The ragged man

CHAPTER 22

Witchfinder Shanatin sucked his teeth and thought, his round face screwed up with the effort. He was a large man, and his thinning hair and air of harmlessness led people into thinking him a fool. Shanatin had often wondered, in the quiet of night, why he'd ended up the butt of every joke in the Knights of the Temples, and the target for every bully. There must be something about his open, honest face that caught the eye and inspired malice, while a lack of coordination in his unwieldy frame meant he tended to come off worse every time he stood up for himself. The bruises on his face were now yellow and grey, still visible in what daylight crept through the shattered roof of the ruin they were standing in.

Luerce cocked his head and watched the man think. Significantly smaller than Shanatin and never much of a fighter, Luerce nevertheless found himself wondering what it would be like to punch the fool in his fat face. To see the dismay and fear blossom; to see blood smeared across his plump, greasy cheeks… he tried to clear the image from his head: today he was Shanatin's friend.

'Do you want me to explain it again?'

Shanatin shook his blotchy, melon-like head. 'Just don't get why.'

Luerce raised an eyebrow and the witchfinder raised his hands submissively, ever the coward.

''Course I'll do it, no fear – but why not Garash? He's the bastard giving orders to harass the preachers.'

'High Priest Garash is a useful man; I wish him nothing but the finest of health.'

'Eh? But – '

Luerce sighed. You really are a fucking idiot, Shanatin. Lucky for you the master keeps his promises.

'Garash is a fanatic; a sadistic and violent man. The more he abuses his position, and the soldiers of the Devoted, the faster he pushes them to the master's service. Remember, small steps in the shadows will lead us to greatness. We leave the grand statements of power to others; far safer to prepare the path and allow others to bring about their own downfall.' He smiled like a snake. 'If a few of Ruhen's Children fall along the wayside because of Garash's excesses, such is the sacrifice we must all make.'

Shanatin's piggy eyes widened. 'All? You mean they're going to find out it's not true?'

'Some more than others,' Luerce reassured him. 'As for your share, we'll apportion it to a certain sergeant who tore up your books.'

At last Shanatin smiled. His only true friends were the three books he owned – at least, he had owned them, until a drunken sergeant had ripped them to pieces and pissed on the remnants.

Not one of the master's greatest acquisitions, Luerce reflected, but sometimes we must make do with what is available. If a few soldiers are the price of his service, I'd gladly pay it ten times over.

'Now,' Luerce continued, not wanting the fat lump to get distracted by what might await his tormentor. The first time a snivelling Shanatin had been nursing his bruises alone and the shadows whispered his name, the result had been his abuser clawing his own eyes. This time might not be so dramatic, but it would suffice. 'Do you remember what to do?'

Shanatin affected to look hurt, but only managed constipated. ''Course I remember. I'll go now.'

'Thank you, my friend.' Luerce put something in Shanatin's pocket and patted it meaningfully. Then he tugged the hood of his white cloak up over his head and smiled at the witchfinder from the shadows within it. 'Stay strong, the twilight reign is coming. Our time is coming.'

The thin Litse turned and disappeared into the broken rear room of the building, secreting himself out of sight until Shanatin had gone. They were in the poor inner district of Akell, the Circle City's northern quarter, where few Devoted would venture.

Unlike Byora where the rich lived in the lee of Blackfang's cliffs, here the long, shallower slope led up to the highest side of the mountain. Parss, that malevolent – some said simpleton – child of the mountain Goddess, Ushull, tossed his boulders down this slope too frequently for the rich, for they hit the buildings as if flung from siege engines. Shanatin left and checked his surroundings before leaving, careful to wait until the street was empty.

The witchfinder headed east, following the tall spur of wall that was all that remained of a gaol once built here. A landslide had demolished the rest during a storm when Shanatin was a child. As he walked through a haphazard network of makeshift shacks, the sound of the landslide boomed again in his ears. That demonstration of divine power had been his reason for joining the Knights of the Temples, just as the petty cruelty of men had been spark for him to accept what Azaer promised him, years later.

When he reached the more respectable areas he started seeing Devoted uniforms and hunkered down low as he walked. He had been careful to not wear his uniform – the white and black of the witchfinders was as easily noticed as Shanatin himself – but it meant he had to return to the Brew House, where they were quartered. It was an island within the main garrison complex, so he'd be forced to pass the barracks. He gritted his teeth and walked with head down and hands in pockets, silently asking Azaer to watch over him as he went about his task. He'd never heard the shadow's voice or felt its presence except after sundown, so it didn't worry him when he didn't receive a response.

And Shanatin muttered words of thanks when, almost an hour later as the sun met the eastern horizon, he reached Cardinal Eleil's offices unmolested. He'd done his best to ignore the sights as he walked; the entire main thoroughfare was lined with punishments of various sorts, from stocks at the mouth of the street, at the junction of the main road, to the gibbets closest to the Cardinal's office. He didn't count the soldiers and citizens being disciplined that day; undue interest itself was a crime now. The priests had made cowards of them all, though it was a familiar sensation for Shanatin.

He was admitted to the courtyard with only a cursory inspection, the guards making it clear they thought him incapable of causing trouble as they opened the gate. Inside he discovered the offices were in fact two tall buildings connected by a central hall.

The cardinal himself was said to have a desk situated on a mezzanine in the hall – from which, if rumour was to be believed, he could see and hear everything that happened at the desks below, the administrative heart of the Devout Congress.

Outside the hall's wide barred windows, and blocking Shanatin's path, was a company of soldiers, dressed like regular Knights of the Temples infantry, except they were armed where most of the other soldiers in the city had turned their weapons in to the Menin. A few eyed him suspiciously, the rest didn't bother.

'You lost?' a soldier called out. Shanatin shook his head and approached the man, a sergeant with pox scars on his face.

'I need to speak to Cardinal Eleil,' Shanatin said in a quiet voice.

'The cardinal?' The sergeant snorted. 'Gen'rally speakin', he don't bother with any damn stray that wanders in.'

Cardinal Eleil, once head of the Serian in the Circle City, the Devoted's intelligence-gathering arm, was now High Priest Garash's deputy on the Devout Congress. While Garash was the driving force behind this moral vigilance within the Knights of the Temples, it was Eleil who administrated and instituted Garash's reforms.

