CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Paradise City

It was almost three in the afternoon, according to the clock mounted on the pinkish façade of the local Mannian temple. Nico and Ash ate at a side-street eatery, perched on tall stools by an opening in the wall where the customers’ orders were taken, and through which the sweaty cooks could be seen at work in the tiny, steamy kitchen. They ate in silence, working eagerly at noodles in a spicy sauce, as they watched people scuttle past through the drizzle falling from a low sky, water dripping constantly from the corners of the canvas awning extending above their heads. Ash remained alert despite his obvious weariness. Nico knew him well enough by now. He could tell that the old man was observing those around them from the periphery of his vision, no doubt looking for any sign that they were being watched. If he noticed anything, he did not share the fact.

The temple across the street attracted Nico’s attention. It was not just the people going in and out of it but the structure itself. It was unlike any temple he had ever seen before, being basically a stone spike that thrust up from the squat surroundings of the neighbourhood; a smaller version of the skysteeples found elsewhere in the city. He wondered again how steel and liquid stone could be impressed to stand in such a way, so tall and thin.

Quietly, he mused: ‘I sit here, eating soft noodles in Q’os itself, and I realize I know nothing of these people at all, save that as a Mercian they are my enemy, and therefore to be feared.’

Ash chewed slowly. Swallowed. ‘They are just ordinary people,’ he said, ‘save that their ways have become extreme, and likewise their hearts, so that they are ill in a way – ill of spirit.’ Ash slurped another strand of noodle into his mouth, as he glanced over his shoulder towards the temple. ‘If you knew their priests, you would fear them more.’

Nico wondered if that was true. The stories of human sacrifice by the priests of Mann and the lesser depravities of its followers – sitting here now on a street corner in the very heart of the Empire – began to seem like so much myth and nonsense. He was quiet for a time. Then once more, he found himself thinking out loud. ‘Perhaps we would have less to fight over,’ he ventured, ‘if we did not have all these differing faiths in the first place.’

‘Perhaps,’ replied Ash, licking his fingers clean. ‘But think further on that. Do you really suppose we would wage war on each other any less if we all shared the same faith, or even had none at all?’ Ash shook his head, a curiously sad gesture. ‘It is our way in this world, Nico, to pretend that our beliefs mean everything to us. But wars are seldom fought over beliefs. Wars are fought for land and spoils, for prestige, for foolishness. They are fought because one side wishes dominion over another. If there is a difference in faiths between opposing nations, all the better for concealing the very things they share in common. Only rarely does genuine belief come into it. The Mannians are no different, despite appearances. Dominion is their deepest creed. At heart, they desire to rule all things.’

Across the street, the temple clock chimed out the hour. A priest emerged on the tower’s high balcony and called out through his bullhorn to the people below as other similar calls sounded across the city. At his muffled words the strangest of sights confronted Nico. The entire population of the street ceased what they were doing and knelt on the ground as one, holding their faces and arms up towards the distant Temple of Whispers.

Nico felt his arm being tugged, and he was drawn down on to his own knees as Ash did the same. Looking around he could see he was not the only one to have been slow at genuflections to Mann, nor the only one who seemed unhappy about it.

‘The daily call,’ Ash said with a hint of contempt in his tone, and thrust his arms into the air, exposing them bare to the rain, as the sleeves of his cloak slid to his elbows.

Reluctantly, Nico followed his example, feeling like an idiot as he did so.

*

At six they caught a tram, a large carriage drawn by a team of twelve zels, their black-and-white striped coats steaming from their exertions. The sign over the door read: Paradisio City.

Ash slotted a half-marvel into the turnstile at the rear of the tram to gain access to board. Behind him, Nico did the same. There were no seats left, so Nico followed Ash’s example and gripped hold of the luggage rack running the entire length of the vehicle. The rack itself was stuffed with sacks of vegetables, rolls of cloth, even a crate of live chickens that watched Nico with their small, glassy eyes. He and Ash stood rocking to and fro as the tram worked its way through the heavy traffic of early evening, their swords carefully hidden beneath their rain cloaks. The passengers were subdued and the carriage strangely quiet save for the steady drum of rain against the windows and roof.

