The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 18

A wall of cloud surrounded the city, obscuring the moons and stars. Jackdaw could sense it enveloping the city, drawn by one man's call. The streets simmered in an unnatural humidity, as if the city were festering in its own sour humours. Wherever there was a flat roof he could see bedding laid out, and restless bodies shifting and squirming in the oppressive heat. The citizens of Scree were desperate to escape the stinking closeness of their houses but, in truth, outside was little better.

How long since I felt the breeze? he wondered. It must be just a few days, yet the memory feels more like a dream. From their high station, looking down on the dark bulk of the theatre, he could feel the heaviness in the air, a building storm that had refused to break, but instead lingered with sullen obstinacy, prickling the hairs on his neck. The sudden downpours of early summer had stopped, leaving the population panting like dogs and staring up at the sky with pleading eyes.

The taste of blood persisted in his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue in surprise when that bully from Narkang had crept up on him earlier. Ilumene's mocking grin had shone out from the shadows when he had least expected it. He probed the cut, wincing at the sting, but persisting, because in some strange way it reminded him he was still alive. Was it pain to drive away the numb aching in his heart, or just a reminder that he was human, with a human's foibles? But every time he fell the cut, he saw the blood, the man's life spilled out onto the stage, the final bitter act of their latest play.

'Now,' Rojak announced from his right. Jackdaw flinched, con¬stantly taut with dread whenever he was in the minstrel's presence. It was some three hours till dawn, and the city was almost silent in ltd miserable discomfort. Jackdaw had to stifle a yawn. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, not properly. He wouldn't tonight either, not with the sight of blood filling his mind.

'We are entertaining Scree with a fine barbed comedy, do you not think?'

Jackdaw said nothing. The play was mildly amusing, in a gross, simplistic way, but the initial humour was soured by the murder at the very end. Though Jackdaw – like the whole city, it appeared – had known it was coming, the sight of so much blood had sickened him. He'd turned his head away as the criminal plucked from the city gaol had howled and flopped around on the stage, interrupting the play by his refusal to die quickly. Ilumene, eyes glinting with fierce delight, had pointed out the anonymous figure of King Emin as the audience shuffled out in a cowed silence. The king's face had been as dark as thunder. The man from Narkang had not said why he hated his king so deeply, and Jackdaw was afraid to ask. Ilumene constantly hovered on the brink of savagery; the man's handsome features invariably twisted into a cruel scowl at the very mention of this king.

Thinking about Ilumene's hatred brought Jackdaw full circle back to the hateful play. Already the stallholders surrounding the theatre were lost to the spell carved into the timbers of the theatre's wall as it was being constructed. A few continued to work, scarcely even aware of their motions but driven by long-ingrained habit, but the rest had taken to roaming the streets muttering about ghosts, already lost to the madness. They were feeling the bitterness and gloom that echoed from the play's every line and washed out over the city by the minstrel's magic. Just the previous morning he'd listened to a fruit-seller, muttering to himself, hands clasped together, head twitching nervously, staring down at the feet of those passing by. He was terribly afraid that the man had been quoting a line of prophecy, from 'The Twilight Reign': Six temples, empty and crumbling – darkness heralded by song and flame.

Lost in his thoughts, Jackdaw almost missed Rojak's question, until Ilumene turned slowly to face him, his dagger hanging loose from his fingers as always. The edge was razor-sharp, but somehow Ilumene never nicked himself, even as he spun the blade through his fingers. The cuts and scars covering his hands were all intentionally inflicted; the only time Ilumene seemed to notice the knife in his hands was when he was slicing a new pattern into his own skin.

Quickly Jackdaw muttered something congratulatory, desperate to get Ilumene's eyes off him. Rojak smiled at his words and affected a preening of his clothes. If the man had not filled Jackdaw with such creeping dread, it might have looked comical. The minstrel's clothes were worn and tatty, and he gave off a stench of putrid flesh, for his body was rotting from the inside out. Soon he would be dead, but until then his awful prescience and unnatural powers burgeoned with every passing day. Jackdaw had no desire to know what disease Rojak had contracted, but it would not be coincidental. Their master was too cruel and calculating for that.

'And what is a vital ingredient of all comedic works?'

Jackdaw frowned, trying to find the right answer, but even the words of the script refused to be pinned down.

'A mistaken identity, of course,' trilled Rojak, for all the world as if they were having a sparkling conversation, 'with the inevitable humorous results.'