'It's important,' Shanatin insisted, dropping his eyes to look at the sergeant's scuffed boots. The man looked like a bully to Shanatin; he just had to hope he looked cowed already.

The sergeant was silent a moment. 'Better be,' he muttered before walking past Shanatin and jerking open the main door. 'Hey, you – where's Chaplain Fynner?' he asked someone inside.

Shanatin didn't hear a reply, but the sergeant stepped back and a few seconds later a tall, white-haired man in the dark red robes of a chaplain came out.

'What is it?' Fynner asked in a deep, rich voice.

'Witchfinder's askin' for the cardinal, Father,' the sergeant explained, pointing at Shanatin. 'Says it's important.'

The chaplain frowned at Shanatin, who wilted under the look.

'Very well,' said Fynner with resignation, 'come with me.'

Shanatin followed him into the large, chilly hall. It was still bright inside; orange-tinted sunlight streamed in through the windows lining the wall above the door and lamps were lit below. There appeared to be no one looking down over the room, but a dozen or so priests of various ranks were busy at the lower desks.

Once the door had shut behind Shanatin, Fynner rounded on him. 'So, Witchfinder, you'll have to convince me before you see anyone,' Fynner said sternly.

'Yes, Father,' Shanatin mutter respectfully. 'I… I overheard somethin' I shouldn't of a few days back. I been keepin' my eyes open since then and I don't think he's the only one.'

'The only what?'

Shanatin hesitated. 'Mage; a mage off the books.'

'You are talking about an officer of the Order? That is a serious charge, young man; a very serious charge for an enlisted to make.'

'I know, sir, important officer too.'

Fynner looked around the room. The other priests seemed to be busy with their work and oblivious to what was going on, but still he beckoned for Shanatin to follow him to one end of the hall, where they went through a door. Without a further word Fynner took him up a short flight of stairs, past a sentry and into the private quarters of the cardinal.

'Cardinal Eleil is eating,' he explained at last when they reached one doorway, 'which may be for the best; this is sensitive information after all.'

Shanatin nodded, looking relieved. Fynner knocked and entered without waiting for a response, ushering Shanatin inside and shutting the door behind him.

'Fynner?' inquired the cardinal, seated alone at the head of a polished mahogany table and with a laden fork raised.

Shanatin felt his mouth start to water as the aroma of roast pork filled his nostrils. He could see roasted apples and potatoes on the plate, all liberally doused in thick nut-brown gravy. For a moment all thoughts of his mission were forgotten – until Chaplain Fynner cleared his throat pointedly and Shanatin realised he was staring open-mouthed at the food.

'My apologies, Cardinal Eleil, but this man has just brought a matter to my attention that I felt sure you would want to hear.'

'Well?'

Cardinal Eleil was older than Shanatin had assumed; his face wrinkled and weathered, his hair perfectly white, which indicated he was probably pure Litse blood.

'Ah, your Grace,' Shanatin stuttered, giving an awkward bow.

The error put a slight smile on the cardinal's face, as Shanatin had hoped. He inclined his head to acknowledge Shanatin's respect and took a swig of wine while the witchfinder started to speak.

'I was comin' back from… ah, meetin' a friend, four nights back – past midnight. I was out past curfew so I was sneakin' back into the Brew House, but before I got in I saw two men speakin' in the shadows. I hung back 'til they left. One o' them was Sergeant Timonas, see, from the witchfinders.'

He hesitated and glanced at Fynner, who gestured for him to keep going. 'Right, well, the other were an officer, and he bought some dose off of Timonas, gave him money, right in front of me. For more than one person too – brew don't last too long after it's cooked, and I reckon Timonas gave him enough for two, maybe three. Before the officer left he told Timonas to make damn sure he was doin' the next inspection too. The sarge said the schedules had bin worked out right an' it was all sorted.'

The cardinal leaned forward, his meal forgotten. 'Did you recognise the officer?'

'Yes, sir. It were Captain Perforren, the Knight-Cardinal's adjutant.'

The two priests exchanged a look, then Fynner spoke. 'You are certain that was what was being discussed? There is no room for confusion or explanation?'

'No, sir, they was clear enough, an' I recognised the bottles Timonas gave Perforren – they're the ones we use for the dose.'

Shanatin fell silent, letting the news sink in. The Order's laws were specific: all mages within their ranks had to be registered and monitored. A man with ambitions, however, would know any ability as a mage would count against him when it came to promotion – certainly no mage would ever be elected to the Council, and Captain Perforren was aide to the man who had led that Council for years. Corruption, bribery, wilful flouting of the Codex… these were all breaches of the law, and they added up to a capital offence.

'They did not mention who the others were?' Cardinal Eleil asked at last.

Shanatin shook his head.

'Then we must move cautiously. What is your name, Witchfinder? '

'Shanatin, your Grace.'

'Then, Witchfinder Shanatin, under the Second Investigation Act you are hereby co-opted into the Devout Congress. Add his name to the register of devout, Fynner.'

The chaplain bowed as Cardinal Eleil continued, 'Shanatin, you will return to your duties and investigate further. Monitor this sergeant and secure a copy of the schedule for the next… how long does the dose last?'

'Up to a fortnight, sir.'

'Very well, the next three weeks. You will be contacted in the next few days by someone who will act as your liaison from now on. Do nothing that will alert them. This conspiracy may be bigger than we have seen thus far.'

The cardinal's tone made it clear the meeting was over. Shanatin didn't seem to notice, but Fynner did and took the witchfinder's arm, directing him outside again. The chaplain lingered a moment longer in case the cardinal wanted to speak to him further, but he had already returned to his pork. Fynner shrugged and accompanied Shanatin outside.

Once the door was closed Cardinal Eleil sat staring at it a while, slowly chewing the meat while he thought. He was naturally suspicious – a lifetime of the Serian did that to a man, and Witchfinder Shanatin had prickled his paranoia.

'He's just the sort I'd use myself,' he mused, spearing a piece of apple and holding it up to inspect. 'Simple and stupid, too obviously a fool to be a good ruse, and therein lies his value.'

