The ragged man

CHAPTER 26

Corl went to the window again and peered down at the street below. Sundown had come and gone without remark by those outside, only Corl and his two companions seemed to have noticed. Within their room all was calm, outside reigned chaos more frenzied and desperate than usual. Tirah was draped in the colours of high summer; a haphazard network of ropes linked the rooftops, from which trailed twists of ribbon and cloth – in bright greens and yellows, for the main. In the sky, long furrows of cloud whipped by overhead, swallowing starlight like ravening dragons.

From his narrow window Corl could see effigies of half a dozen Gods, hanging from the ropes and painted on walls. Nartis was present, of course, but this was one of the few days when he was outnumbered in the Farlan cities. Tsatach, Belarannar and Kitar were just as dominant, while the Goddesses of Love were cheered and toasted as a trio, even at this late hour when the thoughts of many had turned to worship Etesia, Goddess of Lust.

A statue of Vrest made of sticks and animal skins stood tall over long spits of pork that dripped into a makeshift fire-pit just off the main street. As Corl watched, the woman tending it cut the first choice slice and tossed to her drooling dog, an offering to the God of Beasts. Corl smiled, remembering the festivals of his childhood, how the wonder had filled his whole body. Fate had taken him on difficult paths since then, but the memories endured, and despite his chosen profession, Corl remembered the boy he had been with a light heart.

It was the Midsummer's Day Festival, and throughout Tirah the drink had been flowing freely for hours. Corl leaned out of the window again to check on the old woman passed out below – she'd found herself a snug little nook in a stack of wooden pallets just as the sun had been falling; either she was so drunk she couldn't remember the way home, or she had no home to return to and was taking advantage of the cheap festival beer to solve her problems for a night.

Corl hadn't been the only one to spot her settling down to sleep it off; if he'd not whistled and wagged a warning finger at the pair of youths sidling up to her hiding spot, she'd probably have had those problems solved forever. As it was, they'd left her alone. He could make out the outline of her bundled shape well enough to see it hadn't been disturbed since last he checked.

There would be rich pickings elsewhere for the youths, Corl had no illusions about that, but it wasn't just the risk of their actions attracting the Palace Guard that prompted his intervention. It was Midsummer's Day, and whatever he had planned for the dark hours of night, Corl was not a man angry at the Land, a detail that had served him well over the years. His childhood had been poor but loving, and Midsummer's Day remained a fond memory for him. No one deserved to be robbed and murdered on this day if he could prevent it with a look.

Unless I'm being paid for it, o' course, Corl reminded himself. His scarred cheeks crinkled, distorting the tattoos and scars that had scared the boys off. Whether or not they understood the markings on his right cheek, few cutpurses would fail to recognise the mark of Kassalain on the other.

Those that don't, don't last too long.

The Goddess of Murder's shrine might be hidden away in the cellar of a long-abandoned house well away from the Temple District, but her mark was well known, and always afforded respect. Corl was a short man who didn't look that strong; without Kassalain's sign on his face, he'd have provided his mistress with many more offerings over the years as men mistook him for an easy target. The irony was not lost on the Priestess of Kassalain, but she was as fickle as her Goddess, she found the irony amusing.

'Not long now. Light the burner,' Corl called softly over his shoulder.

He received no reply; neither of them liked following his orders much, but Corl was well aware anyone who ended up a blade for hire was bound to have a few flaws. He'd worked with this pair on and off for several years now, and they respected his skills, enough to do what he told them, at least. The younger of the two, who called himself Orolay, was keen to join Corl as a devotee of Kassalain, but the older – Isen, a sour-faced ex-soldier like Corl, didn't care about anything beyond earning enough coin to survive.

In a city where the Hands of Fate, those devotees of the Lady trained as spies and assassins, had been numerous, there had been little work for the followers of the weaker Goddess of Murder. Corl was the best of those aligned to the hidden temple, but following the Lady's death, the priestess had started receiving overtures, a few making attempts to court the Goddess' favour. The most recent had provided them with a commission – some rat-faced foreigner needing a most unusual job done, and without the ability to do it himself. Whatever quarrel there might be was beyond Corl's fathoming, but the coin offered was good.

