'Who then,' he said slowly, his own throat dry and raw, 'could chastise the Gods themselves for their failings? Where is that perfect individual, who could raise a hand and censure the very Gods who created him? When our Gods fail us, to whom must we pray for intercession in this life of woe?'

Grisat looked around at the men in the room, who were all nervously shifting in their seats. Each one was as fearful as he. They'd ditched their penitent robes and were back in civilian garb, with mail, jerkins and weapons wrapped in bundles so that they wouldn't look like mercenaries, let alone soldiers employed by the cult of Ushull. Grisat hadn't yet heard of any repercussions, but he knew they were coming and he had no intention of staying around to catch any of them.

He'd discussed the situation with Bolla, who had agreed with him. All the priests' leaders had died at the Ruby Tower and there was no one left of any consequence. It was time to collect the cash and walk away. Some would stay, but those he'd talked to – those he'd be able to trust now – had been of similar mind. They'd just been waiting for someone to give them a kick in the right direction.

Grisat waved away a moth, causing half the room to jump. 'Piss and daemons,' he growled, 'yer jumpin' like frightened rabbits.' He didn't tell them their reactions had made his heart jump into his throat. Fortunately, they were all so distracted, none had noticed.

'We're jus' on edge, man, tha's all. Why're you flappin' yer arms around anyway?' snapped Astin, the tall Litse with the knife-scar across his nose.

Grisat pointedly ignored the man. Damn Litse, can't keep their sodding mouths shut. Shame he's more use than the rest; a Litse won't take order from the likes of me for too long.

He drained the pitcher of beer he'd been nursing, burped, and pushed himself upright. 'Right, goin' for a piss. You lot try not ('shit yourselves when I come back.'

He clapped a hand on Bolla's shoulder as he pushed past. Without his leather jerkin on, Bolla felt all bones under Grisat's palm. The lanky mercenary nodded in response and shoved his wad of numbroot to the other side of his mouth.

Grisat went out into the short dark corridor and checked left and right. There was no one there – not surprising, since the group had taken the whole attic room of the inn. Childishly he thumped a fist against the wall as he headed for the stair, eliciting a yelp from within, and headed down to the back yard, where the stinking outhouse was located.

It was already dark outside, and cold. It hadn't felt like the sun had had much effect that day – until nightfall, when you felt the temperature plummet. Grisat shivered and breathed onto his hands, then clapped them together, trying to keep them warm. He stepped into the pitch-black outhouse and edged his foot forward until he reached the gutter.

His breeches unbuttoned, Grisat pulled out his cock and sighed with relief as the hot stream began to splatter unseen over the floor around the gutter. Two seconds later, he felt the prickle of a knife-tip in the back of his neck.

The stream of urine stopped almost immediately as Grisat froze. He'd seen and heard no one, so that meant someone had been waiting for him in there. So not one of his group, that was for sure.

'Aren't you glad I waited?' said a deep voice in his ear. The accent was like none he'd ever heard, overly precise, like a foreigner, and a nobleman at that. 'If I'd put my knife there before you started, the opposite would have happened.'

Grisat managed a gurgle in reply. This was someone completely comfortable with a weapon: that dagger hadn't moved a fraction as the man had leaned in to speak to him. He felt fingers grabbing a lock of his hair and decided not to move; he'd drunk too much to be fast enough to reach his own dagger and the unseen stranger didn't appear to be in any great rush to kill him. The dagger point withdrew for a moment – presumably for the stranger to cut off the hair – and then returned. Grisat kept as still as he could all the while.

'At least you've got the brains not to try it,' the voice continued conversationally. 'Who wants to take their last breath face down in an outhouse?'

Grisat grunted. He realised the dagger had nicked him and resisted the urge to nod as well.

'Now, if your eyes aren't open at the moment open them now. Don't turn round.'

Grisat blinked. At first all he could see was the darkness, which gave way to a green glow which illuminated the interior of the outhouse enough for him to be able to make out the gutter running down the centre of the room and the two thin pillars holding up the poor excuse for a roof. He looked down. His cock had withered to half the size of his thumb. Despite the cold night air he felt a warm flush of embarrassment as he waited for more instructions.

'See the light? That tells you I'm a mage, so you will know I haven't taken a lock of your hair to keep as a memento.'

Grisat stiffened, and felt the dagger dig a little further into his skin.

'I see you grasp the situation; good. Now, I know who you are and I know who your employer is. What I want you to do is return to the temple and act the good penitent again.'

'You were sent after us?' Grisat croaked in disbelief.

'Not quite, but I want you back there all the same. The clerics have been broken, but there's still some life left in the cults, and you are going to be the one to organise unrest in the city – at my direction, of course. I intend there to be a secret war in Byora, a guerrilla resistance to Natai Escral's inevitable measures against the cults.'

'Father Hiren is in charge and he hates me,' Grisat began. 'I don't know that he'll even take us back.'

'If he doesn't, go to the Temple of Karkarn – you will need to be convincing, but at least the warrior-priests will be useful for more than just political backing.'

'Why me?'

He heard a soft laugh. 'One monkey is as good as any other. I choose the one who pisses highest.' The dagger pushed a little deeper and Grisat gave a small yelp. 'I will be keeping track of your progress – you have one week, or I shall prove just how adept a mage I am. You'll find a little hair goes a long way.'

Without warning the pressure on the back of his neck was lifted and the faint green light winked out. Grisat listened to the rapid, insistent thump within his own chest for a dozen heartbeats before he turned around. He wasn't surprised to discover the outhouse empty and the yard beyond it as silent as the grave.

'Shit,' he muttered as he took a step back away from the shadows and into the gutter.

'Opening at dusk, Harys? Are you practising for something?'

The broad-hipped woman gave a gasp of shock and whirled around in a flurry of green silk. Kohl outlined her pale blue eyes and her blonde hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. She stood in the centre of a room too poorly lit to betray the threadbare state of the sofas to normal eyes. A pair of teenage whores hovered at her side.

One of the girls gave a small cry of surprise when the shadows fell away to reveal two other figures in the room. At a look from Harys the whores both fled past the heavy curtain that served as a door, and Zhia caught a glimpse of the hallway, which was considerably less ornate – and less garish – than this room. She could see why the lighting was so bad in here, where the house's patrons were plied with drink whilst enjoying the talents of the singers Harys employed; with their clothes on, people had enough time to notice their surroundings.

'Mistress, I apologise – you startled me. I had not known you were even in the city,' Harys gabbled as she sank into a deep curtsey and looked up at the newcomers as though squinting at the sun. 'My Lord.'