He ate the apple, enjoying the sensation of the cooked fruit melting inside his mouth.

'An attempt to discredit the Congress?' he said eventually before shaking his head. 'No, surely anyone trying to make us act rashly would take such information to Garash instead. Misdirection perhaps? Have us waste our efforts on the Knight-Cardinal's men so others find a little more freedom to move?'

He finished the pork, saving the crackling until last. The first piece he tried was overcooked, too solid for his ageing teeth so he sucked the juices off it and discarded it in favour of other bits.

'There is of course the possibility that the fat cretin is telling the truth,' he had to admit finally, 'that he's stumbled across something and seen a way to profit from it.'

He pushed the plate aside and stood. Immediately something caught his eye, a small glint half-obscured by a chair near the door. Curious, the cardinal tilted his head sideways. It appeared to be a coin, a gold coin, lying on the floor.

'Where have you come from?' Eleil asked the coin, rounding the table. 'Did I not notice you when I came in? I can't believe Witchfinder Shanatin would have any call to be carrying gold with him, nor Fynner.'

He stood over the coin, looking down at it, but making no effort to pick it up. The coin was large, but not one he recognised, certainly not Circle City currency. While each quarter had its own, none of the gold coins used there were even similar. After a moment he crouched to pick the coin up, hissing at the clicks in his knees as he did so.

The coin was a thin disc, half the width of his palm, flattened at the rim to produce a very dull edge. There was nothing on it to indicate its origin; it wasn't really a coin at all since there was no sign of currency stamped on it. He carried it back around to the table and set it down, peering closely at it.

'So what are you then?' he asked.

Now he could see that symbols had been badly engraved onto the surface, around a crude cross. Something about that made him think of Elven core runes, but his education on such matters was limited. The cross was not composed of single lines, but half a dozen or so roughly parallel grooves.

He picked up the coin and was about to turn it over when he felt a tingle in his fingertips. On a whim he placed it upright on its edge and turned it around instead of flipping it over. The other side also had a strange script engraved on the surface, so lightly it looked almost like scratches, but the main symbol was a circle of several grooves around the flattened edge. The coin – disc – was old, and the gold had more than a few minor dents and scratches, but still Cardinal Eleil could see a distorted reflection within the polished circle. He turned it again, then flicked it with his fingernail to set it spinning on its edge.

As he watched the runes and faint reflection merge, he thought he heard a tiny sound from somewhere behind, the softest of whispers. He jerked around, but there was no one there. Doors set with two panes of glass led out onto a balcony, but he could see no one though the panes and the bolts top and bottom, out of reach of anyone breaking the small windows, remained firmly closed.

'Foolishness,' he muttered, and returned to the coin, which was lying flat on the tabletop, cross side up. Again he put it on its edge and set it spinning to watch the two sides merge. It reminded him of a toy he'd once had as a child, a piece of painted wood on strings which, when turned quickly, merged the image of a bird on one side with the cage on the other.

A susurrus sigh came from his right and the cardinal half-jumped out of his seat. He slapped a palm down onto the coin as he turned to where he'd heard the sound. There was no one there; nothing was disturbed, and the only piece of furniture that could possible have hidden someone, a padded recliner he often took an afternoon nap on, was at such an angle that it would have been impossible.

He resisted the urge to ask, 'Who's there?' and rose instead. He went to the bureau against the wall behind him. With one eye on the far side of the room he pressed a catch just inside the footwell and opened one of the drawers, reaching inside to pull a thin dagger from its hiding place.

With that in his hand he advanced to the other end of the room. The light was starting to fade and Cardinal Eleil realised the room was gloomier than he'd realised while eating. This end of his study had only one small window, above head-height. Set into the wall was an elegant fireplace with a tallboy on either side and a gilt-framed mirror above.

He glanced back at the coin, on the table where he'd left it. Its warm yellow colour looked markedly out of place in the dimly lit room. A slight scratching sound came from the wall by the door and he whipped around – to see nothing there at all… but his heart gave a lurch when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something reflected in the mirror. He faced the wood-panelled wall, but still he saw nothing unusual there at all, and when he looked back at the mirror it was empty.

'Gods, am I going mad?' he whispered, his fingers tightening around the grip of his knife.

He looked back at the other end of the room, almost certain that for a moment he'd seen someone stood in the corner there – a grey figure – but it remained steadfastly empty. When he inspected the mirror that too looked fine, free of dust or dirt that might blur the image.

Again he heard a tiny whisper somewhere behind him, this time more like the rustle of pages, and so faint it was nearly drowned out by the frantic drumming of his heart. Each of the tallboys had glass-fronted shelving at the top, filled with leather-bound books. Nothing within them moved.

He waited a while, standing still and listening until he was forced to breathe deeply. Immediately there came a different sound, like fingertips being brushed gently against the wallpaper of the far wall. When he looked the sound faded to nothing, leaving him uncertain whether he'd heard anything at all.

'Ah, my imagination's playing tricks on me now,' Cardinal Eleil declared rather more boldly than he felt. 'You're a foolish old man whose hearing isn't as good as it once was, nothing more.'

He opened one of the glass cases and ran his fingers down the spines of the books. 'I refuse to pander to my imagination,' he said aloud, finding the book he was looking for, 'so I'll look up that rune instead.'

He flicked through the pages of the book with forced briskness, finding the section he was after easily enough. His familiarity with Elven runes was only very basic, limited to what he'd learned over the years within the Serian. The knife he kept in hand, underneath the book. It was an ornate weapon with a slim guard, gaudy but wickedly sharp.

Heretical academics frequently used the runes in their correspondence to each other, often using them for code, though sometimes the cardinal suspected it was mere pretension on their part. The closeted idiots had no conception of the dangers their research could result in. The Serian had saves thousands of lives over the course of his service, stopping reckless and foolish academics playing with forces far beyond their control.

'Aha,' he announced to the empty room, 'here we are. Azhi? Azhai?' he read, fumbling slightly over the pronunciation since the book was written in Farlan, 'and it means… oh. Well, not a lot.' He sighed and glanced up at the room to check. It was still empty.