Humorous? I doubt anyone but Humene would find them funny, Jackdaw thought, but he said nothing. The opium Rojak smoked didn't ever cloud his mind; he was always listening, ever ready to pounce on a hesitation or a misjudged word. Jackdaw had made that mistake once, and the thought of doing so again sent shivers down his spine. The shadow watched constantly.

Rojak peered over the edge of the rooftop they were stood on, look¬ing intently down at the empty street below. And as it happens, we know someone who is desperately seeking a face in the crowd, don't we, Ilumene?'

'We do, and it would be rude to disappoint the man,' Ilumene purred in agreement. 'Especially when he was like a father to me for so many years.'

Whenever Ilumene spoke, it unnerved Jackdaw. The man was powerfully built, and he had hard callused palms that felt like wood when he slapped Jackdaw's face. He looked like a professional soldier, but his accent was cultured, suggesting intelligence behind that brutal facade. He was strangely hypnotic, and he could, when he chose, be as charismatic as a white-eye. At those times, Ilumene frightened Jackdaw even more than usual.

'Surely he'll kill you?' Jackdaw croaked.

'I doubt it,' Rojak said. 'Ilumene's former comrades would never dare, for the king will want to deal with this personally. I find their keenness to find us positively heart-warming.'

'You want to run the risk of them tracking you down as well?'

Rojak raised an admonishing finger. 'But then there would be no mistaken identity, thus no humorous unmasking once it's too late.'

Jackdaw struggled on. 'You want me to make someone appear to be you, or Ilumene?'

'Only a few weeks in the theatre and already you are learning its forms!' Rojak beamed. 'They're here to find Ilumene, so let them see what they want to see.'

'But who? Who is it you want them to kill?'

'Come now, that would hardly be fair on our poor actor. He is a man who has done nothing wrong, so he shall not be harmed.' Rojak waved Jackdaw away dismissively. 'Go and begin preparations for the spell. It must be ready by midday.'

'Where shall I meet you?'

'Oh, not me, I have other business to attend to. Ilumene, was there a member of the Brotherhood you held in higher regard than the others?'

The big man frowned. 'Beyn,' he said after a moment's thought. He balanced the dagger on the back of his fingers. 'Ignas Beyn is one of the few who is not blind to the king's faults. He's loyal to his master, but he's no fool.'

'Then Ignas Beyn shall be our second party, but whether he walks through flame or darkness, he shall see it through untouched.' Rojak spoke slowly, as if intoning a spell. The minstrel was not a mage in the classical sense, but he wielded great power, an understanding of magic's nature so profound it contained its own force. Jackdaw, a fair mage in his own right, suspected this was closer to how a witch worked, harnessing the brutal potential of the Land itself. This was an unforgiving talent, and laden with consequences; Jackdaw preferred using magic he could channel, rather than standing between moun¬tains and hoping not to be crushed as he directed them to move.

And both bit players to survive, Jackdaw thought grimly. Both to wit¬ness Azaer's strength; a strength born in weakness. Who could have guessed that embracing what makes it feeble would give the shadow such power? It stands between darkness and light and so directs both. When a man's own strength is turned against him, what defence can he possibly muster – and what are the Gods but power incarnate?

'I assume you will need Ilumene to accompany you for the spell?' Rojak said, his attention returning to Jackdaw. 'Well then, you both must be at the tavern called The Lost Spur at midday, where you will observe a stranger, a Menin.'

'Do you know his name?' Jackdaw asked. 'There are quite a few who could pass for Menin in the city. How will I know which is the right one?'

'He is also looking for someone,' Rojak replied, his eyes distant, fingers running softly across the strings of his lyre. 'His name is Mikiss, Koden Mikiss.'

From the darkness below, Jackdaw heard a sharp hiss cut through the night.

The others heard it too. Ilumene's free hand moved surreptitiously to his sword and Jackdaw saw a cold smile creep onto Rojak's lips. The sound had come from the alley, too soft to be heard in anything but the dead of night. Jackdaw recognised it immediately: one of the four Hounds, the forest-spirits called gentry, enslaved by Rojak. Now the spirits stood guard, and that noise meant they had seen someone watching their new master.

'Oh Princess,' said Rojak, almost apologetically, 'we did warn you to keep your nose out of our affairs.'

Jackdaw glanced at Ilumene, who looked as confused as he was. Before either could speak a snarl broke the silence in the shadowy alley below. It was swiftly followed by the rasp of swords being drawn. As Jackdaw craned to see, he was rewarded by a sudden flash of move¬ment, a glimpse of metal and a bone-white mask.