Corl caught a sniff of the pungent, earthy smoke coming from the burner on the table behind him and he turned. As he approached the table he wafted some of the smoke towards him, filling his lungs with it. He muttered a mantra to Kassalain and drew his longknife, holding it edge-on to the burner so the smoke caressed it, then repeating the gesture and saying a second mantra. He did the same with each of his weapons – two longknives, two shorter blades, a stiletto and a blowpipe – and with each there was a growing awareness of the textures under his fingers, the hang of his clothes on his body, the clamour of merriment surrounding their room like a cocoon. He gave a slight shiver of pleasure as the drug raced through his body; he felt a heady jolt in his muscles.

Corl ignored Orolay as the young man copied him, doing his best to smother his coughs on the drug-smoke. Isen drew his own fat knife with a studded finger-guard and tapped it on the table, then, that small gesture of respect done, fetched his costume and pulled it on over his regular clothes. Orolay and Corl followed suit a short while later. Corl's was the most dramatic – he'd found something approximating a Chetse's desert robe, albeit one he suspected would make a Chetse burst out laughing, but it came with a headdress that would hide his tattoos as effectively as it would protect against a desert wind.

Corl felt the drug-smoke increase its grip on him. It started with a tingle in his head: a bright, sparkling warmth that flowed down his spine and into his limbs. Orolay now had a broad grin, exhilarated by the sharpening effect of the drug on his senses. Isen refused to allow himself to enjoy it, but still the man shook out his arms and shoulders, flexing muscles now brimming with renewed energy. Corl smiled himself and tasted the air, breathing in the musky odour of the room and the dusty pine scent of its walls. He remembered the clouds racing outside and for a moment felt his spirit move with them, surging on with swift, joyful purpose.

Kassalain's Milk affected people differently. For Corl it heightened his senses – hyper-awareness of everything around him was her gift. As an assassin he valued that more than the sense of strength and invulnerability Isen got from the smoke.

Fast way to be killed, that, he thought, watching the taciturn man suddenly become animated, like a restless wolf. Orolay's got it like me; maybe he'll make a decent devotee after all.

'Come,' Corl breathed, savouring the delicious sensation of the word slipping out through his lips.

Isen moved forward so quickly only his sharpened reactions stopped him being hit with the door as Corl opened it and went through. Isen, desperate to be moving, was almost hopping behind Corl as the smaller man walked down the dark, narrow staircase to the open doorway of the tenement block. Laughter rang out from rooms on both sides: families celebrating together, having exhausted themselves dancing and cheering on the many entertainments.

The Chief Steward had supposedly distributed thousands of gold crowns so the population might drink to the memory of Lord Isak. Corl hadn't been able to tell if there had been genuine affection for the young white-eye, but his name was certainly being shouted in toast, so he guessed Chief Steward Lesarl would be satisfied. The cults were keeping a low profile this year – that was understandable given the place was teeming with soldiers ready to forcibly disarm any penitent forces stupid enough to get caught.

Corl chuckled to himself. Things certainly weren't dull around Tirah, not now at any rate, with the so-called peace treaty with the Menin overshadowed by the assassination attempt on Count Vesna. Some said it had been a beast from the Waste, but Corl took that with a pinch of salt; a friend heard it was Corl himself dead at the sword of Count Vesna – the man damn nearly shat himself with fright when he walked into a tavern to find Corl drinking at the bar.

It had been a hard few months, blood being spilled on all sides, but today was Midsummer's day and the people were damn well going to celebrate. The flutter of cloth above their heads was like a riot of swooping birds. That suited Corl, he thought, as he led them into the street to the tavern on the other side. Lots of crowds to get lost in, none of 'em sober enough to notice much. The door was wide open and some drunk was leading a song within, but there was also a tapped barrel outside manned by a man with thick arms and a thicker waist. He was taller than any of the three assassins, and his hair hung about his shoulders in many braids, each of which was tied with a red ribbon. Corl noticed the man had one finger missing, and a mass of scars down his wrist.

A veteran, he thought, one who cashed in better than I did when he retired. He inclined his head respectfully to a fellow ex-soldier and ordered two beers for his comrades and a jug of wine for himself. The desert-robe trembled in the breeze, flattening against his front and leaping madly behind him. Corl could feel the air rush past his body, given form by the long, smooth cloth.