‘No one talks to anyone else,’ whispered Nico. ‘They don’t even look at each other.’

Master Ash smiled thinly. The carriage gradually emptied as the tram made one stop after another. At last some seats became available, and Ash and Nico made themselves comfortable. The old farlander immediately closed his eyes.

Nico noticed his forehead furrow in pain. With trembling fingers, Ash pressed his temple as though relieving a sudden pressure. He took out one of his leaves and placed it in his mouth.

‘You don’t look well,’ Nico observed.

In a weary voice, and with eyes still closed, his master replied: ‘This place does me no good at all, Nico. Wake me when we reach the last stop.’ And with that he wrapped his damp cloak tighter around himself, and was still.

*

The island of Q’os had four harbour bays, each created by the spaces between the ‘fingers and thumb’ known as the Five Cities. The First Harbour was a bay bounded on one side by the protrusion of land known as the thumb, and on the other side by that resembling the index finger.

Paradisio City, also known as the First City, was the largest entertainment district of Q’os, and occupied most of the land forming the island’s thumb. Its main thoroughfare ran along the coastline and looked out over the First Harbour and the eastern docks where Nico and Ash had rented their room. Crossing into this district, they could now clearly see the cluster of skysteeples surrounding the vast structure of the Shay Madi, the island’s newest and largest coliseum, whose flanks sprouted like a small hill rising above the suburbs around it. It was there the tram stopped for the final time, right in the shadow of the mammoth stadium itself.

Nico could only gape at the soaring bulk of arches and columns, as they stepped out into the drizzle with the last remaining passengers. The tram drew away, the zels looking tired but picking up speed with the lighter load and the lure of home. The journey had taken them the better part of an hour, if the public clock nearby was correct. They set off quickly, seeking refuge from the elements under the hoods of their cloaks.

Crowds of revellers pressed through the streets of Paradisio on their way to the stadium. This slowed progress for Ash and Nico, heading as they were in the opposite direction to this excited current. At last they came to a halt in a quiet side street. It had grown noticeably darker by the time a man on clacking stilts came into view, igniting each street light as he went.

‘Gas lights,’ Ash explained, just as Nico opened his mouth to ask. ‘The city sits on a reservoir of the stuff, so they utilize it wherever it comes up to the surface.’

Nico tried to imagine what the old man might mean by that.

‘Think of the fumes,’ Ash pre-empted him again, ‘that come from the back end of a pig. You can bottle that smell, or channel it, and so it will burn whenever you need it to.’

‘They bottle the gas coming from the arses of pigs?’

The old man sighed. ‘No, Nico, I was providing you with an example. But it makes use of the same principle.’

‘I had wondered why Q’os smelled so terrible.’

Ash turned to survey him. The old man stuck out his lower lip, then slid it slowly back again.

A group of women passed by, chattering in some dialect that sounded like Trade, though a strangled form of it, and entered the public bathhouse that he and Ash now stood facing. Hanging next to the entrance, a sign caught Nico’s eye. It was painted with what looked like a Rshun seal.

Ash ignored it as they entered the bathhouse behind the women.

Inside, he fed coins into a slot and gained them two clean towels, before moving on into the humid atmosphere of the changing room. It was empty save for a few men and women talking under the dim glow of the ceiling lights.

Nico stepped into an empty cubicle at Ash’s instruction. He waited there on his own while Ash himself ventured off out of sight. Nico listened to the conversations in the room outside, but they sounded dull, made little sense to him.

A sudden sound above his head caused him to look up. There was Ash, blinking down from the ceiling through a space made by the removal of a large wooden tile. Ash lowered a hand; Nico clasped it and was pulled up into the dark, dusty roof space.

‘These buildings share the same attics,’ Ash whispered into his ear. ‘We can reach our agent from here without being seen entering the house itself. No doubt it is being watched.’

