Bugg’s eyes hardened. ‘The Errant invited the murder of Trull Sengar. Tonight, Acquitor, the Deck of Dragons will be awakened, in this very city. This awakening is in truth a challenge to the Errant, an invitation to battle. Is he ready? Is he of sufficient strength to counter-attack? Will this night end awash in mortal blood? I cannot say. One thing I mean to prevent, Seren Pedac, is the Errant striking his enemies through the child you carry.’

‘That’s not good enough,’ she whispered.

His brows rose. ‘Acquitor?’

‘I said it’s not good enough! Who is this King of High House Shadow? How dare he claim my child! Summon him, Ceda! Here! Now!’

‘Summon? Acquitor, even if I could, that would be… please, you must understand. To summon a god-even if naught but a fragment of its spirit-will be to set afire the brightest beacon-one that will be seen by not just the Errant, but other forces as well. On this night, Acquitor, we must do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.’

‘It is you who needs to understand, Ceda. If the Errant wants to harm my child… you may well be a Ceda, but the Errant is a god. Who has already murdered the man I loved-a Knight of Shadow. You may not be enough. My child is to be the new Knight of Shadow? Then the High King of Shadow will come here-tonight-and he will protect his Knight!’

‘Acquitor-’

‘Summon him!’

‘Seren-I am enough. Against the Errant. Against any damned fool who dares to come close, I am enough.’

‘That makes no sense.’

‘Nevertheless.’

She stared at him, unable to disguise her disbelief, her terror.

‘Acquitor, there are other forces in the city. Ancient, benign ones, yet powerful nonetheless. Would it ease your concern if I summon them on your behalf? On your unborn son’s behalf?’

Son. The red-eyed midwife was right, then. ‘They will listen to you?’

‘I believe so.’

After a moment, she nodded. ‘Very well. But Ceda, after tonight-I will speak to this King of Shadow.’

He flinched. ‘I fear you will find the meeting unsatisfactory, Acquitor.’

‘I will decide that for myself.’

Bugg sighed. ‘So you shall, Seren Pedac.’

‘When will you summon your friends, Ceda?’

‘I already have.’

Lostara Yil had said there’d be eleven in all not counting Fiddler himself. That was madness. Eleven players for the reading. Bottle glanced across at Fiddler as they marched up the street in the wake of the two women. The man looked sick, rings under his eyes, mouth twisted in a grimace. The darker roots of his hair and beard made the silvered ends seem to hover like an aura, a hint of chaos.

Gesler and Stormy clumped along behind them. Too cowed for their usual arguing with each other about virtually everything. As bad as a married couple, they were. Maybe they sensed the trouble on the way-Bottle was sure those two marines had more than just gold-hued skin setting them apart from everyone else. Clearly, whatever fates existed displayed a serious lack of discrimination when choosing to single out certain people from the herd. Gesler and Stormy barely had one brain between them.

Bottle tried to guess who else would be there. The Adjunct and Lostara Yil, of course, along with Fiddler himself, and Gesler and Stormy. Maybe Keneb-he’d been at the last one, hadn’t he? Hard to remember-most of that night was a blur now. Quick Ben? Probably. Blistig? Well, one sour, miserable bastard might settle things out some. Or just make everything worse. Sinn? Gods forbid.

‘This is a mistake,’ muttered Fiddler. ‘Bottle-what’re you sensing? Truth now.’

‘You want the truth? Really?’

‘Bottle.’

‘Fine, I’m too scared to edge out there-this is an old city, Sergeant. There’s… things. Mostly sleeping up until now. I mean, for as long as we’ve been here.’

‘But now they’re awake.’

‘Aye. Noses in the air. This reading, Sergeant, it’s about as bad an idea as voicing a curse in Oponn’s name while sitting in Hood’s lap.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘Can you spike the whole thing, Sergeant? Just say it won’t go, you’re all closed up inside or something?’

‘Not likely. It just… takes over.’

‘And then there’s no stopping it.’

‘No.’

‘Sergeant.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going to be exposed, horribly exposed. Like offering our throats to whoever-and they’re probably not merciful types. So, how do we defend ourselves?’

Fiddler glanced across at him, and then edged closer. Ahead was the HQ-they were running out of time. ‘I can’t do nothing, Bottle. Except take the head off, and with luck some of those nasties will go down with it.’

‘You’re going to be sitting on a cusser, aren’t you?’

Fiddler shifted the leather satchel slung from one shoulder, and that was confirmation enough for Bottle.

‘Sergeant, when we get into the room, let me try one last time to talk her out of it.’

‘Let’s hope she at least holds to the number.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Eleven is bad, twelve is worse. But thirteen would be a disaster. Thirteen’s a bad number for a reading. We don’t want thirteen, anything but-’

‘Lostara said eleven, Sergeant. Eleven.’

‘Aye.’ And Fiddler sighed.

When another knock sounded at the door, Bugg raised a hand. ‘Permit me, please, Acquitor.’ And he rose at her nod and went to let in their new guests.

She heard voices, and looked up to see the Ceda appear with two bedraggled figures: a man, a woman, dressed in rags. They halted just inside the main room and a roiling stink of grime, sweat and alcohol wafted towards Seren Pedac. She struggled against an impulse to recoil as the pungent aroma swept over her. The man grinned with greenish teeth beneath a massive, red-veined, bulbous nose. ‘Greetings, Mahybe! Whachoo got t’drink? Ne’er mind,’ and he flourished a clay flask in one blackened hand. ‘Lovey dear moogins, find us all some cups, willya?’

Bugg was grimacing. ‘Acquitor, these are Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.’

‘I don’t need a cup,’ Seren said to the woman who was rummaging through a cupboard.

‘As you like,’ replied Pinosel. ‘But you won’t be no fun at this party. Tha’s typical. Pregnant women ain’t no fun at all-always struttin’ around like a god’s gift. Smug cow-’

‘I don’t need this rubbish. Bugg, get them out of here. Now.’

Ursto walked up to Pinosel and clopped her on the side of the head. ‘Behave, you!’ Then he smiled again at Seren. ‘She’s jealous, y’see. We bin tryin and, uh, tryin. Only, she’s this wrinkled up bag and I ain’t no better. Soft as a teat, I am, and no amount a lust makes no diff’rence. All I do is dribble dribble dribble.’ He winked. ‘O’course, iffin it wuz you now, well-’

Pinosel snorted. ‘Now that’s an invitation that’d make any woman abort. Pregnant or not!’

Seren glared at the Ceda. ‘You cannot be serious.’

‘Acquitor, these two are the remnants of an ancient pantheon, worshipped by the original inhabitants of the settlement buried in the silts beneath Letheras. In fact, Ursto and Pinosel are the first two, the Lord and the Lady of Wine and Beer. They came into being as a consequence of the birth of agriculture. Beer preceded bread as the very first product of domesticated plants. Cleaner than water, and very nutritious. The first making of wine employed wild grapes. These two creations are elemental forces in the history of humanity. Others include such things as animal husbandry, the first tools of stone, bone and antler, the birth of music and dance and the telling of tales. Art, on stone walls and on skin. Crucial, profound moments one and all.’

‘So,’ she asked, ‘what’s happened to them?’

‘Mindful and respectful partaking of their aspects have given way to dissolute, careless excess. Respect for their gifts has vanished, Acquitor. The more sordid the use of those gifts, the more befouled become the gift-givers.’