The spy slashed behind him as he ran, catching nothing but not waiting to look back as he jumped up onto a wall and crouched to leap again. Before he could move, a pale limb flashed out and pushed him backwards off the wall. The spy rolled as he hit the ground, cutting up again with twin swords. One caught in a wooden ladder and stuck last; he didn't wait to try to pull it out but immediately abandoned the weapon and darted away, heading for the mouth of the alley. From the shadows one of the Hounds appeared, kicked away the spy's legs and disappeared back into darkness again. The man crashed down, hitting the floor hard and taking a moment to recover before he scrambled to his feet. He'd lost his other sword now and was in the process of thawing a long dagger from his belt when a muscular hand reached out from beyond Jackdaw's sight and dragged the spy away.

The man shrieked, and Jackdaw flinched. The snarling that fol-lowed told its own story and he could not help hut picture the long, sharp teeth tearing the spy apart – but somehow the spy managed to pull free, and it was the Hound that staggered back, blood running from a long gash across its chest, ripping open both leather coat and flesh. Jackdaw could see blood on the Hound's muzzle, but it was the spy who darted forward to press the advantage, a curved dagger raised high and threatening.

He didn't get more than two steps before a blurring shape hit him in the shoulder and bore him to the ground. Jackdaw saw him turn and try to stab his new attacker, but a third Hound fell upon him at that moment and clamped its jaws around his forearm. The man howled in pain as one slashed down with its claws and lunged forward to snap at his throat. The screams stopped, though the spy fought on for a few more seconds, beating at the Hounds with his free hand, kicking wildly, like a panicked deer.

And then it was over. The Hounds bent low over their kill, rending the spy's flesh from his bones, and Jackdaw could bear to watch no longer.

As he turned away, he realised Rojak hadn't noticed – normally the minstrel took inordinate delight in death, but for some reason he was still looking out over the empty rooftops, a satisfied smile on his face.

'Perhaps you will heed the warning a little better next time, Princess,' he said to the night.

Without warning, a great flurry of movement appeared beside Jackdaw, fat trails of shadow suddenly rippling away like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Jackdaw and Ilumene both jumped back, the latter drawing his sword in the same movement. Rojak stayed still, betray¬ing no surprise at the darkness coming to life a foot or two from where Jackdaw had been standing.

'That was a poor lesson, then,' snarled Zhia Vukotic as the move¬ment coalesced to reveal the vampire, clad in a white fur-trimmed evening gown that accentuated the rusty stained skin of her neck and shoulders. She stepped forward, sparing a withering look for Ilumene, who had been advancing to meet her until Rojak raised a hand to stop the man.

'I sent the man to gather information and information is what 1 have gained,' she told the minstrel. 'Anything else is no great con¬sideration.'

For a moment it looked as il she would storm past the three men towards the stair that led to the ground, then something stopped her.

She leaned close to Rojak, her delicate nose screwed up in disgust at the smell, and spoke softly, calmly. 'You think to issue me with warnings? Perhaps you don't quite understand the balance of power in this city. Your theatre may have official sanction from Siala and protection from the Spider, but if you are determined to see unfortu¬nate accidents happen to all your players, I will grant that wish. No patron, however powerful they may consider themselves, can protect you from me.'

'Of course, Princess,' Rojak replied in his usual tone, quite unfazed by the immortal vampire standing close enough to pluck his heart out. Jackdaw shivered at the man's lack of fear, his absence of any real emotions. If Zhia did pluck his heart out right now, what would she find in her hand? A healthy organ, still beating, or a rotten piece of carrion? Was there anything Rojak had left to fear?

Rojak gave a small sigh. 'But in the service of my art, what sacrifice would be too great?'

'There's your tavern, sir.' Major Amber pointed. 'Almost there now.'

Mikiss followed the soldier's outstretched finger and tried to sum¬mon up a smile, but in the blistering sunshine, labouring under the weight of his pack, he couldn't find the strength for anything more than a grunt. He began to tramp towards the tavern. The crumbling bricks of these buildings seemed to have been burnt red by the unholy summer sun. Everything he'd seen in Scree told of a careless neglect; even the larger buildings looked dirty and battered when they closed on them.

'What a shithole of a city,' muttered one of the men behind them. The two soldiers acting as bodyguards were brothers, Keneg and Shart. They didn't look particularly similar, Shart being a few inches taller than his older, broader, brother, yet their voices were almost identical. Mikiss could never be sure who was speaking – although Sharl was always the more talkative – unless he was looking at them.

'That's saying something,' Major Amber replied. He smiled back at the two behind, the strange eyes that gave him his nickname glinting in the light. 'Don't you two come from Dorin? I was there in the summer, after the snows had gone; never seen such a festering rat-pit in all my life.'