Ash led the way through the gloom, treading with care along the beams rather than on the flimsy wooden tiles themselves. He held his sheathed sword out to one side for balance. Nico struggled not to sneeze from all the dust, and concentrated on keeping his own footing. He could see himself all too easily toppling off the beam, and crashing through the ceiling straight into some poor bather’s lap.

After a time Ash halted. He tugged loose another tile and laid it to one side, then shoved his head through, checking below. Satisfied, he lowered himself through the gap, then Nico clambered after him, agilely.

They stood in a small study, their damp backs warming against a fire of coals that provided the only source of light in the room. In a deep leather chair sat a woman, a book lying open upon her lap, though it was neither her shadowy figure nor the book which seized Nico’s attention. Rather it was the large pistol held in one hand, aimed unwaveringly at Ash’s chest.

For a moment everything in the room was still, save for the shadows flickering over the walls and the simple wooden furniture. Then a spark spat in the fireplace, and Nico jerked. The woman raised her free hand. Carefully, she placed a forefinger to her lips.

She lay the pistol down on a small table beside her chair, immediately followed by the book. Smoothly, she rose and stepped over to the fireplace, then motioned for Ash to come closer.

Nico followed after him, and noticed the seal hanging openly from the young woman’s neck as she crouched there and waited. He watched as she gestured to the chimney. Ash set down his sword and knelt on the floor, peering as best he could up the flame-lit chimney. He nodded, gathering up his sword, and rose to his feet just as she did.

She motioned silently again. Nico glanced back at the fireplace briefly, then followed them out of the room.

*

In a short, unlit hallway they turned aside from the kitchen area and entered the privy instead. It was a confined space, barely large enough for the three of them, and once the woman closed the sliding door, it was thrown into total darkness.

A match flared and guided itself towards the wall. It lit a wick standing in a bowl of oil nestled in a sooty alcove. As the flame slowly grew, the oil cast off the scent of honeysuckle. At least it helped to mask the foul smell of the room.

Once they could see each other again, the woman turned a spigot in another alcove housing a hand basin. The sound of running water filled the room.

‘We’re in trouble,’ she began in a low, husky voice, as she manoeuvred around Ash to sit herself on the privy, in an attempt to give them more room.

Then the wick caught properly and, light blossomed between them. Nico looked down upon a face he had dreamed about.

‘Serèse,’ he blurted.

The young woman held a finger to her lips. ‘You’re not safe here,’ she whispered. ‘The building is being watched.’

Ash nodded, unsurprised. ‘You look well,’ he observed.

She did look well, Nico thought, her hair hanging in plaits, her trim body encased in brown leather.

‘Well, you certainly don’t,’ she replied. ‘What have you been doing with yourself? You look awful.’

‘Thank you. Now tell me, how long have they been listening?’

Serèse shrugged. ‘I found the device in the chimney when I first returned to the city. They’d left a fingermark of soot where none should have been, for I’d cleaned carefully before I left.’ She shook her head. ‘Please listen to me, though. That’s hardly the problem just now. My father made a sweep of the surrounding area last night – you know how careful he likes to be – and there are Regulators, watching the agency from every side.’

‘Baracha made it to the city, then?’

‘Yes, but you’re still not listening. My father sent a note to me rather than visiting in person, saying how I should leave right away. I thought it best to stay until you arrived, though. He thinks the Regulators are watching the bathhouse as well as this place. Don’t ask me how, but they seem to know of the access route from there. They will have seen you go inside.’

Nico shot a glance at the old man. Sweet Ers, he thought. They might know that we’re here right now.

Ash considered this news, stroking a thumb against the sheath of his sword.

In the silence, Serèse looked up at Nico and attempted a brief smile. She’s afraid, he realized, and was glad to find that he was not the only one. For a moment, gazing at her, he was reminded of their brief encounter in the laundry room of Sato, her hair bedraggled by the steam. He could hardly connect that young woman with the one before him now.

‘The rendezvous?’ probed Ash. ‘Did your father mention it?’

‘Yes, he said he would meet you tomorrow as planned.’

‘Good. Then we leave now.’

‘Of course,’ said Nico. ‘We simply walk out of here, casual as you like, and they wave us on our way. I can’t think of a single thing wrong with that idea. Not a thing.’