'Azai; a concept requiring context, potentially implying weakness or absence,' he read aloud. 'Other possibilities are substitution, usurpation, manipulation or corruption. At its most basic it can mean the shadow of something.'

His eyes flicked up to the mirror and he gave a gasp. At the corner of his vision he saw a faint movement on one side – too quick to catch, indeed, could have been the flash of an eyelash or trick of an ageing eye – but it had looked as though someone peeking through a window had ducked to the side of it.

He checked the room again, knife held ready, but there was absolutely no one there… but still he imagined soft whispers on the edge of hearing from the far corners of the room. Heart hammering, feeling both foolish and terrified at the same time, he moved back to the mirror and edged carefully around it, as though wary of something reaching out from the reflection. There was nothing there; the reflection showed an empty room and nothing more -

He turned away, but as he did so he glimpsed a face, grey and formless in the glass, as though staring straight over his shoulder. Cardinal Eleil yelped with terror, dropping the book as he tripped over his own feet in his haste to turn. Behind him there was nothing, no man or shadow beyond those cast naturally.

The room was grey now, a layer of gloom covering everything as twilight began its reign over the Land. With shaking hands Cardinal Eleil looked down at the book, but he couldn't bring himself to retrieve it. It could stay there for the night happily enough. Only his trembling knees that threatened to give way underneath him prevented him from fleeing the room entirely.

The ageing cardinal gripped the mantelpiece in an effort to steady himself, but as he did so the whispers from the far corners of the room increased. A fresh lurch of panic surged through his body. He looked into the mirror and for a moment thought he could see a faint shadowy face in the gloom, smiling malevolently over his shoulder. Then the image faded and he realised he'd been holding his breath out of fear. He put both hands on the reassuringly solid mantelpiece and bowed his head, his eyes closed as he drew in heaving breaths of air.

'It's pronounced "Az-ae-ir",' came a murmur in his ear.

A moan of terror escaped his lips as pain flared in his chest. His eyes flashed open again, but this time the mirror was empty. A chill whisper of breath brushed his ear and Cardinal Eleil fell, his chest wrapped in burning agony.

Ilumene leaned forward over the bed, a cruel smile on his face and a dagger in his fingers. The tower bedroom was dark, lamps still unlit though Blackfang's shadow made the twilight even darker. Ruhen lay on the bed, fully dressed and laid out like a corpse, but as Ilumene watched his eyelids flickered and his lips twitched. There was a slight movement in the small boy's cheek, then another. His eyebrows trembled… At last his lips parted and Ruhen gasped for breath, as though returning to life.

'Old ones still the best, eh?' Ilumene said with a grin.

Ruhen turned his head to look at the big soldier from Narkang, the ghost of a smile on his face. He nodded solemnly as shadows danced in his eyes.

Venn turned to the yellow eye of Alterr and listened to the silence around him. He stood at a tall arched window, opened wide to admit the cool night breeze. Capan stood at his side, and behind them were two of his best fighters. Each of the Harlequins was silent and motionless, waiting for the signal that their Oracle was satisfied.

His three companions still wore their brightly patterned clothes. Their white masks shone in the greater moon's weak light, while the bloody teardrops on their faces looked perfectly black.

'Lomin sleeps,' he said after a long moment. 'It is time.'

They had entered the city during the day, walking straight through Lomin's formidable defences, and shown every courtesy by the guards on the gate. Venn had enjoyed the curious looks he'd received: a man in black with tattooed teardrops on his face travelling with a group of Harlequins. They'd erred on the side of caution and assumed he was to be treated with all possible respect, an intoxicating sensation for Venn after years of living in the shadows, of acting with all humility and resisting the urge to ever walk tall. Such respect from every person they met was more than welcome.

Venn slipped out of the window and balanced on the sill before pulling himself up onto the roof with barely a sound. They were in the house of a local merchant and they needed to avoid alarming the man's guards. Within a minute he was joined by Capan and Marn, one of the few female Harlequins under his command – though there was little to distinguish between the sexes within the clans. Marn stood a few inches above both Venn and Capan, and from her lithe movement Venn guessed she would push even him in combat.

'Kail, follow us at a distance,' Venn called down quietly to the last Harlequin, who had just come out onto the window sill. 'We can spare your blades easily enough. Watch our backs in case I am more flawed than I realise.'

Kail pursed his lips, but acquiesced, going back under cover. Venn didn't believe the Wither Queen's request had any hidden agenda, but caution was rarely punished. Like all Harlequins Kail was careful, and Venn knew nothing would escape his attention if there was anything to see.

With Capan and Marn trailing him, Venn ghosted along the peak of the roof, spending as little time as possible in the moonlight. He hooked an arm around the neck of a stone gargoyle looking over the street and dropped beneath it. Its reaching claws provided an easy handhold and Venn hung by one arm as momentum carried him past. He kicked out and felt his toes touch the jutting capstone of the house's double-height rear door. He let go, and for a moment he stood flat against the wall, on the balls of his feet, his arms pressed out wide as he caught his balance.

Then he dropped, pushing off the wall so he fell freely, grabbing the capstone as he reached it and spreading his legs to catch his feet on the stone door jambs to silently absorb the force.

A second kick to the side allowed him to reach the sill of a window beside the door and from there he dropped the remaining few feet to the ground. He stepped back and checked the street for watching faces, but it was deep into the night and there were none. His descent from the roof had been virtually silent, with nothing more than a shoe scuffing on the stone.

The others followed, perfectly mirroring his actions.

Lomin was a compact city of tight, weaving streets and alleys, so close to the Great Forest that the inhabitants didn't have the luxury of expanding beyond the city's current boundary. The local laws were enshrined on the assumption of periodic siege, so nothing was permitted outside the thick stone walls, and the city elders had gone so far as to connect many of the largest buildings within the city to provide a second line of defence, should it ever be needed.

Venn was already within the inner city, where most of the temples could be found, and from there it was a simple thing for the Harlequins to make their way to the Grand Square in the north-western corner, avoiding Lomin's Keep, the ducal residence.

