Worst of all was his faction. The Transcendent Order, also called the Ciphers, subscribed to the belief that people thought too much. If we just stopped filling our heads with ideas, the Order preached, we would become attuned to the harmony of the multiverse.

In the abstract, I could sympathize with such a philosophy; but in the real world, it meant that Ciphers always leaped before they looked. Their training taught that if they could just act without thinking, they'd always do the right thing. It gave them chillingly fast reflexes, which made people like Brother Kiripao invaluable in sudden emergencies when there was no time to debate tactics. However, it also meant they had no faith in measured discussion or advance tactical planning – they believed exclusively in the spur of the moment.

A hotheaded tiefling and a placid elf monk who could change in a split-second to a fighting dervish… it was going to be a long three days.

Throughout the afternoon, funeral processions continued to arrive at the Mortuary. Wheezle and I posted ourselves at a window on the fourth floor to watch them – high enough to give us a good view of the street, low enough that we could still make out faces in the crowd. Brother Kiripao and Hezekiah volunteered for the drizzly watch up on the seventh floor; they were supposed to concentrate their observations on the rear entrance and leave the front to us.

Our final pair of companions, Yasmin and Oonah, had retired to rest elsewhere in the building… probably in separate rooms. Guvners and the Doomguard tend to view each other with suspicion: Guvners spend their lives discovering new laws of the multiverse, gauging their success in life by the number of laws they can unearth; the Doomguard, on the other hand, only recognize the Law of Entropy, and are quick to label the Guvners misguided fools for believing anything else is important. One law versus an ocean of laws – a dispute that has come to blows on many occasions. It was just one example of the inter-faction tensions that continually plague the city.

However, inter-faction relations don't always need to be strained, even when the faction philosophies are diametrically opposed. Wheezle and I, Dustman and Sensate, had a splendid time watching funerals pass beneath us. As a Dustman, the little gnome had an encyclopaedic knowledge of burial customs throughout the multiverse, and he happily explained the actions of each group who filed up to the Mortuary. For example…

«What luck, honored Cavendish! The next group of mourners always brings special delight when one of their fellows dies. They are orcs hailing from a Prime world whose name I am regrettably unable to pronounce, and they have the charming tradition of building their coffins in shapes that have special meaning to the deceased. You will observe that these particular pallbearers carry a casket carved to look like a giant pink trout. Such a mischievous smile on its face… it must be quite a happy fish.»

«Do the orcs worship trout?» I asked.

«No,» Wheezle answered, «they simply like bright, eye-catching coffins. Existence is hard for orcs, even in Sigil where The Lady's law of live-and-let-live gives them a degree of protection. Even here, orcs seldom enjoy the smallest luxury during their lifetimes. Therefore they build their own coffins long before death approaches, choosing to make those coffins silly or wanton or extravagant – the embodiment of some personal fantasy that can soothe all grievance when their world is harsh. Perhaps this particular orc once saw a rich man eating trout and dreamed of being able to do the same; or perhaps the orc just longed for the freedom to sit quietly on a river bank and catch fish. Who can say? He chose a trout for his own reasons… and throughout his difficult life, he often must have sat beside his pink fish coffin and taken comfort that his death would wear a cheerful face.»

Talk like that gave me a greater appreciation of Wheezle, and Dustmen in general. Usually, one only thinks of them as a morbid crew who preach that death is a state of ultimate purity, something we should all work toward. Indeed, they claim that everyone in this world is dead already, that the entire multiverse is the afterlife of some joyous existence elsewhere; all of us must now undergo the agonizing transition from exuberant life to peaceful death, and rejection of death in any form simply makes our path more painful.

Needless to say, the Dustman philosophy doesn't sit well with Sensates. After all, we pride ourselves on being in love with life, the painful parts as well as the pleasurable ones. Most Sensates kill themselves once or twice just to see what death feels like… but we make piking sure we have a top-rate priest standing by to raise us again once we've reaped all we can from the experience.

Still, it was educational to hear Wheezle speak of death so affectionately. Much as I couldn't understand the attraction myself, I always think fondly of people who've found their true loves.

The rain tapered off toward nightfall. The last of the mourners vanished into the building, then hurried out again a few minutes later – the Mortuary stands just inside the Hive slum district, and it's not a safe place to tarry after dark. When night comes, thieves emerge from the shadows to work the old cross-trade; and things blacker still stalk the thieves, for Sigil is a city with many shades of darkness.

A figure emerged from the front doors of the Mortuary: humanoid, but with eyes that burned like dull red embers. It carried a heavy burlap sack in one hand, but let its other hand swing free, displaying a set of razor-sharp claws. Even at this distance, I could smell the stench of decaying flesh.

«Looks like a barrow wight,» I whispered to Wheezle, as I quietly drew my rapier. «Nasty things – they can drain the life right out of you. How much do you want to bet the bad guys carried the wight in earlier, pretending it was a corpse? Then the wight got out of its coffin when no one was looking and filled that sack with treasures from your faction.»

«It would be unethical to take your bet, honored Cavendish.» Wheezle gently laid his hand on my sword and lowering the blade. «The wight's bag does not hold stolen treasure; it holds our supper.» He went to the window and waved. «Over here, Eustace,» he called softly to the wight. «I trust it is still hot?»

Eustace the Wight curled his lip and uttered a bone-chilling hiss. Wheezle went down to meet him at the door.

The six of us ate our dinner in darkness – lighting the smallest candle might give away our position. Hezekiah and I sat by the window, keeping an eye on the Mortuary throughout the meal.

«Brother Kiripao has been teaching me how to fight,» Hezekiah whispered to me. He demonstrated a few jerky punches that came perilously close to my nose. «See?»

«Keep your wrists straight,» I murmured. A friend of my father's had believed every well-bred gentleman needed skill in the «manly» arts, so he'd spent several months training me in sportsman-like boxing… not that Brother Kiripao was apt to fight like a sportsman.

«And he's also been telling me about the Transcendent Order,» Hezekiah went on. «It's all about emptying your mind.»

«You must have great potential,» I said.

«Naw,» the boy replied. «I got all kinds of stuff in my head. Special tricks and all. From Uncle Toby.»

«Good old Uncle Toby.»

«You know,» Hezekiah whispered, «until I came to Sigil, I thought maybe Uncle Toby and I were the only people in the world who could do special things. Everybody back home was so boring. But here… well, look at us all. Oonah has her staff, Wheezle's an illusionist, Yasmin and Brother Kiripao both have priestly magic…»

«How do you know all that?» I interrupted.