“Speak of this to no one, man.”

“I wouldn’t, Lord! I swear!” he blurted, looking round for a swift exit, although the warrior held him fast in a firm grip.

“Be sure of it. Now leave, and be careful in future who you take coin from.”

He nodded eagerly, and ran into the market.

Unthor spared a glance around him at the street. All seemed to be in order. He closed the door and barred it, turning to look at the members of his order. Tirielle was slumped, dejected, her head resting on a table.

“Well, what did it say?” he asked.

She looked up slowly and shrugged.

“We are undone. It is from a friend. An assassin comes. I thought it strange that we had been attacked so surely, but it was no accident. It was not random. A death mark has been put on us. We must leave, now, and we have not found what we are looking for.”

He pursed his lips, but let Quintal speak as their leader held his hand up to still him.

“How do you know this?”

“We have been betrayed.”

“By whom?” asked Quintal.

“I warned you to wait,” said Disper. “There is too much riding on our success to risk this intrigue!”

“Be still, Disper. It was the lady’s decision. We do not control her, but she us. This you know.”

Disper was silent, but remained stubborn faced.

“What does your friend tell us of the Protectorate?”

“Nothing,” said Tirielle, biting her lip angrily. “But I cannot think they know we are here. We would not still be living.”

“If we have been betrayed once, we may have been betrayed twice. Whoever called the death mark must be a friend of the Protectorate. There can be no other explanation. But if assassins have been called, the Protectorate do not yet know we are here. We have time. The Protocrats do not use assassins.”

“But assassins!” cried Tirielle.

“Simple folk. It is nothing to worry about. But if they fail, our enemy, whoever it is, will no doubt call in the Protectorate. If they are allies with the Protectorate, they cannot risk us slipping away. We have little time, but one more night will not hurt. Assassins we can deal with. Do not fear, Tirielle.”

“Fear?” laughed Tirielle. “I am not afraid! I’m angry! Blood friends of our oppressors. Who could be their ally? Are humans so meek that they now do the work of the Protectorate for them? What will become of Rythe when humans forget who the enemy is and fight themselves? Already we hand them our magicians, and fool ourselves that a man’s life is worth the dirty gold we are paid. Now we hand them thieves, and cutthroats, and us. Do they not know what fate the betrayed suffer? Do they think the Protectorate have gaols? Or whips? No, they have none such, just needles and nails, axes and swords and fire and salt. Bastards!” she spat, thumping her fist down on the table.

The Sard were silent. Quintal put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.

“I will not be calmed! I have had enough, and I am sick!”

“Enough, Tirielle. You rail against the people, but even among the meek there are lions. You have sent out many letters — not all have betrayed you. Only one, and the rest have stayed silent, biding their time. All is not yet lost. One rotten apple among many fine apples. And we still have time. We were vigilant before, now we know for sure what comes. We will not fail. One more night, one more attempt on your life, and then we will leave. We will find what we need tonight.”

Soft footsteps came from the back stairs, silencing Quintal, and the Seer came into the room, blinking even in this gloomy light. No one could see her eyes, but they all knew what was there, even if the knowledge behind them was a mystery.

“Seer, you should be in bed, resting,” said Cenphalph, rising and moving to her side to take her arm.

“No,”she smiled and patted his arm, twice the thickness of his. “I heard your shouting from upstairs, and I need to move. We will be leaving soon. Be ready.”

“Have you seen something, Sia?” asked Tirielle, unsure whether to be hopeful or afraid.

“No, Tiri. Nothing. It is just time. I feel it. We have rested too long. We must move, ever onward. Be sure tonight. We will not be here much longer.”

From her tone, Tirielle could not tell whether she meant Beheth, or on Rythe at all.

Tall shutters covered the windows, meagre light slicing out into the night. Gurt checked the street behind him — it was one of the more prosperous districts of Lianthre, but he was not looking for footpads. His enemies were more deadly.

Sure he was alone in the darkened street, unobserved by anything but the eighth-moon, Hern partially hidden behind his larger brother, he reached out a hand and rapped on the door with a grimace of pain. The bone rot had started in his hands, but the rest of his body was still hale. It was an indignity he had no choice but to bear. A guard since his youth, and Captain in his middle years to Dran A’m Dralorn, then to his daughter, he would no longer be wielding his short sword or cudgel. But if he could aid the land in any other way, he fully intended to do so.

Sventhan, his third cousin, opened the door with a beaming smile. Sventhan was in his middle years, but had lost none of the muscle of his youth. He was as broad as the door, with a mashed nose spread across a broad, open face.

“I was afraid you might not come,” he said, embracing the older man.

“As if I would forget my duties. I had much to do, but I am here now. Are you going to let me in, or shall we wait for the Protocrats to take us before their Inquisitors?”

“Brusque as ever, my friend. Come in, of course.”

Sventhan stepped aside. His wide shoulders had all but filled the doorway. Gurt stepped inside briskly, closing the door on the night and the enemy that prowled the city streets.

“Come in, make yourself at home,” said Sventhan. “Tama has tea on the stove. I’ll fetch it. Sit, sit,” he bustled around the table setting cups out. Gurt heaved himself into a hard-backed chair with a grunt. Perhaps the rot was setting into his spine, too. The long ride had tired him more than expected. He rubbed his back as firmly as his hands would allow.

Sventhan poured thick, black tea from a heavy kettle, which he set back atop the stove before taking a seat opposite Gurt. His eyes raised as he saw Gurt’s crooked fingers taking the cup, but he said nothing. Gurt sipped the tea. He was grateful for the warmth on his aching hands. Come winter he would be crippled with pain, but for now he could still use his hands. When the rot came it was often slow. Sometimes it took years. Gurt was just unlucky. A year ago he had suffered no more than a few troubling twinges. Now his fingers were already out of alignment, and the pain often woke him during the night. An alchemist had recommended a noxious paste, which burned and had cost him a goodly portion of his savings, but it did alleviate the pain, if only for a few hours.

“Tama!” the big man called out. “She’s with the babe,” he explained, with a shy smile. “She’s a beauty, too. Blessed with a strong arm, I hope, but if not she’ll be a good wife to a good man one day.”

“I didn’t know. It seems I have been out of touch too long.”

Tama, Sventhan’s wife, breezed into the room. She was almost as big as her husband, but possessed of a strange grace and gentleness that made her seem a woman half her size. She was as beautiful as Gurt remembered though. He greeted her with a smile, she with a kiss on his cheek.

Gurt blushed slightly. He was never good with women.

“Tama, I am glad to see you. You look well. How is the baby?”

Tama beamed. “She’s fine. Six months next week. She’ll be fine for a while. I’ve just put her back to sleep. Hardly sleeps at all. But she’s so fine.”

“I’ll see her before I go.”