'You seen battle?' the barman said cheerily, clearly having sampled his own wares during the day. 'Got soldier's eyes, y'have.'

'Aye, more'n enough,' Corl confirmed. While the other two drank thirstily, he contented himself with running his fingers down the side of the fired clay jug. 'But since it's Midsummer we're for Stock's Circle, find a more friendly tussle.'

That earned Corl a wide grin. 'Was a time I'd join yer; been seven year since I woke up after Midsummer happy an' no damn clue where I was!' The man laughed, lost for a moment in the memory. Stock's Circle was where many folk gravitated to on Midsummer if they were looking for someone to celebrate with.

Corl gestured to the tavern. 'Well, marriage happens to us all, so my da used to say.'

Laughter boomed around the street as the barman roared his agreement and tossed his knotted hair back from his face. 'Damn right,' he agreed and thumped Corl on the shoulder. 'That obvious?'

'Nah, I saw your offerings earlier.' Corl pointed up at the garlands hanging above the doorway and from the stone faces peering down from the corners of the roof. 'They're a woman's work, not a soldier's.'

The barman looked up, puzzled for a moment. It was traditional on Midsummer to put out offerings to appease the city's gargoyles and spirits, and whatever else might be roaming the rooftops and night-time streets. The garlands were bound hoops of hazel and elder twigs with beef bones or pigskin in the centre, each one threaded with thin strips of dyed cloth like to those hanging down over the cobbled street.

'Hazel leaves, friend? Your wife knows a witch, I'd guess, to use that. And anyways, you'd have just soaked rags in blood and hung them, not gone to all the trouble of colouring 'em yoursel'.'

The barman slowly nodded. 'You ain't been drinking enough this night,' he said reproachfully before the smile returned to his face. 'That's better attention than a man'll wanna pay at Stock's Circle.'

Corl agreed and held out payment. 'Slept off the first round – time to top misself up!'

The clatter and stomp of boots ended the conversation, as a horde of shouting, laughing people spilled around the corner. Corl thanked the barman and turned away, twitching aside his shawl to take a long gulp of the wine before the parade arrived. The parade always passed this way before winding up at Stock's Circle, and Stock's Circle was where one of the several Harlequins currently performing in Tirah would be until well into the morning.

Isen cheered and walked out into the centre of the street, arms stretched wide, to the jeers and yells of the folk in the parade.

The Wanton Woman and her Beasts: this same parade was happening in every Farlan town and village, in some form or another. There'd be half a dozen at least in Tirah, but in the poorer districts like this they were invariably more fun.

The parade was led by a wagon made up to look like a chariot and dragged along by more than a dozen men, some of whom were so drunk they couldn't even walk in a straight line. The Wanton Woman herself was standing in the driver's seat, and behind Corl could see a tangle of limbs poking out – someone getting a head-start on the fun, obviously.

Corl looked at the driver again – and gave a start. He couldn't recognise anyone under the black feathered mask – a woman's face outlined in white with full lips and pronounced cheeks, an echo of the ceremonial headdresses the eunuch-priests of Etesia wore for ceremonies – but when the wind caught the cloak, he recognised the diamond-pattern patchwork: it was remarkably similar to that of a Harlequin.

That's a bad omen, Corl thought as he approached the wagon.

'Beasts!' the Wanton Woman bellowed, to roars of approval from the screaming rabble. 'More beasts for my wagon!'

Laughing, Orolay and Isen grabbed at the traces of the wagon, shoving aside a couple of the more hopelessly drunk, who left without complaint, having spied the barrel of beer nearby.

'Drink, you harlot!' Corl shouted back at the Wanton Woman, 'you need a man riding up here!' Without waiting for a reply Corl hauled himself up to stand beside her and offered her the jar of wine. As the crowd behind booed at his impertinence, the Wanton Woman regarded him a moment, then reached forward and grabbed him by the crotch. Corl yelped as she squeezed a shade harder than necessary, but the gesture won the crowd's approval and their booing turned to a swell of cheering and vulgar suggestions.

'You'll do!' the Wanton Woman announced, releasing Corl and taking a swig of the wine he'd offered. She leaned closer and Corl realised the mask had a dark hood attached to it, hiding the fact her hair was cut so short underneath it – he had more on his chin. Her breath swept sweet and hot across his face. 'You'll get your lift, but no ride less it's from one o' those in the back, hear me?'

