Shagot the Bastard might be a festering mold on human dung but he did love his little brother.

Shagot soon felt sleep trying to take control. He could not let that happen. He had hours of must-do ahead of him, still.

"Little brother. Can you get up and stumble home now?"

Svavar grunted. He could do that. For Shagot's sake. Thanks to Shagot. But he could not do much more, if Shagot wanted something else.

"Good. So do that, then."

Svavar murmured, "We moved our stuff to the backup place."

"That's right! I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open and my brain working. Go there and lay low. I'll wrap this shit up.”

"Grim…"

"Go on. Can you carry something? Can you take this totem stuff for me?"

"What're you going to do?"

"I'm going to go have a friendly chat with that asshole priest. And make sure we get paid. Take this stuff and get moving." Shagot hugged his brother before the younger man trudged away, carrying a thirty-pound load and a hundredweight of pain, picking his way through an unfamiliar city in the dark, his destination a flat he had visited only once before.

THE BRONZE SWORD WAS THE ONLY ITEM OF POWER THAT Shagot retained. It still cut dead flesh like slicing softened butter. He completed his first task in three minutes. Then he set about systematically relieving the dead of any coins they had been carrying when misfortune overtook them.

The Brothers were not rich men but amongst them they did carry as broad a variety of coin as could be imagined. Shagot failed to recognize the origins of most.

No matter. Merchants would know them. And would weigh them, too. They trusted no one. And trusted those with big names and big reputations least of all.

Plundering done, Shagot slung his sack of heads over one shoulder, then retraced his route to the Madhur Plaza.

The sack was actually a shirt taken off the largest of the dead Brothers.

Shagot's wounds ached terribly. He worried about Asgrimmur, hoped the gods had sense enough to protect his brother. His mission was doomed without Asgrimmur's help.

He returned to the Madhur Plaza. The massacre in the square had been discovered. The bodies had been plundered. Now the righteous folk, with torches and lanterns, were out tut-tutting and recalling the good old days when there was order in Brothe and things like this just did not happen where the right sort of people had to look at it.

Such was human nature.

Shagot headed for the Bruglioni citadel. He might be able to get there before the bad news arrived.

THE APPOINTED TRADESMAN'S GATE WAS AJAR AND Unguarded. Shagot moved through the Bruglioni back court to Father Obilade's quarters. The priest's door opened instantly. Sylvie Obilade and another man waited behind it. An unfamiliar voice demanded, “What the hell took you so…?” The speaker realized Shagot was alone. And that Shagot was Shagot. He gawked. Father Obilade gawked. The first man dropped a hand to the hilt of a dueling sword but did not draw. Shagot offered him a warning shake of the head.

“You owe me some money, old man.” Shagot produced the head of Rodrigo Cologni.

“Sweet Aaron! Blessed Kelam!” Father Obilade made signs meant to ward off the evil eye and the Instrumentalities of the Night. “Did you have to…?”

“You wouldn't just take my word, would you? You're Brothen. Easy there fellow.” The other man, pale as death now, had begun to ease away. “Stand still. I'm not happy tonight.”

Shagot dumped his sack.

Both witnesses swore. They looked at one another in horror. The man with the sword gasped, “That's Strauther Arnot! And Junger Trilling! They're two of the top men from Castella. What have you done? You killed eight of them?” There were eight heads in addition to Rodrigo Cologni.

“My brother helped.”

“Eight of them. Brotherhood veterans. Just the two of you. What have I conjured?”

Shagot thought this might be Paludan Bruglioni. He said, “We had to kill them. They were taking off with the target.”

“What have you done?” the priest whimpered, to himself rather than Shagot.

Shagot sneered. “You've been asking yourselves a question ever since you realized it was me. You may not like the answer. Let's get comfortable and wait. You. Give me that pigsticker. You don't want to do something stupid and get yourself killed. You the Boss Bruglioni? Not gonna say? It don't matter. Let's you and this smelly old woman go sit by that fig tree. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

Shagot drew the ancient sword. It seemed to radiate darkness. With that in hand, Shagot felt renewed. He would not fall asleep while the sword was drawn. He would feel no pain. With that blade in hand he felt as though he could slice through time itself.

The man who might be Paludan Bruglioni considered the old sword with contempt. But Father Obilade's eyes went wide. He whimpered, then commenced a swiftly cadenced, stammering appeal to his god for shelter from the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night.

It took longer than Shagot expected for news from the Madhur Plaza to arrive. It was almost dawn. Evil, seductive sleep was doing its best to overwhelm the old sword's magic.

Sleep's insidious appeal ended when a small, lean, slightly shaggy man burst in, gasping, "There you are, Paludan! Terrible news! Terrible news! Acato, Gildeo, Faluda, Pygnus, the others … they're all gone! Lost! In the Madhur Plaza! Murdered! Along with all of Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards."

The messenger was so excited that he continued to throw up words until, while straining for breath, he noticed Shagot and the heads. "Shit!"

"Indeed," Shagot said. He felt like a god. They were almost trivial, these southerners. "Slide over there with the others."

The newcomer considered the heads. "Oh, Blessed Kelam and the Fathers of the Church! That's Strauther Arnot! Secretary of the Special Office. What's going on, Paludan?"

Shagot surmised that this must be the deadly clever Gervase Saluda, Paludan Bruglioni's good friend from his youth, from a time when Paludan had slipped away at night to run with a gang of orphans and runaways. That legend was, likely, pure artifice. But Gervase's reputation might be deserved.

Shagot suggested, "Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it."

"He's soultaken," Father Obilade whined. "Don't defy him. He can't be defeated. That old sword… It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete."

"Thank you," Shagot told him. "What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you." Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its nose and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.

"What have you done?" Paludan's plea was feeble and rhetorical.

"What demon rules your soul?" Father Obilade asked. "What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?"

Shagot said, "You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead."

Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night "Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don't get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?"

The priest bowed. "Yes, sir."

Shagot understood, too. "Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn't get here fast, with no treachery, people will die."