'We can't all lie brought up in the lap of luxury, Major.'

Amber gave a snort. It was an old joke, repeated interminably dur¬ing the journey. Mikiss had come to the conclusion that all soldiers sniped and teased each other, however absurd the reason. Whenever the mood fell sombre, there was always a piece of foolishness to fall back on, a welcome distraction to Death's hand forever resting on their shoulders.

Amber had been born into minor nobility and was thus accused of being pampered and indulged, while Shart spoke too much and Keneg not enough. It was as simple as that, but none of them ever tired of the same old jokes. When they had been hiding from a group of soldiers one night, Mikiss had found himself glad of their idiotic levity.

Now the major stopped his small party, stepped into the shadow of a building and let his pack fall to the, dusty ground. The others fol¬lowed him, and Mikiss gave a heartfelt groan as he dropped his pack, already thankful for the ease of his torment, however brief.

'Now boys,' Amber said, looking warily at the passers-by, 'just because the end's in sight, doesn't mean we're going to relax. Sir, you'll be staying here with Shart and the packs. Keneg and I will go and give some names to the barkeep. I've no reason to think there's going to be a problem, but we don't take risks and I'm buggered if I'm running from the City Watch carrying that pack if I don't have to.' He had decided at the start that the timid army messenger would be a clerk to anyone they met, rather than the leader of their group. That left him in charge, at least in public, and mostly Mikiss preferred it that way.

Major Amber took a moment to pull his scimitars from his pack and slide the holster straps over his shoulders. He unwrapped the bleached leather from around the hilts and settled them into their sheaths, giv¬ing each a tug to ensure he could draw them without restriction. He straightened his shirt, rubbing a hand distractedly over his belly. He was a professional soldier and disliked being without his armour, but this heat made it impossible to wear even the lightest of mail. All three found themselves unconsciously checking for armour that was no longer there.

Keneg slapped the scabbard of his broadsword, a thick weapon Mikiss thought of as an unholy cross between sword and axe. He nodded at his brother and stepped up beside Major Amber.

'If there's no reception to speak of, I'll send Keneg out and have the beer waiting for you.'

Shart whispered urgently, 'See if there's anything better than that

piss we got in the last place. Bloody westerners and their poor excuse for beer; that stuff was halfway to water!'

'You'll get what you're given,' Amber growled goodnaturedly, 'but if it'll shut you up for half a minute I'll see what I can do.'

The pair strode off, Keneg half a pace behind the major, continu¬ally scanning the street as befitted his role of bodyguard – though any local thug would have to be brave to the point of madness to tangle with Major Amber. There was nothing noble or gentle about the tall Menin officer. His weathered face bore a number of scars, one of which was obviously a sword cut, and his shaved head added to the brutal facade. That Amber was dressed in fine clothes was a minor point, and of no importance once one had taken in the size of his scimitars and the brutal lines of his face.

Mikiss watched them walk away, then realised he didn't have to be on his feet any longer. He sat down heavily on his pack and gave a sigh. For a few minutes he just watched his feet, unrecognisable to him without the elegant cavalry boots he normally wore. Evenlually his attention wandered to the building sheltering them. The brick looked old. It was crumbling at the edges, and dark streaks showed years of run-off from the neighbouring building. Five yards on, I In-ground dropped away a little, though Mikiss could see no reason lot it; whatever function the drop had served was long-forgotten. Now all it contained was the shrunken corpse of a small dog, little more thill a bag of bones and scrappy fur, curled awkwardly in the corner. It was attended by half a dozen lacklustre flies. Mikiss frowned, Something about the corpse looked odd.

He leaned forward to look a little closer. It was the clog's leg! it wasn't the angle of its body that was strange, but the lengt h of the rear legs, which were too short. With a start Mikiss understood and turned away, revolted: the little dog's hind feet had been cut off. 'Gods,' he muttered, 'is that what they do for sport in this city:"

He pulled off a sandal and rubbed the dry, blistered skin on the ball of his foot. The sandal was Chetse Army-issue, with three straps wind ing around the ankle to hold it secure. He was glad not to he wearing the heavy fur-lined boots reaching halfway up his thigh favoured by the Menin cavalry, but the grit of Serene's baked roads had worked its way between every toe and under every nail.

'Good soldier's loot you've got there,' Shart commented, leaning over to look at the underside.

'Filthy, you mean?'

