"Maybe. Damn, I wish we had Bug to lurk on a few rooftops for us. We could use a pair of top-eyes; there's not a trustworthy one in this damn city" "I wish we still had Bug, full stop," said Jean with a sigh.

They made their way to the foyer of the club, chatting quietly of imaginary business between Masters Kosta and de Ferra, batting little improvisations back and forth for the sake of any prying ears. It was just after midnight when they stepped out into the familiar quiet order and high walls of the Savrola. The place was artificially clean — no knackers here, no blood in the alleys, no piss in the gutters. The grey brick streets were well lit by silvery lanterns in swaying iron frames; the whole district seemed framed in bright moonlight, though the sky that night was occluded by a high ceiling of dark clouds. The woman was waiting for them in the shadows on Locke's left.

She matched pace with him as he and Jean moved down the street. One of Locke's sleeve-stilettos fell into the palm of his hand before he could control the reflex, but she stayed a full yard away, with her hands folded behind her back. She was youngish, short and slender with dark hair pulled back into a long tail. She wore a vaguely fashionable dark coat and a four-cornered hat with a long grey silk scarf that trailed behind her like a ship's pennant as she walked.

"Leocanto Kosta," she said in a pleasant, even voice. "I know you and your friend are armed. Let's not be difficult." "I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Move that blade in your hand and it's a shaft through the neck for you. Tell your friend to keep his hatchets under his coat. Let's just keep walking."

Jean began to move his left hand beneath his coat; Locke caught him with his right hand and swiftly shook his head. They were not alone on the street; people hurried here and there on business or pleasure, but some of them were staring at him and Jean. Some of them were standing in alleys and shadows, wearing unseasonably heavy cloaks, unmoving. "Shit," Jean muttered. "Rooftops."

Locke glanced up briefly. Across the street, atop the three— and four-storey stone buildings, he could see the silhouettes of at least two men moving slowly along with them, carrying thin, curved objects in their hands. Longbows.

"You appear to have us at a disadvantage, madam," said Locke, slipping his stiletto into a coat pocket and showing her his empty hand. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your attention?" "Someone wants to have a conversation with you."

"Clearly they knew where to find us. Why not simply join us for dinner?" "Conversation should be private, don't you think?" "Did a man in a rather tall tower send you?"

She smiled but said nothing. A moment later, she gestured ahead of them. "At the next corner, take a left. You'll see an open door, first building on your right. Go there. Follow directions."

Sure enough, the promised open door was waiting just past the next crossroads, a rectangle of yellow light casting a pale twin across the ground. The woman went in first. Locke, conscious of the presence of at least four or five nearby lurkers in addition to the rooftop archers, sighed and passed Jean a quick hand signal — easy, easy.

The place looked like a shop, disused but otherwise in good repair. There were six more people inside the room, men and women in silver-banded leather doublets with their backs up against the walls. Four of them held loaded crossbows, which neatly quashed any thoughts of resistance Locke might have been teasing around inside his head. Even Jean couldn't balance those odds.

One of the crossbowmen quietly closed the door, and the woman who'd led Locke and Jean in turned. The front of her coat fell open and Locke could see that she, too, was wearing reinforced leather armour. She held out her hands. "Weapons," she said, politely but firmly. "Smartly, now." When Locke and Jean glanced at one another, she laughed.

"Don't be dense, gentlemen. If we wanted you dead you" d already be pinned to the wall. I'll take good care of your property for you."

Slowly, resignedly, Locke removed one of his stilettos from his pocket and shook the other out of his coat sleeve, and Jean followed suit with his matched pair of hatchets and no fewer than three daggers of his own.

"I do like men who travel prepared," said the woman. She passed their weapons to one of the men behind her and drew two lightweight cloth hoods out of her coat. She tossed one to Locke and one to Jean. "On over your heads, please. Then we can get on with our business."

"Why?" Jean sniffed at his hood suspiciously, and Locke followed suit. The cloth appeared to be clean.

"For your own protection. Do you really want your faces out in the open if we drag you through the streets under guard?"

"I suppose not," said Locke. Frowning, he slipped the hood on and found that it put him in total darkness.

There was a sound of footsteps and the swirl of moving coats. Strong hands seized Locke's arms and forced them together behind his back. A moment later, he felt something being woven tightly around his wrists. There was a louder tumult and a number of irritated grunts from beside him; presumably they had ganged up on Jean in heavy numbers.

"There," came the voice of the woman, now behind Locke. "Now step lively. Don't worry about falling over — you'll be assisted."

By "assisted" she clearly meant that thed'r be seized and carried along by the arms. Locke felt hands close around his biceps and he cleared his throat. "Where are we going?"

"For a boat ride, Master Kosta," said the woman. "Don't ask any more questions, because I won't answer them. Let's be on our way." There was a creak as the door was thrown open once again, and a brief whirling sensation as he was pushed around and reoriented by the people holding him. Then they were moving back out into the muggy Verrari night, and Locke could feel heavy beads of sweat begin to slide their ticklish paths down his forehead.

"Shit," said Locke as the deck of cards exploded outward from his sore left hand. Jean flinched back from the blizzard of paper that fluttered around the compartment of the carriage. "Try again," said Jean. "Perhaps the eighteenth time's the charm."

"I used to be so damned good at this one-handed shuffle." Locke began plucking up cards and reorganizing them into a neat pile. "I bet I could do it better than Calo and Galdo, even. Damn, my hand aches."

"Well, I know I pushed you to exercise," said Jean, "but you were a little out of practice even before you got hurt. Give it time."

A hard rain was falling around the jouncing black luxury carriage as it threaded its way along the old Therin Throne Road through the foothills just east of the Tal Verrar coast. A hunched middle-aged woman worked the reins of the six-horse team from her open box atop the cabin, with the cowl of her oilcloak pulled forward to protect the smouldering bowl of her pipe. Two outrider guards huddled in misery on the rear footboard, secured by wide leather straps around their waists.

Jean was peering over a sheaf of notes, flipping parchment pages back and forth, muttering to himself. The rain was beating hard against the right side of the closed cabin, but they were able to keep the left-hand window open, with its mesh screens and leather shutters drawn back to admit muggy air that smelled of manured fields and salt marshes. A little yellow alchemical globe on the padded seat beside Jean provided reading light.

They were two weeks out from Vel Virazzo, a good hundred miles to the north-west, and well past the need to paint themselves up with apple mash to move freely.

"Here's what all my sources say," said Jean, when Locke had finished recovering his cards. "Requin's somewhere in his forties. Native Verrari, but he speaks a bit of Vadran and supposedly he's a genius at Throne Therin. He's an art collector, mad about the painters and sculptors from the very last years of the Empire. Nobody knows what he did prior to twenty years ago. Apparently he won the Sinspire on a bet and threw the previous owner out of a window." "And he's tight with the Priori}"1 "Most of them, it appears." "Any idea how much he keeps in his vaults?"