Corl nodded and she gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Her strength took him by surprise and the gesture nearly knocked him off the driver's seat, but she only laughed and yelled for her beasts to march on.

'And keep an eye on the fat one,' she muttered as she continued to wave and blow kisses at onlookers, 'he likes ta get rough – he does it again, I'll cut his bloody nuts off.'

Corl looked behind him at the half-dozen men and woman in the back of the wagon. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves; one entirely naked woman was riding a gasping bean-pole of a youth, her elbows on his shoulders and his head pressed against her breasts. At the back was one far fatter than the rest. He was shirtless, with his belly hanging out; he and another man were fondling a beautiful woman dressed like a dancing girl.

He faced the front again, took the wine back from the driver and drank, long and slow, enjoying the sensation of the liquid slipping down his throat – until the driver grabbed it back. He looked around. Behind him, the fat man had unbuttoned the dancing girl's blouse to expose her beautifully rounded breasts. In front of him Isen and Orolay looked perfectly happy straining away at the traces.

He hopped into the back, shoved the fat man off the back of the wagon with his boot and bent over the dancing girl. He let the shawl drop from his face, trusting to darkness and drink that she'd not recognise the marks on his face, and kissed her, long and hard. She wrapped her arms around his head and the other man got the message and shifted to the side, joining the naked woman and her youth. The journey to Stock's Circle was short, but deliciously sweet.

When they arrived Corl took his time saying his goodbyes. Stock's Circle was still full of people, doubtless waiting for the Wanton Woman to arrive and signal the culmination of the night's fun. He felt the press of voices and movement all around, mingling with the salty taste of the dancing girl's sweat and the heat of her body.

Their destination had once been a place of punishment, but the pit at the centre of the crossroads had been converted for entertainment decades ago. Now steps led down into the pit, and when fruit was thrown it was only a commentary on the performance. On the eastern edge was a half-moon gallery a hundred yards long, occupied by taverns and eateries, and a renowned glassblower's workshop. With food, drink and entertainment all close at hand, the Circle had become the natural heart of entertainment in this part of the city.

Midsummer's Day was a festival for the common folk, one of the few sanctioned by every cult that mattered, and a Harlequin was guaranteed to be here, performing for the masses. As an impatient Isen dragged Corl away from the delicious dancing-girl, who was still pouting prettily at him, a chill went down his spine. Their prey was singing bawdy songs, accompanied by a choir of hundreds. Corl's ardour was immediately dampened; the dancing-girl vanished from his mind, replaced by the images of Kassalain in her temple.

Once again he wondered about the strange nature of his commission: to kill a person who had no identity, who bore no allegiance and took no sides. Isen and Orolay had both been incredulous when he'd told them. The younger man had been outraged, while Isen had been mostly mystified. The three of them had debated the matter for hours, but when they reached no conclusion, Corl had decided to do what he always did: take the money and try not to think too hard about the victim. After all, there was always a reason, good or otherwise, even if Corl himself did not understand it and that was not much different to serving in the army.

All the same, Corl could not help wondering: why a Harlequin? Who could possibly have a grudge against the blessed tellers of stories? What madman could imagine a Harlequin harming him, or posing a threat? It was foolish… but as he stood there, the swell of bodies pressing from all sides, Corl still found himself checking the weapons secreted around his body.

'Coin all spends the same,' he muttered, too quietly for Isen to hear properly. He waved Isen to silence as the song ended and the Harlequin started its last tale: one Corl had heard years back: the Goat and the God. They laughed as hard as anyone as the Harlequin acted out Vrest's amorous mishaps as he took the form of a Billy-goat, booed with gusto at the theft of the prized doe and cheered at the hoofprints adorning the God's buttocks afterwards… although Corl felt a vague sense of puzzlement as the story unfolded, the course of events differing to how he remembered them – but it was all too long ago to recall accurately, and Harlequins never forgot a single word, everyone knew that.

The swell of laughter and cheering swept him up and Corl tried to ignore his qualms. The Harlequin took its bows and as the drummers started striking the first bars of the salute to the night, the brisk, heavy thump of the drums reminded Corl of a heartbeat and his thoughts returned to the night's task. At his gesture, Isen and Orolay began to make their way around the pit to where the Harlequin was gathering its meagre possessions.