The soldier chuckled, knelt down and grabbed the foot, much to Mikiss' alarm. He twisted it slightly and pointed down at the rough surface underneath. Once Mikiss was paying attention, Shart gave the foot a firm slap with his massively strong sword-arm. Mikiss gave a yelp of surprise and snatched his foot back.

'That's what I meant,' Shart said with a knowing glint. 'They may be ugly and filthy, but you don't get much tougher than a soldier's foot. Trust me; if I'd done that before we set out, you'd be crying like a girl.' He stood up with a satisfied smile, and stuck his thumb into the thick leather belt that held his daggers and the long-handled axe he was so proficient with.

Mikiss stared at his foot, then back atShart. 'I think you meant to say "crying like a girl, sir", didn't you?'

'That I did, sir. Apologies for the slip, but I hope you'll let me blame it on the weather.' Shart grinned. The army messenger was not one to take his rank seriously.

'That I will,' Mikiss replied, wiping an already-sodden sleeve over his face. 'Gods, I didn't expect it to be so hot here.'

'None of us did. Don't feel natural if you ask me, sir. The way folk have been walking past with their eyes glazed over, and how they're dressed, I don't reckon it's normally so hot this far north.'

'I think you're right,' Mikiss replied, squinting at the handful of people in the street. 'Those soldiers on the Gate obviously didn't have the uniform for this sort of weather.'

'Not soldiers, sir,' Shart said with a reproachful tone. 'Those bug¬gers are only city guards, useless bastards who couldn't make it into the army.'

'I thought the army took anyone?'

'Aye, it does,' Shart broke off to squint towards the tavern. Mikiss turned to look too, but it was only a well-built man leaving the building, not Keneg. 'But there are always some who don't have the stomach for it. Watchmen still get weapons, but they have a bed to sleep in every night and they never face real enemies. Give me any twenty regular troops and I'll cut through a hundred city guards like they were made of butter.'

He cocked his head at Shart. 'But if they've got eighty more weap¬ons than you do-'

'Hah! Don't mean nothing – a hundred men is just a confused crowd 'til they're trained. If we get in a fight here, you'll see what I mean. The city guards won't know where each other are, so they'll just get in each other's way. Keneg and Amber know where I'm going to be, what I'm going to do next. I don't do things to surprise them, so they're watching my back at every step.' Shart smacked a hand against the head of his axe, tied to his belt with leather thongs, and pointed towards the tavern. 'There's the little one,' he said, reaching for the packs at his feet.

Mikiss sighed and hoisted his own onto his back, then realised he was going to have to carry Amber's as well. 'It seems a bit rich to call him "the little one" – Keneg's twice as broad as you are.'

'Ah true, the boy does like his beer.' Shart gave Mikiss a comradely slap on the shoulder and chuckled as he bounced against the wall. 'But he don't like it when people call him the ugly one.'

A wave of mixed odours hit Mikiss as he stepped over the threshold: sweat and straw, mildew and spilt beer. The tavern stank. It might be no dirtier than any other he'd been in, but the unnatural weather had produced a stench that had an almost tangible presence, one that Mikiss could feel even in the back of his throat. It made him gag, and even Shart grimaced.

The main room had a square central bar of oak and stretched a good ten yards. With no fire or lamps, Mikiss struggled to adapt to the gloom after the glare outside, despite every window and door being propped open like a desperate plea for the wind to return. The major leaned on the bar talking to a massive broad-shouldered man with his curling beard tied into a fat bunch that swung wildly, punctuating each nod or shake of his head. Mikiss guessed the man was a former soldier, for though he was taller even than the Menin officer, his deportment was deferential. Old soldiers knew trouble when they saw it, and this man, surely more physically powerful than Major Amber despite his bulging gut, was instinctively acting like a man under orders.

Shart gave a small cheer as he saw the two full tankards ol beer at the major's elbow. He had drained half of his before Mikiss had even dropped the packs and picked up his own. Amber and the barkeep were talking quietly. The local language had its roots in Menin, since the original inhabitants were largely Litse and Menin. Mikiss couldn't understand enough for a conversation, but Lord Styrax's preparation for the campaign had been met iculous. Elite troops of Amber's calibre were able to speak all the important dialects in the West, to cover eventualities just such as this.

The major gave the barkeep a nod and laid a silver coin on the bar top, saying something that sounded like, 'yes, for all!' before turning to Mikiss.

'All seems fine so far,' he commented, casting around the room again and seeing nothing of concern.

'So he will give us directions to find Purn?'

'He was told to expect us – well, you, anyway. Purn's servant left instructions a week ago and has been in each evening since to fetch his master's evening meal.'