The Grand Square itself was a misnamed, misshapen amalgamation. Centred on a monument to a past duke, it presently consisted of three expanses of open ground: the market to the north, the Temple District, that straddled the western piece, and a chaotic mass of open-air taverns and eateries in the southeast. There were some buildings in the Temple District, but they were all small and well spaced, so it looked more a part of the square than the rest of the cramped city.

Apart from the multi-level many-roofed Temple of Nartis that marked the boundary between the secular and spiritual parts of the square, the temples were all single-storey constructions. Several were strung together and enclosed garden-shrines that the locals flocked to, but this night even the Temple of Etesia, Goddess of Lust, was quiet. The red and purple lanterns hanging from the temple's eaves swayed gently in the breeze, and Venn heard only soft snores from within as he passed.

He slipped into the jagged shadows of Vasle's temple, any sound masked by the burble of water. The newest addition to the district was directly ahead of him, facing the cross-shaped Temple of Death on the edge of the square. The Wither Queen's wooden temple looked poor by comparison; but for the sharp grey-blue painted spire rising from the centre of the peaked roof it could have been a sombre-looking barn.

The roof and walls were black and the shutters covering the windows grey-blue. It looked far from welcoming, not least because of the dead garlands hanging from each corner of the temple.

'Spread out, keep a watch for soldiers while I deal with the temple,' Venn commanded Capan and Marn.

Neither Harlequin argued as he set off, skirting the building to ensure there was no one awake nearby. The temple had been guarded earlier, but only by two soldiers stationed on the nearer side, either side of the door. He slipped on a black hood and crept forward, using the spire as a guide.

When he reached the last piece of cover Venn paused. He had no doubt that he could kill both soldiers with ease, but he didn't want to risk them shouting as he did so. He climbed the low building he was hiding behind and crouched on the thatch roof, keeping the peak between him and the guards as he drew his swords. Then he walked along the roof's supporting beam until he was at the peak and peered over the top: the two guards were lazing almost exactly where he'd pictured them.

Venn took a deep breath and launched himself forward, cresting the roof and sprinting down the other side, leaping from the edge with one sword raised. He landed a little from the nearer guard and slashed his sword into the man's neck as he passed. The man had barely begun to turn when Venn opened his throat; he released his sword, dipped his left shoulder and rolled, bringing his legs under him and pushing hard to drive him onwards. He was back on his feet and lunging forward at the second guard in the same moment, but the man had not moved more than an inch when Venn's slender sword pierced his heart like a stiletto.

The former Harlequin made up the ground in a flash and grabbed the soldier by the arm just as the man's knees realised what had happened and gave way. Venn punched him in the throat to crush his windpipe and ensure quiet and he sank to the ground without a sound.

Venn looked around. There were no startled faces or vengeful comrades watching, just Rojak chuckling away at the back of his mind.

He pulled the bodies into the shadows of the recessed doorway and retrieved his swords, sheathing one as he went around to the rear of the temple. He was keen to get out of sight of Death's temple as soon as possible – though it was unlikely any priests were awake at this hour, all of Death's temples lacked doors and the torches were kept burning outside and would need replenishing from time to time.

At the back of the Wither Queen's temple he found an annex, half the height of the temple. The door was locked, but Venn placed one finger into the lock and put his other hand on the Skull of Song hanging from his waist. In half a dozen heartbeats he felt the slight click of the lock opening as Jackdaw did his work.

He slipped through the door and closed it behind him, finding himself in a small kitchen. On his left was a pallet where a young girl sprawled, still asleep. He put a hand over her mouth and stabbed down into her heart and her eyes flashed open, the whites shining bright as she struggled for one moment of utter panic before falling limp.

The priestess through the next door was lying face-down on her bed, a naked youth beside her. He stabbed the boy, then dropped down to kneel on her back and yanked her head back hard enough to snap her neck. The lovers died within an instant of each other.

Venn checked the main body of the temple quickly. There were only supposed to be three people inside and he'd taken care of three people… He spent a minute standing at the entrance listening, trying to ignore the beat of his heart. It was pitch-black inside and he could see nothing at all. Once he was certain he was alone he ordered Jackdaw to cast a faint illumination around the room and saw eight rows of pews running down the centre of the room, icons of the other four Reapers on the side walls, a bedroll in a corner, still done-up, and little else. Long hanging drapes covered the walls, except where an icon or lamp had been fixed to the wall, leaving the bare wood visible.

The altar was a table covered in cloth, too dull in this light to be plain white, below a larger icon of the Wither Queen. Venn examined the image of the Reaper Aspect, which depicted her as tall and imperious. Her bearing was a little more regal and a little less cruel than the God he had met.

He sniffed; there was decay in the air. It took him a while to trace it, until he spotted a cage of some sort. As he got nearer he realised there was a dead dog in it – no doubt it had been diseased when they brought it here as some sort of tribute, but even in the dim light Venn was able to see it had been dead for a while.

'When you are a God, minstrel,' Venn said softly, 'your temple will look like this.'

He didn't wait for a response from Rojak as he dragged the bodies of the soldiers inside, dumping one with the novice and the other with the priestess. It was unlikely he would be fooling anyone, but there was no point advertising what he'd done. Once he'd finished Venn went around the drapes in the main room and Jackdaw set them all alight before doing the same in the two smaller rooms.

Confident the blaze would soon take the whole building Venn headed for the refuge of the dark narrow streets beyond the Temple District. At the Temple of Tsatach he hesitated, but the cordon of bronze fire-bowls around it were all burning low, the light they cast fitful. He weaved his way between the stone pillars that supported the shallow bowls, but stopped when he reached the other side when he spotted a unit of armed men dressed as Penitents of Death.

They hadn't seen him yet, but Venn had no illusions; it would take them only moments.

A shame for you I didn't come alone, Venn thought, advancing towards the penitents.

The first man to notice him took a step back in surprise, his mouth opening to cry out, but no sound came. Marn darted out from behind him, leaving her leading sword in his throat. She pivoted around the man and slashed across the face of the next penitent to turn her way. The group had barely registered her presence when Capan danced forward from the other side, his blades swinging in unison. One fell, then another in the next swift stroke. Venn himself was already moving, slicing across a wrist, dodging sideways around a spear, cutting across a man's mouth…

He didn't wait to watch the penitent fall but kicked the one he'd winged and drove him back into the last man standing. Before either could recover their balance Marn had finished them both off with an elegant double swipe.

