The sole break in the shelving was to allow for a door-sized opening into a further room, also stuffed with books. Next to it, a rickety staircase rose to another floor.

There was no sign of the old woman. The only person they

could see was the proprietor, hunched like a vulture on a stool behind his littered counter. He was a needle-faced individual of indeterminate age, bony thin. His wire-wool black hair ended in a widow’s peak, and he had tiny, dark, acquisitive eyes. Though he was unlikely to demonstrate it by smiling, his teeth were probably bad.

Kutch took a folded sheet of parchment from his pocket and approached him.

‘I wonder if you have any of these?’ he said, offering the list.

The bookseller didn’t look at it, let alone take it. ‘What are they?’

‘Books.’

‘What

kind

of books?’ His half sarcastic, half disgusted tone spoke of the long-suffering patience of a man forced to deal on a daily basis with people he regarded as morons.

‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Books on the Craft.’

‘Down there.’ He waved vaguely towards the far end of the shop.

Kutch caught a whiff of bad breath and took a backwards step. ‘Er, thanks.’

‘And be careful how you handle the merchandise, some of it’s expensive.’ Curt dismissal issued, he went back to reading a book he had open on the counter.

Caldason was standing by the staircase. Kutch joined him. ‘Seems what I want is down there.’ He jabbed a thumb.

‘I heard. While you’re doing that, I think I’ll take a look upstairs.’ He indicated a chalk board on the wall. An upward pointing arrow had been drawn on it. Underneath was written:

Kutch could guess which subjects Caldason would be perusing. ‘All right. See you when you’ve finished.’

‘Don’t forget Serrah’s meeting us here.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out for her.’ He moved off.

As Caldason put his foot on the first stair, the bookseller quickly raised his head. He wore an expression reminiscent of a hawk spying prey. ‘Tread with care up there,’ he snapped, but offered no explanation as to why that might be necessary.

When Caldason got to the top of the shaky staircase he understood the warning, and the two-customer restriction. The sizeable room he came to had an uneven floor, and the boards groaned with every step. Unlike downstairs, here there were just a couple of tables, stacked high. But the walls were equally crowded with books. The only difference being that they were jammed into a series of massive wooden bookcases, the enormous weight bowing the shelves in places. As he crossed the room the floorboards felt springy underfoot. The whole place seemed to creak and wobble.

One part of the room consisted of a shelved alcove, and as he drew level with it he saw the old woman there. She was stooping to look at a herbal laid out on the seat of a chair. Caldason nodded. She gave him an apple-cheeked smile.

He found the combat section, ran his eye along the titles and tugged out a hefty volume. The book was glamoured, and as he flipped the pages its illustrations sparked into life. Painted characters fought with swords, axes and quarterstaffs. Lances raised, warriors rode chargers into battle. He

paused at a picture showing a siege, with a battering ram hammering at a castle’s doors while defenders rained down arrows from the ramparts.

There was a faint noise. Of movement, rustling and soft commotion. Then the hint of a fragrance mingling with the smell of decaying books. Something sickly-sweet with a sulphurous tinge to it.

He looked up.

Downstairs, Kutch had located several of the books he needed. Their cost was higher than he’d expected, and he doubted whether the money Phoenix had given him would be enough for everything. So he’d started sorting them into vital and not-so-necessary piles.

He froze, letting a book slip from his fingers, and slowly straightened. He was aware of a cognisance, not dissimilar to the feeling he got before a vision, and feared he was about to have one. Several seconds of stilled breath later, he knew that wasn’t it. Something else was happening.

He looked up.

Caldason realised the sounds were coming from the alcove. Stealthily, he moved towards it.

Before he got there, a figure stepped out to face him. It wasn’t the old woman. But it took no great leap of logic on his part to guess that it had been.

He was looking at someone who appeared to be neither one sex nor the other, though their features inclined a little more to the feminine. She was wiry, hard-muscled and near flat-chested. Her fair hair was severely cropped, and she had a shockingly white complexion. The eyes were arresting; astonishingly big, unblinking, black as coal. Overall, the sight of her was dismaying, and his first thought was that she must be a glamour. Some instinct made him reject the idea. He reckoned her to be magically enhanced in some way, but human.

Before he could speak, she jerked to one side, leaving a ghostly silhouette of herself in the place she’d just occupied. The wafting outline quickly filled with light. In short order it began to solidify, offering brief glimpses of bones, sinew, blood and finally flesh.

A duplicate of the woman stood beside her, and initially seemed identical. They could have been unholy twins, and were even dressed the same way. But he saw that the new arrival did differ slightly, and certainly appeared more masculine.

Then he noticed that they were connected. A gossamer film, shiny and moist to the eye, tender as moonlight, bound them from shoulder to ankle. But only for a heartbeat. It tensed and ripped apart, and each half was instantly sucked into one of the twins’ bodies.

They regarded him as though he were a horse they were thinking of stealing. But when the female spoke, it wasn’t Caldason she addressed. ‘What do you think, Aphrim? One of us or both?’

‘Hmmm.’ He studied the Qalochian. ‘Both to be sure, I’d say.’ The creature’s voice was a giveaway to the sharp-eared; it had a jot of the inorganic that marked it as glamoured.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Caldason told them, fury building.

‘We won’t,’ the one called Aphrim replied. ‘Let’s get this done, Aphri.’

The woman nodded and they both drew blades.

Caldason quickly unsheathed his own, cursing himself for having no second sword.

The woman came at him, and fast. He reflexively dodged her swinging blade. She wasn’t fazed. Spinning swiftly, she struck out again. This time, steel met steel and they slipped into a frenzied exchange. She was a supple fencer, hard to pin down, and checked his passes unerringly. Caldason was just as adept at blocking her.

For a full minute they traded blows, seeking a path to flesh. Ducking and weaving, blades clattering, each tried to tease an opening from the other.

She took a savage overhand swing at him, fit to crack his skull. Caldason hurled himself clear. Unstoppable, her sword came down hard on a table, its edge cleaving into a book. When she whipped back the blade, the book was still attached. Deftly she flicked it clear and the book flew across the room.

Caldason exploited the distraction. As she turned to him again he lunged forwards, grasped her arm and half pulled, half threw her at the wall. Crying out, she struck one of the bookcases heavily with her back. The case rocked alarmingly. A dozen volumes dislodged and fell, showering down on her. Hand over her head, she scurried clear, and shouted