'Servant?' Mikiss asked dubiously. They all knew the reputation of necromancers.

'Aye,' Amber replied grimly while Shart called the barkeep over to refill his tankard. 'Don't think he's too popular, but when the money's good, who's going to complain?'

'So is Purn nearby, do you think? It's rather busy for him in this part of town.'

'Doubt it, but that doesn't matter. Safer for him to get his meals from further away, and it's not as if he cares whether the food's cold by the time it arrives, not in this weather.'

'So what do we do now?' Mikiss asked, eying Shart as the man enthusiastically set about his second pint.

'We wait and we eat,' Amber said firmly. 'The man's not coming until evening and I don't want to be wandering the streets just waiting for some bored patrol to pick a fight.' He nodded towards the barkeep, who smiled nervously in response. 'He'll bring us food in a while and make sure our tankards are kept full.'

Are you sure you want to let these two drink all afternoon?'

A smile split across Amber's face. 'They know their limits. Trust me, even if they start singing and dancing on tables, they'll sober up in an instant if someone draws a sword or throws a punch. That little incident was just them letting off steam.'

'Letting off steam?' Mikiss shuddered. The brothers had been bleeding profusely by the end of the vicious fist-fight they'd had a week back.

Aye, they didn't do any real damage. Shart's got too many words in him; sometimes they just come out too fast and he gets on Keneg's tits. Keneg has to remind his brother which one's the elder, who's in charge.'

'They beat each other to a pulp!'

Amber's smile widened. 'We got a saying in the army, "No man's your brother till you spill blood with him." Those two know there's no grudge to hold; even Shart knows that he's not going to win most of the time, but he don't care. They kick off, get it all out of their system and forget about it before the bruises fade.' The major gave Mikiss a friendly thump on the arm, which was still smarting from where Shart had accidentally slammed him into the wall. 'Anyone else spills their brother's blood, and not even the worst fiend of the Dark Place will stop them.'

Mikiss looked at the pair. Shart was chatting animatedly with the barkeep, clearly enjoying the chance to practise his language skills. Keneg was staring at the floor, happy in his own world of silence. They couldn't be more different. Most likely half of their arguments start when Shart accidentally hits Keneg while he's talking, Mikiss thought, watching the younger waving his hands wildly to demonstrate a point.

Presently something resembling food was brought out by a greasy-haired girl. Her eyes were dark with fatigue, betraying a lack of sleep that left her movements weary and sluggish. Even Keneg's glare when she slopped a little of the brackish stew elicited no response.

Mikiss watched Major Amber hunker down over a tough crust of bread, though his eyes were firmly fixed on the right-hand corner of the room. Mikiss could barely see the men sitting there, a broad-shouldered man roughly Amber's size and a smaller companion. They had been anxiously watching the new arrivals, which had prickled Amber's instincts. Now the mismatched pair were huddled together over their table, examining something.

'Strange,' Amber whispered to Mikiss when he realised they were watching the same pair. 'An odd paid of labourers: one damned pale and skinny, the other as much a soldier as I am, and from those scars on his hands I'd say one who's seen the wrong end of a torturer in his days.'

Mikiss half expected Shart to make a joke, but the brothers were busy with their food. The only sign they gave of having heard Amber was a surreptitious loosening of weapon ties. 'Do you think they're here for us?' he asked.

'I doubt it; General Gaur said there were bad things brewing in this place. Knowing what Isherin Purn's sort are like, I'd expect his favourite taverns to be at the centre of whatever is going on. Whatever those two are about, it might not be anywhere near legal, but as long as it's nothing to do with us I don't care.'

They lapsed into silence, concentrating on the food, grateful at least that the poor excuse for stew had softened the bread a touch. An hour crept past, then another. The day grew hotter as the afternoon wore on. Through the open shutters and doors they could hear the sounds of city life dwindle to almost nothing under the oppressive weight of the heat.

Major Amber advised Mikiss to try to get some sleep, and did like¬wise himself. Mikiss lay on a bench, trying to summon the strength to move, but even that was beyond him. He had never experienced weather like this before; even in Thotel the air moved, and during the hottest part of the day you could retire deep within a stonedun. Here, there was no scrap of breeze to offer even the smallest respite, just an overpowering helplessness that weakened both spirit and limbs. Sleep was elusive; his body jerked itself awake every time his eyes drifted closed because of the day's stultifying oppression.

'I hate this city,' he muttered feverishly. 'With my eyes closed, it feels more like the Dark Place.'

'Don't close your eyes, then,' Amber growled beside him.