As they crossed the open ground, a pair of fiddlers took up the mournful salute and the Harlequin was slipping away with only a few words of thanks and blessing from the grateful crowd, who were mostly listening, rapt, to the final song, an ancient tradition. It was Farlan custom for all who could afford it to offer a Harlequin food and lodging whenever it arrived in a town or city. Neighbours would bring gifts, to honour their presence; on Midsummer that was doubly important. Corl reckoned the Harlequin would have accepted an offer of bed and breakfast closer to the city gate, and as asking would be a bit obvious, he'd decided following the Harlequin was their best option. With luck the revelry would have died down before he reached his destination and they wouldn't have to slaughter the whole household.

Corl slung his arm around Isen's neck, raised the jug of wine to the man's lips and poured some down his front, roaring with laughter. He lurched into the middle of the street, keeping one eye on the Harlequin's back even as he hugged Isen to him.

'Easy now,' he said in Isen's ear, 'you're wound tight as a ratter – chase this one too hard and he'll turn on us.'

With that he lunged towards Orolay, shoving the jar into the young man's hands, then falling to the ground and dragging Isen down on top of him. As the bigger man's weight thumped down on him, Corl roared with drunken laughter and Orolay, catching on, quickly joined in.

'You ain't payin' me ta play fool,' Isen hissed, 'use the boy fer that.'

'Piss you on,' Corl replied under his breath, theatrically struggling to his feet. 'Pride's easiest to lose, it's everythin' else as hurts.'

Isen scowled and grabbed the wine off Orolay. 'Lose yer own then,' he said, and headed off down the street.

Corl watched him go. Isen wasn't giving up on the mission, he knew that, but the last thing he needed was the man trying to earn the fee alone. Whatever the reasons behind their commission, it wasn't going to be easy – the biggest question was how they were going to get it done and remain alive. Corl was good with a knife, really good, but he wasn't planning to tangle with a Harlequin unless he had a company of Ghosts at his side.

Shame you're not this good an actor, Corl thought as he watched Isen stamp away after the Harlequin, who was heading down a fork in the road, this is better than the happy drunks routine.

'I'm sorry!' he bawled after the other man with mock anguish. 'Forgive me!'

Corl ran a few steps forward, enough to make Isen flinch, before turning away and beckoning Orolay closer. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Harlequin looking around, and seeing nothing but a drunken argument between friends. Corl splashed the remains of the jar of wine over the two of them so they were as stained and stinking as Isen.

'Know any songs?' he asked Orolay with a chuckle, but when the young man looked blank, Corl thumped him on the shoulder and said, 'Hah, never mind, we'll keep to the "drunken friends making up" routine.' He cupped his mouth and shouted, 'Balar, wait up! Don't walk away!' his voice echoing down the near-empty street. When they caught up with Isen, he pointed wordlessly after the Harlequin as it disappeared through a crumbling memorial arch heading towards the Golden Tower district. The street was empty other than them, and Corl felt the essence of Kassalain stir in his blood.

'Perfect,' Corl said, struggling to cast off the desert robes. 'I'll cut through the alleys and catch it on t'other side. You two keep following, 'case it turns away.'

He didn't wait for them to reply but set off at a sprint, slipping a longknife from its sheath as he moved alongside a building. There was an alley there that he knew well, kept in near-total darkness by the tall buildings, which was a good cut-through to the Wood Gate crossroads – as long as you were willing to risk the chance of a footpad lurking in wait. This was his chance.

He kept his knife low and ran as fast as he dared, keeping to the centre of the alley. Twenty yards in he heard a woman's voice whisper in his ear – Kassalain, smelling murder in the air – and he dropped, tucking his head down into a roll, and slashed at the shadow moving to his right. The footpad yelped and fell back as Corl, already back on his feet, made up the ground in one step and lashed out, this time slicing open his ambusher's hand. The blow drove the man back the way Corl had come and he saw him clearly for the first time, silhouetted against the mouth of the alley.

No second blade, flashed through Corl's mind as he grabbed the footpad's injured arm, yanked him sideways and kicked the man's legs out from under him.

'Wait!' the man gasped as he thumped to the ground, 'please -!' He broke off as he felt the edge of a blade at his throat.

