Gulbrandr looked puzzled. Then he stared at Ulfr.

‘You have killed the poet.’

‘He lives, Chief.’

‘Violating the peace oath in a gathering.’ Gulbrandr’s mind was returning. ‘Warriors, bind this man and—’

‘No,’ called a woman. ‘He saved us all, when I could not.’

‘Heithrún, is that you? Hold, warriors.’

The young volva limped forward, her leg still splinted from yesterday’s injury, supported by a white-haired woman, surely another volva.

‘Some of you know me,’ said the older woman. ‘I am Eydís, one-time teacher to Heithrún, and she has the right of it.’

‘Sorcery?’

‘Aye, Chief. And neither I nor Heithrún could move against the spell.’

At that, Stígr’s one eyelid moved, and his groan was loud.

‘Don’t let him speak,’ said Heithrún.

‘Warriors.’

Two men grabbed Stígr, while a third undid a leather cord from around one calf - the man that Brandr had bit: he grinned at Ulfr, then at the warhound - and wound it around Strígr’s head, deep into his mouth.

Finally, Stígr came awake, his one eye shining as he focused on Ulfr.

A normal man would have wriggled and moaned, testing his bonds, cursing or trying to persuade. But he just lay there, staring.

‘He’s just a poet,’ said Gulbrandr.

But then shadows twisted in a way only Ulfr could see, discordant notes sounded while ravens cawed, and the air shivered.

Stígr was gone.

‘Thórr’s blood!’ Gulbrandr made the sign of the hammer. ‘He is a dark one, in truth.’

The man who had gagged Stígr now clapped Ulfr on the shoulder.

‘Well done, warrior.’

‘Yes,’ said Gulbrandr. ‘You have saved us. Warriors, I show you a hero!’

Cheers became a crescendo of relief and celebration. Against the noise, only Ulfr could hear Eydís’s words.

‘You have an enemy in the darkness now.’

Then he patted Brandr and raised a victory fist. Tonight he would carouse with these warriors - among them he could see Chief Folkvar nodding and grinning - and let the dawn deal with whatever evil the Norns would throw at him next.

For now, he lived!

TWENTY-NINE

FULGOR, 2603 AD

Superintendent Keinosuke Sunadomari smiled as he trailed his suspects through the festival crowds. He was a Luculentus peacekeeper; to be keeping a Luculenta under surveillance was a worthwhile challenge. But then his smile attenuated to nothing.

Daniel, if she was responsible, she’s going down.

This had started with his suspicion of the Blackstones, a family with a secret he had not deciphered yet. And now, following the son - as the son in turn trailed Alisha Spalding and Rafaella Stargonier - it became obvious that Roger Blackstone had received some basic training in surveillance. But a part of Sunadomari’s awareness, in Skein, despatched an investigative netSprite that came back in milliseconds with an answer: the lad enjoyed espionage holodramas, particularly Fighting Shadows. Perhaps he had picked up tips that way.

The irony was that, several years back, poor dead Daniel Deighton had himself written several episodes for the series, under a pseudonym and without revealing any current operational procedures that villains would not know already.

But was there a different connection here? Because Daniel had been one of nine Luculenti to die strangely, and he had been in his glider at the time. Naturally, investigators back-tracked the flightpath, but found nothing. Yet Sunadomari had no need to access the logs in Skein - he remembered that the glider had passed over Mansion Stargonier.

His friend Daniel had been more analyst than frontline operative; but he was a peacekeeper and a Luculentus, therefore not easy to kill. Young Roger Blackstone could not have done it; but perhaps Rafaella Stargonier could.

He sent off another flurry of netSprites and netAngels in Skein.

Meanwhile, in reality, he walked along a ribbon-spiral path, through colonnades where bubblefish swam in the air, finally coming out at the top of a wide custard-yellow ramp that led down to Parallaville. The crowds were thin here, and down in Parallaville there were few pedestrians at all.

The city quarter was a jumble of trompe-l’oeil illusions, mixing holo with physical architecture in ways that beguiled the eye. This was the first day of Lupus; by the end of the festival, Parallaville would be teeming with revellers out of their heads with hallucinogens, looking to freak themselves even further among impossible polygons, trick staircases and doorways leading nowhere.

Some fifty paces beyond the foot of the ramp, Rafaella Stargonier stopped. She turned, but Roger Blackstone had sunk out of sight, apparently inside a solid wall. It was a nice use of holo cover.

Luculenta Rafaella Stargonier walked on, into the heart of Parallaville, with Alisha Spalding beside her.

If the Stargonier woman could illegally access building systems - or even SatScan - she would probably have spotted Sunadomari already. But her behaviour indicated awareness of something: probably the Blackstone boy, not him. Still, Sunadomari did not want to take the risk of surveilling in Skein and having his data compromised - it had not escaped him that one of the other murder victims was a Skein designer, Hailey Recht, who should have been able to stop any kind of physical or psychological attack and call for help, for she had knowledge and capabilities far beyond those of an ordinary Luculenta.

Besides, Sunadomari had his own tricks, and he rarely got to deploy them for real.

The bracelets on his wrists were quickglass, which was not unusual. But any watchers - there were none - would be surprised to see the quickglass morph into six floating teardrop shapes, each half the size of a fist. Mini flying cameras were decidedly old school and low tech, but the quickglass used chameleoware to be invisible to SatScan from above - and sent back data using protocols that were entirely his own, all they way down to the core trinary, bearing no relationship to anything used in Skein.

‘Fly now,’ he murmured.

All six spydrops rose into the air.

Once more Roger had to duck out of sight. This time he commanded a quickglass wall to form an alcove, using commands that would not set off alarms - not here in Parallaville, where the public were encouraged to tweak the architecture at their whim - but would be perfectly open to official scrutiny of the building’s memory.

Several laughing, drunken festival-goers staggered past without detecting him.

Why am I doing this?

It was Helsen who set off all his alarms - she of the darkness, she and her creepy friend - but it was Alisha he cared about.

So why should I mess up her chance of upraise?

If she was supposed to be networking with the Luculenti élite, that was fine. But he remembered that it was Helsen who had told Alisha to make contact with someone called Stargonier. He had no way of knowing for sure - if he tried an image search in Skein, he might attract peacekeeper attention - but his intuition was that this Luculenta was Rafaella Stargonier. For one thing, he thought that Alisha did not know many Luculenti.

Then he saw the Luculenta in clear, and the back of his neck felt cold.

‘Trust your intuition,’ Dad had told him more than once. ‘Civilized people disregard the wisdom of four billion years of evolution, and step inside a room or vehicle with someone who makes them uneasy, or let someone help them carry things for them out of politeness, while their reptile brain is screaming alarm signals. Becoming a victim out of embarrassment is stupid.’

Predators and psychopaths have unusual biochemistry - neither cause nor effect, for behaviour changes hormonal balance, while hormones alter behaviour, in a feedback loop that can be benign (optimism produces health produces optimism) or deadly. The reptilean part of every human brain can smell danger.