Mikiss gave a disconsolate sigh and stared at the dirty beams in the ceiling until he realised something. With a grunt he sat abruptly up, feeling his damp back peel away from the bench below. His head swam and he had to rub his face to restore some life to it. 'Our friends have left,' he said.

'Went about an hour ago,' Shart replied shortly. Even his natural garrulousness was defeated by the heat.

'I didn't hear them.'

'Who cares?' Amber asked, still lying on the bench with his eyes closed.

'It's just strange they left when it was still so hot.'

'It's cooling,' Keneg said unexpectedly.

'How can you tell?'

'The sounds outside. Folk are getting ready to start the day again. The farmers are probably bringing their produce to sell.'

The sound of footsteps in the doorway stopped their speculation. The major raised his head, and blinked hard.

A comical figure with sweat-plastered sandy hair and a rounded belly stood at the doorway peering into the gloom at them. His arms

were over-large, out of proportion with the rest of his body, hanging loose at his side. He wore the simple shirt and cropped breeches of a servant, looking out of place in this city of dust and sweat because they were scrupulously free from both – even if they did bear traces of his last meal. He wore nothing on his feet – then Mikiss realised the strange man's feet were completely different sizes and shapes – one would have been relatively normal, were it not for the neatly webbed toes, but the other was chubby and child-sized, a squat lump with fat little toes curling into the floor. Despite the oddness of his feet, they didn't seem to slow the man down as he lurched towards the bar, his thick arms swaying from side to side.

The barkeep gave the newcomer a reserved nod and pointed towards the major before leaving for the kitchen. The strange man turned to regard them all for a moment, then frowned at Amber. Mikiss realised the major must have claimed to be Mikiss himself, just in case there was a nasty surprise waiting for them.

'Master Mikiss?' the man enquired, taking a few steps towards them, his voice surprisingly welcoming, considering his evident wariness.

'And you are?' said Amber.

'You are Master Mikiss?'

'Depends on who you are.'

The strange man didn't reply for a moment. Eventually he shrugged. 'My name is Nai, and I am servant to Isherin Purn. Are you Master Mikiss?'

Mikiss stood up. 'I'm Koden Mikiss,' he said.

A broad smile flourished on his face. 'But of course you are.' His Menin was impeccable, with no trace of any foreign inflection. As Nai grinned, Mikiss realised they were actually of similar ages, although the servant's weather-beaten face made him look older. 'Gentlemen, we have been expecting you,' Nai continued smoothly. 'I hope your journey was enjoyable enough?'

'It was long, dirty and exhausting,' Amber cut in, 'so enough of the pleasantries.'

'Very well, sir,' Nai replied, completely unflustered by the major's brusque tone. 'If you would all be so good as to accompany me?'

The barkeep brought out a covered bowl which Nai swept up with one hand, then scuttled back to the door. Mikiss groaned as he heaved his pack back up onto his shoulder and followed the soldiers out of the tavern into the blindingly bright afternoon. The sun, though lower

in the sky, cast a white carpet over the paving stones and it was still hot enough to make the air in his lungs feel thin and inadequate. His knees began to tremble after only a few steps.

'Here, let me take that,' Shart offered. Mikiss looked up at the man's outstretched hand and shook his head. Shart was certainly stronger and fitter, but the sodden state of the man's shirt was testimony to how hard the journey had been on all of them. However much he hurt, Mikiss had been determined from the start not to be a burden, and he had no intention of starting now, so close to their goal. Shart gave a brief snort; of approval or scorn Mikiss couldn't tell.

Mikiss was vaguely aware they were moving away from the heart of the city as they struggled on, first over uneven cobbles, then smooth packed-dirt roads lined with tall limes with wilting leaves of green and yellow and a type of hawthorn Mikiss had never seen before, its twisted branches covered in thin leaves and sharp spines.

It took them more than half an hour of walking at Mikiss' erratic pace before they reached an area within sight of the city wall that was largely derelict. A handful of roughly mended buildings bore signs of life, but it struck Mikiss that there were no birds to be heard, not even where the trees had shrivelled fruit still hanging from their higher branches. A few people idly watched them from the shadows of doorways and windows, curious only at who might be fool enough to be out under the still-fierce sun.

This far out, past the old South Barbican that had once protected Scree, the houses stood well apart from their neighbours. Nai led them to a large, gloomy place that looked as if it had once been a country manor house until it was swallowed up by the expanding city, then abandoned to the ravages of wind and rain.

'This is where Purn lives?' asked Amber sceptically. It had once been a fine building, but now, surrounded by a high, rusted iron fence with wild undergrowth encroaching on it, the house looked neither inhabited nor habitable. Its nearest neighbour was in even worse con¬dition, bearing the unmistakable black smears of fire-damage.