'Sorry, friend,' Corl whispered, 'but you tryin' to kill me's a promise to Kassalain, and I do her collecting.' He drew the knife across the man's throat, cutting as deep as he could in one movement. The man spasmed as the lifeblood flowed out of him, but in a matter of moments his heart stopped and he went limp.

Just another sacrifice to my mistress, Corl though grimly. Better him than me.

The body wouldn't be discovered tonight, so he didn't need to waste any more time. When he reached the other end of the alley he dropped to one knee and caught his breath. In a few moments he felt the veil of silence descend over the alley again. He chanced a look round the corner – and froze.

There it was, apparently still unaware of its pursuer, its patchwork clothes and white porcelain mask stark and ghostly in the pale moonlight.

Corl drew slowly back and reached for the blowpipe sheathed on his thigh. He allowed himself a quick flush of relief as he ran his fingers down its length and discovered no damage, then removed his darts pouch and selected one. The range wasn't great compared to a bow, but he preferred a lack of moving parts in his weapons. He loaded and raised the pipe, and set himself to wait patiently for his target to appear at the alley entrance.

Half a dozen heartbeats later he felt a prickle of fear – he couldn't hear the Harlequin's footsteps on the cobbles – then it appeared straight ahead of him, its head turned slightly away. There was no wind; it was as easy a shot as it could be. Corl filled his lungs, aimed the blowpipe and blew -

– and the Harlequin flinched. One sword was halfway out of its scabbard before the Harlequin even saw what had happened. Corl slowly lowered the blowpipe, feeling secure in the shadows, and watched the Harlequin twist around to look at the finger-long dart in its buttock. With a flick of the wrist it slapped the dart away, then whipped a dagger from its belt and slashed down at the cut.

Corl's eyes widened, he'd never seen that before. The toxin on the dart was insect venom, fast-acting, but not instant. As he watched blood run down the Harlequin's leg Corl found himself wondering how much had entered its bloodstream. Not much, I guess…

He shook his head. Really not the time, he chided himself, stowing the pipe and drawing his longknives. The Harlequin detected his movement, even in the darkness, and peered forward, fully drawing one of its slim swords. It took a few steps forward and Corl felt a chill breath of wind on his neck, as though Lord Death had arrived to claim him.

Larat's Teeth, it knows it can't wait for the venom to kick in.

Corl took a step back. The Harlequin continued forward, still straining to make out any shapes in the black alley. Corl sheathed one of his longknives and drew a shorter blade, moving slowly and bringing it back behind his head, so the Harlequin wouldn't see. As he readied himself, footsteps came from the street beyond – footsteps and voices.

He hesitated, and so did his prey. Then a forced laugh rang out, echoing off the stone walls of the street and Corl realised it was Orolay, obviously as poor an actor as Isen.

The Harlequin, a trained performer, recognised the same and it turned to face the new threat just as Alterr, the Greater Moon, broke from behind a cloud. Her light spilled over the street, illuminating the scene as though they had fallen into some myth and it was Kasi Farlan himself they hunted.

Oh, another poor omen, Corl thought, his stomach clenched.

The Harlequin drew its other longsword, the slender blades as luminous as its mask, and, thanking Kassalain for that moment's distraction, Corl threw the dagger, straight and true -

– and the Harlequin moved with blinding speed, arching backwards even as it swung up a sword up to deflect the missile. Corl's mouth dropped open. What mortal could do that?

He didn't get a chance to find out. He heard Isen snarl and break into a run, and, inexplicably, the Harlequin broke and sprinted as gracefully as a gazelle for the side-street it had originally been headed for.

Corl blinked in surprise as the Harlequin disappeared from view. It didn't look as if the venom or the cut on its buttock had hampered it in the least.

A few moments later Isen and Orolay barrelled past, chasing after it, and the sight of them started him into action again.

'Wait,' he croaked, and stumbled after them, rounding the corner into the street in time to see them clatter to a halt. They stood looking around the empty street in bewilderment.

'Where the fuck's it gone?' Isen growled.

The answer appeared like the wrath of Nartis from the heavens as a blur of bone-white and glittering steel dropped between the pair of them. One sword plunged deep into Isen's chest, throwing him off his feet while Orolay reacted with the speed of youth and Kassalain's milk, slashing wildly and – through sheer luck – managing to deflect the blow.