Venn didn't see any point in hanging around waiting for more temple troops to arrive. He led the Harlequins into the tight, twisting streets and on to find Kail. As they arrived, Kail stepped out from a covered walkway, dragging with him a woman with dyed coppery hair and a split lip, cradling a broken arm.

'Your instincts were correct,' Kail informed Venn with a bow.

'A devotee of the Lady?' Venn wondered aloud. 'What is your argument with us?'

The woman spat on the ground at his feet.

Venn could see she was trying to fight pain and shock. 'I do not have time for this,' he declared. 'Bring her.'

Kail grabbed the woman by the arm, but without warning her legs went from under her and with a gasp of pain the devotee collapsed onto the ground, protecting the arm Kail had broken to subdue her.

Venn frowned. She hadn't passed out, so the fall was intentional.

'Going nowhere,' the woman hissed through the pain. 'You want to kill me, do it here.'

Venn had to laugh at her defiance, however short his humour was. 'All I want is to know why you were following us.'

'Piss on you,' she snapped, 'whoever you are. I was sent watchin' the merchant.'

'I can hardly let you go now,' Venn said, drawing his sword once more.

'That blood on your sword?' she asked derisively. 'Oh sure, an injured devotee of the Lady'll run to the guards as quickly as she can when murder's been done. Bloody love gaols, me.'

Venn thought a moment, then sheathed his sword and gestured to the others to move on. The woman looked up in surprise, but it was short-lived. He slapped away her raised hand, gripped her head and twisted it violently. There was a sharp snap as her neck broke and she fell limp.

'Nice try,' Venn muttered as he smashed her head against the ground, then arranged her broken arm underneath her body, 'but I prefer not to gamble.'

He looked up at the buildings above them; the fall was easily high enough to be fatal. Quickly he climbed up on top of the walkway and stamped hard onto the overhanging tar-covered boards covering it, enough to snap a pair of them and send the pieces down to lie on the ground beside the body.

'Plausible enough,' he announced quietly as he lowered himself to the ground. 'And now we must lose ourselves in night's embrace.'

Capan gave a curt nod. 'These deeds are done,' he said, recognising the play Venn had quoted, 'let the veil of darkness be our only witness.'

'And so the game changes once again,' Ruhen said softly. The unnatural boy was standing next to Ilumene at a high window, looking down at Byora. The room was pitch-black, lit only by the pale light of Alterr shining through the windows. This was how they both liked it, caught in the embrace of the concealing night.

'A change too far, maybe,' Ilumene added, idly balancing a stiletto on the back of his scarred hand.

'How so?'

The big soldier squatted down at Ruhen's side so he could look into the child's shadow-laden eyes. 'This is all happening too fast, you can't deny that.'

'Change is inevitable.'

'Don't give me that,' Ilumene said firmly, trying to restrain his growing impatience. 'I'm not Luerce or even Venn – I won't swallow that without question.'

'Good.'

Ilumene waited but Ruhen's gaze was unblinking and eventually he realised the child was expecting him to provide the reasons himself. He sighed and sat down on the floor. With the stiletto he pointed out over the city. 'Since he was Chosen, the Farlan boy accelerated this war with every breath he took – it's burning hot, fast and out of our control.'

'Fortunate he died before he achieved further mischief.'

Ilumene shook his head. 'The damage is done. If the Menin conquer Narkang this season we may not have enough time.'

'Kastan Styrax has many Skulls yet to track down.'

'At the pace he's going? He'll regain Knowledge and Ruling when he cuts out Emin's heart, and he'll most likely find the journal sitting on the man's desk. Smart money is on the vampires offering theirs, believing it worthwhile to believe what he would promise in return. That brings his total to nine.

'When Venn arrives it could become ten without much strife. All we're missing are Hunting and Dreams, both in Farlan hands and both on the list for next summer, if not earlier.' His voice came more urgent, 'Master, we planned for five years of long, drawn-out war, to give us time to prepare the way.'

Ruhen was silent for a time, staring out over the great buildings of Eight Towers and the districts beyond.

'Your tune has changed since we last discussed this.'

'I've had time to think since.'

'And the new melody?'

'What would it take to be ready by the end of next year?' Ilumene sheathed the knife and leaned closer to Ruhen. 'I know the goal, but not the exact method – if we were to gather the objects we need by the end of next summer, what would be lacking?'

'A power-base,' Ruhen replied, turning to face his scarred protector, 'the foundation of worship.'

'Exactly. Your preachers were to spend those five years of war drawing followers away from the Gods and to your own worship, thus weakening the Gods and building your own foundation. Gods and daemons and everything in between: the worship does Styrax no good while he is mortal, but you are not mortal, no matter what form you appear in.'

'I thought you more intelligent than this,' Ruhen said, his expression turning cold. 'If I drew my strength from the worship of mortals, I would already have done so.'

Ilumene grinned. 'Appearances can be deceiving,' he said, before hurriedly continuing, 'A God receives worship, a daemon thrives off fear and pain – but both are strengthened by the followers they possess, and I'd guess the same goes for everything in between. King's Men aren't just soldiers or spies; Emin insisted we knew more of the Land than the folklore of childhood. We spent too much time in the wilds to be ignorant of such things; I might've forgotten much, but I remember one thing the old witch who taught us used to say: "the only hierarchy more rigid that the Pantheon of the Gods is found in the chaos of the Dark Place". No matter where they're from, beings of magic can be subsumed by others, just as they can offer their power, no? A power base is the only way they can maintain their position.'

'Our new friend?'

'She ain't strong enough yet, not for her needs. She was once an Aspect of Death, so how long 'til He rectifies that situation? She can't hide forever, but maybe we can help her prepare.'

'Offered the right covenant,' Ruhen said, 'perhaps, yes. She will be resistant to the very idea of a new master.'

Ilumene snorted. 'Whatever her bluster, she'll know it's a straight choice.'

'Dare we expect logic from a God?'

'Fair point,' Ilumene admitted, 'but you're known to be persuasive.'