Mikiss sniffed the air. Here, more than elsewhere in the city, there was a smell of decay. Most of it was the house, he suspected, but there was something beyond the stink of unwashed bodies and rotting vegetation: a sharp smell of decayed meat. Perhaps this was just a hint of the horrors one might find in the home of a necromancer.

'This is where my master lives,' Nai confirmed. 'Much of his work is conducted in the cellars, so we do not need all of the rooms. You are welcome to make use of whatever space you find above ground, and the house is reasonably sound, but I do suggest you keep clear of the attic. The floor is especially bad up there.'

Shart craned his head up to the roof, noting the large gaps in the tiles. 'I see what you mean about the attic,' he muttered, 'but your idea of "reasonably sound" might be a little different to mine.'

'It serves our purposes,' Nai replied, 'and of course we would not want anyone passing by to think there might be value in investigating the building.'

'Don't you have guards?'

'Most certainly,' the servant said with a small smile that filled Mikiss with foreboding, 'but they lack both subtlety and the sense to make distinctions between children playing and enemy agents.'

'As well as a heartbeat, no doubt,' Shart muttered.

'As well as a heartbeat,' Nai echoed with strange enthusiasm. 'And we prefer to keep a low profile, especially as tempers in the city are running somewhat high.'

'Have there been riots?' Major Amber asked.

'Nothing overly dramatic, but the mood in the city has changed. There is no desperate scarcity of food yet, but that hasn't stopped fights breaking out most nights.' Nai gestured up at the pale blue sky and said gravely, 'Since the weather turned, the people of Scree have been acting like animals. They rut and fight and scream in the street. Before long the city will begin to tear itself apart.'

He turned back to the house and gave a heavy sigh that seemed to begin in his feet and rise all the way up to his strange sweat-flattened hair. Then he shook himself abruptly and pushed aside the gate for the soldiers to enter.

'Welcome,' he intoned as each passed him. Mikiss felt a shiver run down his spine, as though some malevolent spirit had stroked the hairs on his neck and then fled. The fact that Nai carefully replaced the broken, rusting gate just confirmed to Mikiss that something un¬holy prowled the grounds.

A weed-infested gravel path led from the gate up to a tall stud-tied door flanked by a pair of columns covered in rusty lichen and a vibrant green creeper that covered part of the building, obscuring several windows.

The rubbish and broken planks piled up on the doorstep led Shart to assume there was no way in from the front. He led the way round to the right, following patches of gravel that were all that remained of the original drive to the rear of the building. The fence was fifty paces or so from the house, yet somehow Mikiss felt crossing that distance would be a harder trek than it might at first appear. Buried in the undergrowth, partly swallowed by Jan untended rhododendron bush, he spotted a small stone housing, some two feet high, with some sort of metal grille at its entrance. Mikiss wondered how the people of Scree buried their dead and shuddered.

Around the back of the house was the first sign of habitation, a neatly swept courtyard surrounded by a low wall. The rest of the grounds remained wild and untended. One enormous pine overshad¬owed the area. Next to it were three smaller trees, just shy of twenty feet tall, spreading their spiky-leaved branches in a dome that reached almost to the ground.

'Gentlemen, leave your packs here,' Nai said, gesturing at the courtyard floor. He had barely finished speaking before four thumps indicated they had acted immediately. Nai smiled, noting that the soldiers might have shed their packs, but they had not cast off their weapons.

He crossed the courtyard and walked past the sun-blistered door to a large iron panel, almost five feet square, set at an angle on the floor. He gripped the thick iron ring, grunted in effort and hauled the panel up and open.

Mikiss noticed that the panel was more than an inch thick. He was impressed. Nai was neither tall nor particularly solid, yet he hadn't been hugely taxed by the fortified cellar door. Clearly there was more than just strange feet to this servant; he would bear close watching.

Nai stepped back, a lopsided smile on his face and a triumphant edge to his voice as he announced, 'Gentlemen, allow me to present my master, Isherin Purn.'

Looking into the cellar, Mikiss could see nothing at first, then out¬lines started to suggest themselves. The faintest of lights grew out of the darkness, not lamplight, but a strange green glow with no visible source. He made out steps leading down to a wide room, with a table, or maybe a bench further back, with smooth curved shapes upon it. He didn't look too hard because at the foot of the steps was the silhouette of a man, quite still and silent, with that strange green light playing around his head and shoulders. Mikiss could not suppress a shiver.