‘All them ain’t gonna wait for ever, Left! We should never have signed on to this. I say we hitch on the next trader shippin’ out. Down to Dhavran, maybe till the way t’the coast! Ain’t you got a cousin in Mengal?’

Leff slowly blinked. ‘Aye, Scorch. They let ’im furnish his cell himself, he’s in there so much. You want us go up there and take on his mess too? Besides, then we’d end up on the list.’

Astonishment and dread filled Scorch’s face. He looked away, whispered, ‘It’s the list that’s done us in. The list…’

‘We knew it wouldn’t be easy,’ Leff said in a possible attempt at mollification. ‘Things like that never are.’

‘But we ain’t gotten nowhere!’

‘It’s only been a week, Scorch.’

The time had come for a modest clearing of the throat, a dab of the silk handkerchief on oily brow, a musing tug on the mouse-tail beard. ‘Gentlemen!’ Ah, now he had their attention. ‘Witness the Skirmishers on the field and yon Mercenary’s Coin, glinting ever as golden lures are wont to glint… everywhere. But here especially, and the knuckles still reside in the sweaty hand of surprised Scorch, too long clutched and uncast. Interminable has this game grown, with Kruppe patient as he perches on very edge of glorious victory!’

Leff scowled. ‘You ain’t winning nothing, Kruppe! You’re losing, and bad, Coin or no Coin! And what use is it anyway-I don’t see no mercenary anywhere on the field, so who’s it paying for? Nobody!’

Smiling, Kruppe leaned back.

The crowd was noisome this night at the Phoenix Inn, as more and more drunks stumbled back in after their pleasing foray in the dusty, grimy streets. Kruppe, of course, felt magnanimous towards them all, as suited his naturally magnanimous nature.

Scorch cast the knuckles, then stared at the half-dozen etched bones as if they spelled out his doom.

And so they had. Kruppe leaned forward once again. ‘Ho, the Straight Road reveals itself, and see how these six Mercenaries march on to the field! Slaying left and right! One cast of the knuckles, and the universe changes! Behold this grim lesson, dear companions of Kruppe. When the Coin is revealed, how long before a hand reaches for it?’

Virtually no cast in the Riposte Round could save the two hapless Kings and their equally hapless players, Scorch and Leff. Snarling, Leff swept an arm through the field, scattering pieces everywhere. As he did so he palmed the Coin and would have slipped it into his waistband if not for a wag of Kruppe’s head and the pudgy hand reaching out palm up.

Cursing under his breath, Leff dropped the Coin into that hand.

‘To the spoiler, the victory,’ Kruppe said, smiling. ‘Alas for poor Scorch and Leff, this single coin is but a fraction of riches now belonging to triumphant Kruppe. Two councils each, yes?’

‘That’s a week’s wages for a week that ain’t come yet,’ Leff said. ‘We’ll have to owe you, friend.’

‘Egregious precedent! Kruppe, however, understands I how such reversals can catch one unawares, which makes perfect sense, since they are reversals.

Accordingly, given the necessity for a week’s noble labour, Kruppe is happy to extend deadline for said payment to one week from today.’

Groaning, Scorch sat hack, ‘The list, Leff. We’re back to that damned list.’

‘Many are the defaulters,’ Kruppe said, sighing. ‘And eager those demanding recompense, so much so that they assemble a dread list, and upon diminishment of names therein remit handsomely to those who would enforce collection, yes?’

The two men stared. Scorch’s expression suggested that he had just taken a sharp blow to the head and was yet to find his wits. Leff simply scowled. ‘Aye, that list, Kruppe. We took the job on since we didn’t have nothing else to do since Hoe’s sudden… demise. And now it looks like our names might end up on it!’

‘Nonsense! Or, rather, Kruppe elaborates, not if such a threat looms as a result of some future defaultment on monies owed Kruppe. Lists of that nature are indeed pernicious and probably counterproductive and Kruppe finds their very existence reprehensible. Wise advice is to relax somewhat on that matter. Unless, of course, one finds the deadline fast approaching with naught but lint in one’s pouch. Further advice, achieve a victory on the list, receive due reward, repair immediately to Kruppe and clear the modest debt. The alternative, alas, is that we proceed with an entirely different solution.’

Leff licked his lips. ‘What solution would that be?’

‘Why, Kruppe’s modest assistance regarding said list, of course. For a minuscule percentage.’

‘For a cut you’d help us hunt down them that’s on the list?’

‘To do so would be in Kruppe’s best interests, given this debt between him and you two.’

‘What’s the percentage?’

‘Why, thirty-three, of course.’

‘And you call that modest?’

‘No, I called it minuscule. Dearest partners, have you found any of the people on that list?’

Miserable silence answered him, although Scorch was still looking rather confused.

‘There is,’ Kruppe said with an expansive swell of his chest that threatened the two stalwart buttons of his vest, ‘no one in Darujhistan that Kruppe cannot find.’ He settled back, and the brave buttons gleamed with victory.

Shouting, a commotion at the door, then Meese crying out Kruppe’s name.

Startled, Kruppe rose, but could not see over the heads of all these peculiarly tall patrons-how annoying-and so he edged round his table and pushed his grunting, gasping way through to the bar, where Irilta was half dragging a blood-drenched Murillio on to the counter, knocking aside tankards and goblets.

Oh my. Kruppe met Meese’s eyes, noted the fear and alarm. ‘Meese, go to Coll at once.’

Pale, she nodded.

The crowd parted before her. Because, as the Gadrobi are wont to say, even a drunk known a fool, and, drunk or not, no one was fool enough to gct in that woman’s way.

Picker’s sword lay on the table, its tip smeared in drying blood. Antsy had added his short sword, its blade far messier. Together, mute testaments to this im¬promptu meeting’s agenda.

Bluepearl sat at one end of the long table, nursing his headache with a tankard of ale; Blend was by the door, arms folded as she leaned against the frame. Mallet sat in a chair to Bluepearl’s left, with all his nerves pushed into one jumpy leg, the thigh and knee jittering, while his face remained closed as he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Near the ratty tapestry dating back from the time when this place was still a temple stood Duiker, once Imperial Historian, now a broken old man.

In fact, Picker was mildly surprised that he’d accepted the invitation to join them. Perhaps some remnant of curiosity flickered still in the ashes of Duiker’s soul, although he seemed more interested in the faded scene on the tapestry with its aerial flotilla of dragons approaching a temple much like the one they were in.

Nobody seemed ready to start talking. Typical. The task always fell at her feet, like some wounded dove. ‘Assassins’ Guild’s taken on a contract,’ she said, deliberately harsh. ‘Target? At the very least, me, Antsy and Bluepearl. More likely, all us partners.’ She paused, waiting to hear some objection. Nothing. ‘Antsy, we turn down any offers on this place?’

‘Picker,’ the Falari said in an identical tone, ‘ain’t nobody’s ever made an offer on this place.’

‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘So, anyone catch a rumour that the old K’rul cult has been resurrected? Some High Priest somewhere in the city wanting the old temple back?’

Bluepearl snorted.

‘What’s that supposed to tell us?’ Picker demanded, glaring at him.

‘Nothing,’ the Napan mage muttered. ‘I ain’t heard nothing like that, Pick. Now if Ganoes Paran ever comes back from wherever he’s gone, we could get ourselves a sure answer. Still, I don’t think there’s any cult trying to move back in.’