Ruhen smiled at last, his small, neat teeth bright in the moonlight. 'It will take Venn a few days to return. I have until then to decide,' he said, but the expression on his face was enough for Ilumene. It would be done.

With that, the twilight reign crept closer.

Through a break in the canopy Venn looked up at the early evening sky. Long trails of cloud reached over the paling sky to where the sun was just about to set. As his custom since leaving the snow-bound home of the Harlequin clans, Venn crossed his hands over his heart and inclined his head towards the orange ball at the horizon.

He'd seen this done in Mantil, throughout the pirate havens and fishing ports of that island. It was a gesture of deference, echoing Azaer's small contribution to the Elven language, and he had adopted it himself to greet twilight.

I have seen how flawed my people are, Venn thought with a smile, how enslaved they have been to telling one particular notion of history and refuting Aryn Bwr's heretical truths… And yet still I am drawn to tradition with all the rest of them; still I feel the need for solemnity and reverence. 'Flawed and frail is man and so we raise Gods in our better image' – Verliq had a point there.

The black-clad Harlequin pointed to a fallen oak ahead. 'We'll make camp there,' he said, slipping his pack from his shoulders and holding it out for Marn to take from him. 'There is something I must do first.'

Capan shot him a questioning look, but led the others on.

Venn watched them go, walking with the lithe grace of all Harlequins. 'And what a sight they will look when they are all gathered,' he whispered to the twilight. 'Not even the Reavers could stand against two regiments of Harlequins. Never will death have looked so beautiful.'

He turned away and headed to a spot he'd noted earlier: a long dip in the ground that curved slowly off to the right, a natural ditch covered in lush bracken. The ground fell away after that so Venn had to walk only a short distance before he was out of sight of the others. Somewhere above his head he could hear the chatter of sparrows and, closer, the high abrupt chirp of bluecrests as they chased the evening midges.

'Jackdaw,' he said, 'do your work.'

Unbidden, Venn felt his lips move and as the Crystal Skull at his waist drew in the air around him the smell of earthy undergrowth filled his nose. It was overlaid by another, sharper tang, and Venn wrinkled his nose as that developed into a stench of decay he could taste at the back of his throat like bile. He looked around, but saw no one.

Rojak spoke in his mind. 'Cautious in your freedom, my queen?'

Venn saw movement off to his left and turned as the Wither Queen rose from the tall bracken and closed on him. She was eying the former Harlequin with naked suspicion. She came close enough to reach out and touch him, but there she stopped, looking all around while her tongue, serpent-like, flicked her lips. Her skin had the pallor of the dead. It was stretched tight over her bones, and looked fragile, as if it might tear at the slighted touch. Matted hair partly obscured her face and strands stuck to a weeping scab on her jaw.

'There is no charity in your heart, spirit,' she replied, peering at him as though she could see Rojak's soul through Venn's eyes, 'so cautious I remain.'

From the undergrowth wisps of black fog pulsed and shifted with restless energy, and he could see shapes resembling rats moving along the ground. They surrounded the former Aspect of Death, forming a cordon that Venn believed to be more substantial than it looked.

He looked at the nearest of the rats and saw it watching him, its spectral jaw hanging slack. Venn suppressed the urge to draw one of his swords and looked away, putting the spirit's hungry eyes from his mind.

'As you wish,' Rojak replied, unperturbed. 'I come to claim that which you promised.'

'Then ask your boon and be gone.'

Rojak laughed his strange, girlish laugh, but the Wither Queen made no sign of whether she'd heard it. 'It is only this – that you listen to me a while longer.'

'The Harlequins prove a dull audience for your prattling?'

'They have heard all my stories,' Rojak agreed, 'but what I ask of you is something different. I have a proposal-I wish you to listen and make no decision until I have finished.'

'What trickery is this?' she asked angrily, and half a dozen more insubstantial spirits appeared in the air between the Wither Queen and Venn.

'No trickery,' Rojak assured her, 'but you will need persuading before you agree to my suggestion.'

Two of the pulsing black spirits raced away suddenly, darting through the trees like startled sparrows to scout the nearby forest more properly. Venn saw the Wither Queen mouth silent words as she turned to watch them go.

'Speak your piece,' she commanded once they had gone. The Goddess tasted the air again, but this time it was a predatory action. The stink of her presence became a cloying force in Venn's nose and throat. It was all he could do not to gag as Rojak cheerfully continued, apparently enjoying the sense of corruption all around him.

'These forests are not only your hunting ground; they are also your refuge.'

Venn saw the Wither Queen's eyes narrow, but she kept to the bargain they had made and did not speak.

'You have grown stronger away from Death's presence, but not so strong that you can prevent Him from leashing you once more. To do that you need more than brute strength, you need stature – in the divine sense.'

There was a note of enjoyment in Rojak's voice that Venn recognised all too well. The minstrel had always loved to lecture, to present truths to others and let them walk the dark paths he revealed. To do so with a God would be a pleasure worth savouring.

'We have the means to bring this about, to secure for you a place in the Pantheon that Death himself will not wish to disrupt.'

'How?' The Wither Queen asked, her expression turning from suspicious to one of burning hunger.

'A king is measured by his subjects, a God by its followers. Death must respect a position within the Pantheon because He is the epitome of rank, of authority – but spirits of the forest do not convey the worship a God needs to be called a God.'

'My mortal followers are few and reluctant; their prayers full of bitter tears.'

'And there you are a God most rare,' Rojak said, as softly as if he were whispering to a lover.

The Wither Queen stared, waiting for him to continue.

Rojak chuckled, enjoying the moment. 'Others of the Pantheon, however, are more fortunate and it pains me to see such beauty lack the majesty it deserves. My suggestion is this – permit us to help you achieve this position and ally with us in our endeavours. In return, when the time is right and our need is pressing, lend my master your power when it is requested.'

'Your master wishes to bind me as Death would? What good is it to exchange one lord for another?'

'It would be a loan, to last no longer than a moon – it is not domination over you my master seeks, merely assistance to ensure a similar freedom as that we offer you.'

The Wither Queen was silent for a time; even the spirits surrounding her stilled and the darkening forest itself became hushed.