The Harlequin spun around, raising its sword and slashing at his ribs, and Orolay tried to deflect the blow, only to find it was a ruse: the Harlequin pulled back and withdrew, then gently rocked forward and stabbed at Orolay's shoulder while the young man was still moving to parry the first blow to his ribs. The thrust sent him reeling, and the Harlequin pressed forward its advantage, twisting one sword to disarm Orolay, then lifting the other and slicing deep into his neck, the gleaming steel cutting through flesh as easily as butter.

Corl faltered. He'd barely had a chance to move while his comrades died. As he raised his longknives, he felt his hands waver under the sudden weight. He had no hope at all of matching a Harlequin's skill; his attack had relied entirely on stealth.

Do I have time to run? he wondered, knowing the answer.

'What venom?' the Harlequin demanded in a voice so calm and controlled it could have been reclining in a chair rather than engaged in combat. 'Tell me, and you can live.'

'Ah, venom?' Corl's mind went blank for a moment, then as the Harlequin advanced his survival instinct kicked in again. 'Wait! It's ghost centipede – '

From nowhere an arrow struck the Harlequin in the side, the force of the blow driving it backwards a few steps, and Corl heard it gasp as it grasped the shaft and realised it was a crossbow bolt. The Harlequin sank to one knee, dropping one sword to press a hand to its side.

Corl didn't get any closer; he had just had ample demonstration of the Harlequin's ambidextrous skill.

'Never send a man to do a woman's job,' announced a dismissive voice on Corl's left.

He turned, and nearly dropped his knives in shock as he recognised the diamond patchwork cloak and black mask pushed up on top of a shorn head: his Wanton Woman. Of course, the last time he'd seen her she hadn't had a large black crossbow held carelessly in her hands, or a cigar jammed into the corner of her mouth.

The woman dropped the crossbow, reached behind her back and produced a cocked pistol-bow and dropped a quarrel into it. The end of the cigar glowed orange for a moment, then she pulled it from her mouth.

'Why?' wheezed the Harlequin, looking up at her while blood, pitch-black in the moonlight, seeped between its fingers.

'For what you might do,' the woman replied simply.

Corl looked at her. She barely looked Farlan, with her cold eyes, cropped hair and scarred cheeks, but he'd seen this before. This one was a Hand of Fate – or had been, until the Goddess had died. It looked like Kassalain still had competition in Tirah; the woman's profession hadn't been removed with her copper-dyed hair, just her allegiance.

Without warning the Harlequin launched forward, lunging for the woman, who calmly hopped backwards, away from its sword's tip, even as she fired the pistol-bow. The quarrel hit it just below the shoulder, its sword clattered onto the cobbles and it dropped to its knees again. It bowed its head, as though in prayer, but all Corl could hear was shallow breathing as the Harlequin panted its last.

The woman used her foot to nudge the sword out of the Harlequin's reach before bending to pick it up. She hefted the weapon with an admiring look. 'A thing of beauty,' she whispered. 'Perhaps I'll keep it.'

She swept the sword down and the Harlequin's head tumbled away. Its torso flopped flat at her feet as the Wanton Woman stepped delicately out of the way.

'Double pay for me, it appears,' she said – not callously, to Corl's surprise, more wearily.

He bobbed his head and looked back at the corpses of his comrades. Double pay? She's already killed one tonight? Gods, are they being wiped out?

'Leave them,' she ordered, 'I'll dispose of this one. The guard can find them and think what they like.'

'I wasn't told to hide the body,' he said, returning to his senses.

She gave him a fierce grin and raised the sword. 'If I'm taking a memento, best they don't find the body straight away.'

With that she unclasped her cloak and wrapped the sword before fetching her crossbow. When she'd picked that up she carried on walking away, looking for a suitable hiding place, and Corl realised she was right. There wasn't anything more to say; it was time to leave.

Anyways, the night's not over for me, he reminded himself as he paused over the bodies of his former colleagues. Someone with a grudge against Harlequins; that makes my next job look obvious by comparison.

He sighed and sheathed his weapons. It would be foolish to linger. He summoned a map of the city in his mind and set off at a brisk walk.

The Temple of Karkarn it is, then, and all by myself now… think I'd better pick up a crossbow on my way.