Tynisa understood that, although she didn’t like the sound of it. Dancing was the Spider word for the politics beneath a city’s skin. She had then wanted to ask more, prise more from him, but that one word made it all real and immediate for her. She left for her room upstairs.

‘Don’t say it,’ Stenwold cautioned after she had gone, so Che clenched her fists and held her peace.

‘You won’t be idle here. You’ll have things to do that I can’t do if I’m away. You won’t feel much better hearing this, but I need you here. And I don’t want you to come to harm, Cheerwell. I want you to believe this.’

And the others? What about them? But Che knew that the others, even Totho, would have a chance to save themselves from the sword, from the bolt. Stenwold had judged her, and found her wanting. He wanted to keep her safe but still it hurt.

No more arguments now, not if he’s leaving tomorrow. That was a strangely calming thought. She would now play the dutiful niece for him, and in that way he would have less to worry about, and perhaps that would keep him safe. Two could play at this game.

‘If you’re travelling tomorrow, you should retire to bed now, Uncle,’ was all she said, to which he grunted an affirmative, levering himself up from the chair.

‘Come on,’ he offered, starting up the stairs. ‘We’ll have enough to say to each other in the morning.’

There was a window on the landing which looked out onto the Siplan Way and the sea, and though Stenwold stomped on past it, Che paused, for it was open.

‘Uncle-’ she began, in warning, and then Stenwold roared in outrage.

In the passage right in front of him there was a man, wrapped in dark cloth. A shortsword glinted. He must have been sitting in the shadows of the landing, waiting silent and patient, but he was all movement now.

Stenwold went reeling backwards as the intruder’s blade passed before his chest and then the Beetle’s heavy hand lashed out and slapped him across the head, sending the assassin reeling into the wall. Stenwold went for him barehanded but the man was quicker, lunging with the blade and slicing a gash across Stenwold’s arm. The Beetle fell away with a hiss of pain and hit the door of his own bedroom, slamming it open and tumbling backwards inside.

Che did not hesitate. Even as the dark figure turned she was on him, having instantly drawn the knife she carried everywhere for protection. It was a tiny thing, barely four inches of blade, but she raked it savagely across his back. At the same time someone else could be heard on the stairs, and that surely did not bode well. Stenwold’s attacker had swiftly rounded on her. For the moment he held her off at his sword’s length because in the dark he had not realized that she was just a teenage girl with a tiny knife. But heading up the stairs was a man wrapped in black, slender, grasping a long blade in one hand and a short one in the other. Before he could use either against Che, suddenly Tynisa was there too.

She had been doing as instructed, packing for a dangerous journey, so in her hand was her own rapier, a slim blade to match the new assassin’s own. She started back as he ran at her, but her guard was up when he lunged, and she deflected both blades aside. He was quick, light on his feet and striking at her from all angles. She could fend him off satisfactorily but he had his offhand blade always ready for an opening, so bind and parry as she might she could not press the attack.

Meanwhile, in the very stance of the man she was facing, Che recognized his realization of the meagre opposition he faced. Determinedly she went straight for him even as he made up his mind. His blade was just drawing back as she lunged and slammed into him low down, shoulder to his chest, even as his blade passed inches over her head. The collision knocked the breath from her and she bounced off him and would have fallen had she not grasped the folds of his tunic. She had cut him again, a shallow line across one side. Gripping his belt she clumsily grappled for his sword, hanging on tight as he tried to cast her away. She was so close she could smell the sour taint of beer on his breath, even the blacking that he had used to dull the glint of his blade. He kept trying to throw her out to arm’s length to get a chance at impaling her but she clung on stubbornly, trying to get her knife to him in turn.

Tynisa waited for her own opponent’s next attack. Already she had gained a little measure of him. He was quick but unimaginative, his strikes were textbook. The next time he lunged for her, she passed under his blade. His offhand darted in, as she knew it would, but she was already past it, suddenly faster. As she passed him, she tried to bring the razor-sharp edge of her rapier across his throat, but he was pushing forward. The curved guard jagged off his chin and his feet tangled with hers. They were both off balance in a moment.

She felt the balcony rail at her back, and then a moment later it was snapping under their combined weight, pitching them both into the hallway below. But she had a free hand and he did not. She hauled at him as they went over, trying to thrust him ahead of her.

As his comrade vanished, the first assassin swore and hurled Che away from him. She hit the passage floor hard, but kept hold of her knife, desperately turning to menace him with it. He paused, catching his breath for a heartbeat, as swords scraped and rattled below them.

‘You!’ bellowed Stenwold, from the doorway of his room. The assassin turned swiftly, and froze.

The reason was that Stenwold held a weapon levelled. It was a crossbow without the arms, a great, heavy four-barrelled thing with a quartet of broad metal bolts jutting aggressively out at the world, resembling javelins more than anything else. Che knew it as a piercer, and that there was a prodigious firepowder charge just waiting for the touch of a lever to explode.

The assassin remained poised, and Stenwold studied him levelly, despite the blood soaking his own arm. ‘Sword on the ground, and perhaps-’

Che noticed the man about to spring, hoping to catch Stenwold in mid-sentence, and she stabbed down with the knife hard enough to pin his foot to the floor. At that moment Stenwold pulled the trigger. It was as if the sound swallowed up every inch of the house, as a double charge of firepowder erupted in the confined space of the piercer. The assassin was punched off his feet, flung all the way down the landing and pinned to the far wall by three of the bolts. The fourth, without any human obstacle to travel through, rammed itself so far into the bare wall itself that its tip must have been visible from outside.

The quiet that then descended, laced with the acrid smell of the spent powder, was absolute.

‘Where’s… Tynisa?’ Stenwold asked heavily. Che pointed mutely downwards.

They got to the broken rail and looked down to see her standing with the second assassin splayed like a doll on the ground before her. As she stood, head bowed, looking at the first man she had ever killed, the blood-shiny rapier was still in her hand.

Che heard her uncle suck in his breath. ‘Hammer and tongs,’ he murmured. ‘It’s her.’ Che caught a glint in his eye, some token of recognition that had nothing to do with Tynisa. The surroundings must be different, as must the dead man below, but this very tableau, this moment of stillness and contemplation, had caught him off guard. For just a second he was twenty years younger and elsewhere, seeing and wondering about some event long past.

And then Tynisa looked up at him, pale and staring. He hurried down the stairs and took her in his arms. The first death, he thought. There came to him the image of an orthopter’s cabin in Myna with that Wasp soldier falling back. The first death by our hands is always hard. She would survive it, though, he knew. It’s in her blood.