Venn realised every muscle in his body had gone taut with anticipation.

'A term of service, when asked for, to last until the moon is new,' she said at last. Venn felt the tension drain from his body. 'In return for providing me with the power to resist Death's call. Prove you have the power to do such a thing and there shall be a covenant.'

'It would be a pleasure,' Rojak purred. 'If you are ready to take what is deservedly yours?'

Venn heard a second voice in his head as Jackdaw started murmuring; he could not make it out at first – then he froze, recognising the form easily enough that the words did not matter. Jackdaw was praying. Once he had been a prior at a monastery to Vellern, until Jackdaw had renounced his vows and become sundered from his God. Needless to say, the Gods disapproved of such behaviour – using prayer to summon one was like poking an already-angry bear. The God of Birds might well be diminished after Zhia Vukotic killed an Aspect and high priest of his in Scree, but feeble he was not.

Venn smiled; Vellern wouldn't even think twice before incarnating. A greasy sensation slithered down the former Harlequin's spine as Jackdaw drew on the Crystal Skull he carried. The forest went completely silent and even the breeze drifting through the leaves vanished as the dusk birdsong faded to nothing. Venn felt a prickle of excitement and his heart began to beat faster as the Jackdaw's incantation grew louder.

The Wither Queen was busy herself, her eyes firmly closed, her arms held outstretched as she performed her own summoning. Pinpricks of pale light began to appear all around her – five, ten, twenty – forming sickly constellations above her head. A handful sank to the ground and wriggled like diseased mice before abruptly spasming and splitting open for new rat-like wisps to emerge. More rats scampered from the undergrowth with unnatural speed to gather and fawn at the tattered hem of her skirt.

Jackdaw's intonation broke off suddenly and Venn looked around. The forest was empty, but there was a sudden sense of weight in the air like the heaviness before a storm.

'He comes,' Jackdaw whispered from the recesses of Venn's mind. He sounded terrified. The taste of magic appeared thick in his mouth, eclipsing the Wither Queen's putrefaction. Venn gripped the Crystal Skull firmly with one hand and reached for a sword with the other. He didn't know whether it would do any good, but if this all went wrong he didn't want to die empty-handed.

A dark shadow descended over them all. For a moment Venn thought it was Vellern, swooping from on high, but then he felt the familiar touch of Azaer on his mind and relaxed.

The moment didn't last long; in the next instant there was a swirl of air a few yards away that seemed to fold in upon itself and Venn blinked and found himself staring at the stern, hairless face of Vellern. Standing eight feet tall, with a mantle of peacock feathers that reached all the way to the ground, the God of Birds glared around, searching for Jackdaw.

The God carried a long jet-black javelin in his taloned hands. He levelled the weapon at Venn, who took a step back, his hand tightening on his sword. Vellern advanced a step, half-turning his back on the Wither Queen in his fury.

'You elude me no longer, traitor,' Vellern said, his voice sharp and quick like an eagle's cry.

Jackdaw was busy and Venn didn't reply, but he drew his sword, which enraged the God further. Venn took another step back and Vellern followed, raising the javelin high, ready to stab down at him.

The blow never came. As one the spectral rats leaped, and the swirling spirits darted at Vellern's face. He ignored the rats entirely and slapped away the first spirit to reach him. Its smoky form dissipated entirely as Vellern's hand passed through it without resistance. The second fared no better, casually destroyed without regard, and though the rats tore and raged at Vellern's legs their efforts were too insignificant to warrant attention.

But they were just distraction, and a fat arc of raw, spitting energy raced from Venn's sword tip and struck Vellern hard enough to make the God reel. It was followed by another, then another, each one driving Vellern a pace back as it hit home. The Wither Queen stepped forward now, a long stiletto in each hand.

Jackdaw changed his attack and threw a writhing coil of white energy that blew apart Vellern's javelin, while the Wither Queen stabbed her knives into the God. Vellern parried the blows with his hands and kicked out at her, raking talons down her chest and causing her to screech in pain.

Jackdaw renewed his efforts, lashing out and tearing great rents in his peacock mantle. Venn felt a shudder run from deep inside him and he howled with pain as Jackdaw punched forward, knocking Vellern from his feet.

The Wither Queen and her rats pounced, a swirling mass that swarmed over the supine figure.

Venn's every sense was spinning and he was struggling to move as he saw the rats tearing at Vellern's white speckled tunic, trying to rend the flesh beneath. The Wither Queen had greater success, stabbing one stiletto into Vellern's shoulder and pinning him to the ground.

Venn felt a burning sensation on his fingers as though they were aflame. When he looked down he saw his fingers were blackened trying to control a crackling ball of energy. In his mind Jackdaw gibbered with drunken delight.

'Yield to me,' the Wither Queen screeched triumphantly, 'yield and submit – accept me as your God, or you die now.'

Venn saw the horror in Vellern's eyes. The God looked past the Wither Queen and directly at him, fearing the surging ball of magic in his hand. Venn raised his hand and his intent was obvious. The rats continued to attack and now the God could feel them, writhing under their assault as he lay there with one shoulder pinned to the ground. With a gesture the Wither Queen halted the rats and underlined her demand by putting the other stiletto to Vellern's throat.

'I yield,' the God cried at last. 'In your service I will live.'

The last words were said in a resigned pant, but the Wither Queen was not yet satisfied. The glee plain on her face, she slammed her free hand into Vellern's chest and drove her broken fingernails through the flesh. Vellern howled, but the Wither Queen ignored him and pushed down to where a mortal's heart would be.

The Goddess found what she was looking for and wrenched her hand out again, this time closed around something. She held her prize up and laughed, the noise like a person choking their last few breaths. She raised her hand to her mouth and opened it, and Venn caught a glimpse of a golden wisp of light before it was devoured.

The Wither Queen licked the dripping ichor from her palm and crouched to allow the rats their share. At last she was satisfied. and looked down at Vellern. She placed her hand on the injured God's chest and he vanished, leaving only an indentation in the earth and a few last spots of divine blood that the rats fought to lap up.

'Tell your master,' she croaked, looking up at Venn with the smile of a sated glutton, 'I agree to his bargain.'