes tossed away a strange thin crossbow. He flexed his arms and long-bladed throwing daggers appeared in his hands. Coming towards her, he waved them in a knife-fighter's dance. She shifted to face him sidelong, struck her guard.

He straightened then, cursing, and quickly disappeared in a flurry of shifting shadows. Oh come on! Ghelel cried to herself, outraged. As if this wasn't bad enough! She spun, slashing the air around her and saw that Molk was gone as well. The Warrens! They're duelling! Get him, Molk! Not knowing what else to do she slashed again. Then she thought – the water! She ran.

Where she'd stood something burst like a branch exploding in a fire but she did not turn, did not slow. She slogged into the swampy muck until the water reached her thighs, then she tuned to face the shore. Come for me now, bastard!

She scanned the clutter of fallen branches, the stands of wind-brushed marsh grasses, her heart almost choking her. She strained, listening for any betraying sound; logs bumping out in the current spun her round; an animal splashing into the lake upstream almost made her scream. Come on! End this one way or another!

Within the root mat of a fallen tree grey shadows suddenly writhed. A shape of darkness squirmed from the shadows. It writhed, limbs twisting, black flakes exfoliating from it, and a high keening of excruciating pain reached her. Gods! Not Molk, she prayed. It disintegrated into nothing while she watched. Ice stabbed as a blade slashed the meat of her forearm followed by a splash. She gasped, throwing herself forward. Two bodies grappled in the water behind her. Blood bloomed. Wincing, hunched, she watched, sword raised one-handed. The water foamed, steaming and churning as if boiling, then stilled, hissing with bubbles that spread, dissipating. A body touched the surface and by the barbed crossbow bolt standing from its back she recognized it as Molk. She pushed forward to grab him. The water burned her legs and hand. Snarling her pain she dragged him back, flipped him over and pulled him to shore with one hand, the other at her side, useless.

She fell next to him, studied his boiled beet-red face. ‘Molk!’

He coughed, spat up a great gout of water. His face twisted its agony. ‘Damn! That…’ he gasped a breath ‘… went poorly.’ He cracked open an eye. ‘Ghelel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Apologies. Should've guessed. Hubris, hey? Thought I was so smart.’

‘Relax, don't talk.’

‘No, have to. Won't last. You'll have to hide deep now. Those two were mages. It will be noticed. They'll send someone even better to take up the trail. Run now. Cross over, head west. Best of luck staying… free of all this ugliness. I hope you succeed.’

‘I might as well run back to the Sentries now. They'll just track me down.’

Molk smiled smugly, then coughed, spitting up blood. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I let the Kanese know where they are.’

‘No! You didn't! You scheming, tricky…’

‘Knew you'd come around. Now go. I'd like to think that a little good might've come of all of this…’

She rested a hand at his brow. ‘Yes. I'll go. I'll get away, thanks to you.’ She kissed his cracked blood-wet lips. ‘Thank you. You're not… you're not what I thought at all.’ She grabbed the dropped pack and ran to find a boat.

Behind her, alone, Molk lay flat on his back. His breaths came slower, more shallow and laboured. Finally, he offered a weak rueful laugh to the brightening sky. ‘Neither of us were.’

After abandoning the leaky boat in the weeds she jogged west, keeping to the wettest, soggiest patches of land she could find. At dawn she reached the great escarpment of Burn's Cliff. South of her now ran the main beaten road that switch-backed up one of the shallowest portions; she decided against it. Instead, she selected a slim meandering path traced out by locals. A mule-trail. This she followed to the top then found a copse of trees to hide in. She sat for a time on her knees, thinking through her options. As the day brightened and the insects gathered, she pulled off her helmet and, one-armed, began stripping off her armour. She used her dirk to dig a pit and into it went the armour, her surcoat, leggings, gauntlets, helmet, even her boots. Ghelel Rhik Tayliin and Prevost Alil, she decided, had to die.