Gods, last night was bad, so bad. I almost didn't make it to the dawn.

Gods? The word meant nothing to him now: it was a habit, a meaningless curse. The Gods had never listened to his prayers; the Gods were not interested in him. When he had been at his lowest ebb, holding the corpse of that dog in his hands, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw had ached for days, had it been the Gods who answered him? No, the soothing voice from the darkness had been no God – Gods came in triumph and shining light, not unseen in the shadows.

And yet his prayers had been answered, for the hunger had subsided as the voice spoke to him and sustained him. Why it had suddenly stopped, after more than a year of whispers and soft laughter, the only true marker of the weeks passing, he had no idea, nor how long it would be until he heard it again – a week, a month? He'd come to rely on that voice, and then it had gone away with no explanation or warning, leaving just a sense of loss that nagged almost as hard as the thirst inside.

'I will be strong, the shadow will come again,' he said softly, his resolve strong again. He stood and walked into the street where the new day was breaking.

From the rooftop above him a head turned to watch him go.

Curious, thought Mihn, leaning out as far as he could until the other had walked out of sight, most curious. Something to add to your file. Lesarl will be pleased.

Lesarl smiled down at his young son's sleeping face and eased the iioor closed. It was early, only a hint of dawn in the sky when he'd risen to get a few hours' head start on the rest of the city. There was a musty smell about the house, faintly overlaid by stale sweat, the scent he had come to associate with the hours before the house-hold started its day, before the bread was set to baking and the bustle of city life intruded.

This morning he could also smell the dampness in the air after the night's rain. From his dressing room window he could see the city was still quiet after the downpour. One great puddle filled the street outside, leaving barely enough room for the two guards standing at his gate. They were half-perched on the low wall, their backs pressed against the railing.

He walked towards the breakfast room. He loved the chamber despite its unsuitability, the five tall, rain-streaked windows ensuring the room was always chilly. A lamp sat on the table beside a steaming bowl of porridge. It did little to dispel the gloom, but it would be enough for browsing through the morning report his secretary had sent over. Withered grey-brown foliage left a skeletal trail across the lower parts of the windows, not dead, just waiting for the summer sun to return.

Noticing he was missing his usual rosehip tea, Lesarl went to call a servant, but as he reached the door something darted out from the shadows and he gasped as he felt something hard pressed against his windpipe. Without thinking he grabbed for the stiletto he always carried, but his attacker was quicker and smashed an elbow into his bicep so hard the arm went numb. Whatever was at his neck pressed a little harder.

'Give me one good reason not to break your neck,' hissed a voice in his ear.

'My endearing smile?' Lesarl croaked as best he could.

'Not going to be enough,' Mihn said, emphasising his point by shaking the taller man like a rat. 'The daemon and I had a quick chat before it left with Malich's journal.'

'Don't tell me that was the one you were after?'

'No more games,' Mihn said quietly.

'Very well,' he managed, 'check my morning reports.'

Mihn turned them both so he could see the pile of papers on the table. There was indeed something substantial there amongst them. He released Lesarl and shoved the man back into the room.

The Chief Steward gave a cough and rubbed a hand over his throat as Mihn went to the table. 'High Priest Bern had the original,' he explained in a hoarse voice, 'and until the fall of Scree that wasn't a problem – I hadn't even considered that entrusting a necromancer's writings to the High Priest of Death might prove a problem.'

Mihn picked up the journal and opened it, scanning a few pages to verify that it was the translation prepared at Lord Bahl's request. He shut it and retied the leather fastenings. 'Enjoy your porridge,' he said with a scowl as he headed for the door.

Lesarl paused as Mihn disappeared from view. 'Don't tell me the cook over-salted it again?' he called. There was no reply.

Cardinal Certinse didn't bother looking up when he heard the door to his office crash open. There was only one man who'd barge in unannounced and it would take more than a withering look to dissuade the man once known as Colonel Yeren. The eye-patched bastard had a reputation to match Count Vesna's, and he took every opportunity to remind the cardinals that the title they'd given him was just a technicality.

'Senior Penitent Yeren. And am I to assume you have a matter of theology you feel we must discuss without delay?'

'Yah, something like that,' the broad-shouldered mercenary replied as he deposited himself in one of the chairs facing the desk.

'Please, take a seat,' Certinse murmured, eyes still fixed on the report in front of him as he finished the last few lines. He restrained the urge to bring the page closer, despite the ache behind his eyes that now appeared if he read much while tired. Better not to show any weakness in front of a bully like Yeren, whether he was in your employ or not.

As last he finished and put the report aside. He looked at the soldier over bridged fingers. He and Yeren were of an age, but there any similarities ended. Yeren was a heavy set native of Canar Thrit, and had more white hairs than Certinse, and more than his fair share of scars too. He had reportedly bought himself out of the army early on in his military career, before being court-martialled on charges of corruption, although not soon enough to avoid losing an eye in battle. He'd spent the next ten years as a Carastar, one of the bands of bandits sanctioned by Vanach to patrol the border with Canar Thrit, tasked with dissuading anyone fleeing religious rule so they could keep that borderland conflict licking over without allowing it to explode into open warfare.

'Do you have news for me?'

'That I do,' Yeren said with a scowl. 'There's one hell of a mess at Hloly Dock damn thing tore a hole in the wall of Bern's palace.

Whole bloody flock of crows runnin' round wringing their hands and blamin' each other.'

Certinse ignored the 'crows' reference, although the black-robed priests of Death might not have appreciated it, and restrained the urge to ask what flattering reference the mercenaries used for the priests of Nartis. 'Did you manage to speak to your friend?'

Yeren knew most of the mercenaries employed by both cults, of course; they had all served together in Tor Milist.

He nodded. 'No sign of nothin' 'cept a guard who claims he got blindsided that night.'

'And did he?'

'Doubt it, he won't be the first flogged for drinkin' on duty. Still, it's damned convenient for the Chief Steward and I wouldn't put it past the bastard, but Kerx says he checked the whole building as soon as possible. All the doors were still bolted from the inside and there are charms on all the lower windows, so unless Lesarl's got an agent who can fly I don't see how he could've done it. Patrols're in constant movement in the streets round the temple; they'd've seen someone carrying a fifty-foot ladder.'

'Your conclusion?'

Yeren sighed. 'That Chief Steward Lesarl is more intelligent than Captain Kerx.'

'A week-old rabbit is more intelligent than Kerx,' Certinse said drily, 'but you're right, coincidence is a stretch. All that remains to discuss is what we do about it.'

'What do you mean?' Yeren said in surprise. He crossed his legs, revealing for a moment the leather breeches he wore before tugging his penitent's robe straight to cover them.