‘They’ll be doing better than Gath Tampoor if they do,’ Melyobar responded bluntly. ‘What’s known about this…’

‘Zerreiss, Highness.’

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Very little at present. In fact he’s a bit of a mystery.’

For the first time during the audience, a spark of animation came into the Prince’s eyes. ‘Perhaps it’s…

him

,’ he whispered.

Talgorian was baffled. ‘Highness?’

‘Him.

Him!

The reaper. The gatherer of life essences.’ His voice dropped to an undertone.

‘Death.’

The Envoy should have guessed. ‘Of course. Tricky customer.’ He knew that sounded feeble.

Melyobar didn’t seem to notice the lack of empathy. He was warming to the subject. ‘It could be him. He’s a shape changer, you know.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And where better to snatch lives than in the barbarous lands?’

‘All the more reason to take precautions.’ Talgorian tried to steer the conversation into more placid waters. ‘Which is why your assignment of the troops will be so very useful in respect of maintaining order and stability.’

The Prince ignored the platitudes. Nodding at the papers on his desk, his tone became conspiratorial. ‘Just between ourselves?’

‘Naturally,’ the Envoy promised, wearing a look of hurt effrontery at the very notion of indiscretion.

‘These are a secret,’ Melyobar confided, laying his hand on the sheets of spidery scrawl. He leaned closer and hissed, ‘They’re part of my plan to kill Death.’

Unusually for a diplomat, Talgorian was lost for a coherent response.

He was spared. A gust of chill wind, somehow penetrating the quarters, rustled a drape. Several candles briefly guttered. The Prince shivered and pulled his ermine cape closer. His uneasy gaze darted about the chamber.

‘Then best that the scheme be kept a secret,’ Talgorian said, stroking Melyobar’s paranoia.

‘You’re probably right.’ The Prince hastily turned over the papers and anchored them with a regally engraved inkpot. Fresh anxiety etched his features.

‘There is just one more matter I would like to discuss, Highness,’ the Envoy continued. ‘A topic of some importance.’

The Prince paid heed to Talgorian’s graver countenance. ‘What is it?’

‘Your Royal Highness, have you ever heard of a man called Reeth Caldason?’

The city stood in a wide valley between low, black hills. A pewter river wormed through it. Towers and spires marked its heart, with villas, lodges and houses radiating from the core. Huts, shanties and lean-tos, many clinging to the slopes, formed a crusty halo. To the passing birds it demonstrated all that needed to be known about the seep of power. Not that everything flying above was a bird.

Merakasa, capital of Gath Tampoor and hub of its empire, was never entirely dark. The lights being kindled as night fell, of wax and oil, were rivalled by constant eruptions of magical energies, making for a continuous, shimmering glow. But this glow was uneven, with feeble emissions in the poor quarters, gleaming splendour around the mansions of the rich.

The streets teemed. Costers and tradesmen jostled artisans and itinerants. Merchants led mules weighed down with cloth bolts and sacks of spices. Laden carts vied with horse riders. Pavement sellers hawked fruit and bread from makeshift stalls as tattered, thieving boys eyed their wares. Wagons bobbed in the flow of humanity.

And non-humanity.

Falsities walked the streets too. Or padded, slithered or floated over them. Some were fantastical, mythic, grotesque, designed to entertain or threaten. Others were indistinguishable from the everyday, mimicking pets or trophy mistresses. Some were wholly credible, others less so, depending on their price.

Every so often a glamour vanished in silent pyrotechnics as it expired or was voided. New ones appeared with about the same frequency, disgorging from thin air in bursts of radiance. The supply was plentiful. Licensed magic vendors worked the crowds, dispensing spells and potions while their bodyguards kept watch.

The bustle washed against the walls of the palace Merakasa suckled; thick, high ramparts surrounding a city within a city, immense and rambling. By contrast to the streets, its grounds seemed deserted, and somehow the din from outside was muted.

Its innermost buildings were grand and had the magical lustre of conspicuous wealth. Outlying utilitarian structures were in a colder style. One particularly bleak example was set apart. It was squat and windowless. Its function had to do with state security and the maintenance of order, so naturally it was very large. But all it showed the world was a modest two storeys. Only someone luckless enough to be dragged inside would learn that it burrowed well below ground, through sub-levels, cellars and vaults.

Its deepest reaches contained the holding areas; a honeycomb of stone passageways, lined with featureless, barred doors. Behind one, at the far end of an especially remote corridor, was a cell much like all the rest. Its sole furnishings were a hard bed and a wooden bucket. Faint light was supplied by a paltry glamour.

A woman sat on the cot. She had been given nothing to eat or drink. Her boots, belt, anything that could do harm, had been taken from her and a drab ankle-length smock replaced her normal clothes. She had a distaste for confined spaces that bordered on dread, and that added to her anguish.

They had interrogated her incessantly. Her answers weren’t what they wanted to hear, but they hadn’t laid hands on her. She wondered how long that would last. Exhausted, confused, her anger at the way she was being treated, at the inequity of it, had abated to churning resentment.

She had been left alone for some hours now. Or so it seemed – her unvarying surroundings made it hard to judge. She thought it might be evening, but wouldn’t swear to it. Already she had grown used to the silence.

Which made her start all the more when it was broken.

Distant doors slammed. There were voices and echoing footfalls. The sounds grew nearer. Some kind of procession turned into her corridor. She heard muffled conversation and boots scuffing on stone. They stopped at her cell.

After a second’s quiet, the lock was turned, then the door creaked open. She tensed.

Someone was framed for a moment, outlined by the greater light outside; greater than the gloom of her cell, but still petty. The figure was tall, cadaverously thin, slightly hunched at the shoulders. It took a step towards her. She saw others in the passage, holding back.

Her visitor was completely bald and his features were angular, like a carrion bird’s. His china blue eyes were quick, his mouth thin lipped. It was hard to tell his age, but he was probably around sixty. He wore the discreetly affluent garb of a high-ranking servant of the state.

She recognised him instantly. Perhaps her astonishment showed on her face.

He came in and closed the door, leaving his escort outside. He was the kind of man who always had an escort.

They had never met. In her position you didn’t get to meet someone so illustrious unless you excelled or fouled up badly. But she had seen him from afar several times, as well as his likeness in paintings and the odd statue. She thought, absurdly, of standing and making a show of obeisance. Before she could move, he spoke.

‘Captain Ardacris.’ He was smiling.

She stared at him, and although it was a greeting, not a question, nodded.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied distantly, then got a hold on herself. ‘Yes,

sir

. Commissioner Laffon, Council for Internal Security, sir.’

‘Good.’ The smile remained fixed. He indicated the bed. ‘May I?’

She nodded again and shifted for him. Laffon perched.