‘We leave by the bathhouse when some others are leaving too. That will spread them thin, at least. It is the best we can do.’

Serèse agreed. She stood up and squirmed her way out into the hallway, her leather-clad back momentarily pressing up against Nico. He and Ash followed as she wrapped a dark red cloak about herself and grabbed a canvas rucksack she had already packed.

They gathered in the study. Ash chanced a peek through a slat in the shutters. Nico took the initiative, pulling the leather chair beneath the space in the ceiling and hauling himself up. He held his hand out for Serèse to take hold of, but she ignored it, and tossed her pack to him instead. She scrambled up next, and Ash came last, carefully setting the tile back in place.

The changing room was quiet as they climbed down into an empty cubicle. For some minutes they sat waiting, crammed together on the wooden bench. Nico could feel the heat of Serèse’s leg pressing against his own. He tried his best to ignore it.

Ash raised a hand to his forehead and began to massage it. ‘The Temple?’ he said, as though to take his mind off the pain. ‘Did you have a chance to gain any information?’

‘I watched its perimeter for a few days,’ she whispered. ‘Then I told Baso and the others what I’d seen. The truth is, it can’t be done.’

‘Baso managed it.’

‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘And how far did he get?’

Ash said nothing to that.

‘We don’t even know if Kirkus is still inside.’

‘The Seer believed so, before we left Sato. So we can only assume Kirkus remains there.’

They fell silent as a bather entered the main changing room outside, whistling loudly and seemingly by himself. More soon followed him, arguing about the choice of brothel to visit next. Ash stooped to peer beneath the cubicle door.

‘Listen to me,’ he whispered as he sat up again. ‘We leave when they do. If we are attacked outside, you must both make a run for it, and I will do my best to hold them off. Nico knows where to go.’

‘I do?’

‘The hostalio, Nico. Get to the east docklands, and anyone there can direct you to it.’

They waited for a few heartbeats, till Ash nodded, then all three pulled up their hoods and slipped out of the cubicle, following the group of men out into the street. The twilight had thickened into night but at least it had stopped raining. Instantly they turned in the opposite direction to the one the party of men was taking, and casually strolled away.

Nico could sense hidden eyes watching their progress; whether it was down to actual intuition, he could not tell. Serèse began to chatter, either out of nervousness or as a ploy to make them appear more ordinary. Her words sounded odd against the backdrop of that dark street poorly lit by gaslights.

‘Your name,’ she said to him, ‘It’s Nico?’

‘Yes. You remembered.’

‘It means canny in the old tongue, does it not?’

Nico swallowed a dryness in his throat, scrutinizing a shadowed doorway to their left. He muttered that it did.

‘And are you?’

‘Am I what?’ He could have sworn he had seen a shadow shift just then.

‘Canny, I mean. Do you see into people’s motives?’

‘So my mother would have me believe.’ Nico continued to watch their surroundings from under his hood, and fought hard not to look back along the street.

Ash seemed to sense his struggle. ‘Do not look back,’ he hissed. ‘Keep prattling.’

Nico did his best to resume the conversation.

A puddle splashed behind them, even as Serèse opened her mouth to say something.

‘We’re being followed,’ she whispered instead.

As Nico fought the urge to run, Serèse began to hum something beneath her breath. It sounded like an old nursery rhyme Nico had heard as a child.

‘Take my arm,’ Ash ordered by his side.

‘Why?’ Nico asked.

‘Because I can barely see.’

Ash didn’t wait for a response, but took Nico’s hand and placed it on his own arm. The old man was squinting as though trying to peer through a dazzling light.

A zel-drawn tram clattered by over to their right, casting a sickly yellow light on to the street. Its carriage was far from full, the windows framing the occasional face that peered out into the darkness without expression, lost in its own world . . . As soon as it was gone two cloaked figures were there in its place, walking directly to cut them off.

‘What?’ snapped Ash, feeling Nico’s grip tighten.

‘Two more, in front of us.’

‘Then change our course,’ growled the old man.

Nico guided them left into a side street. Serèse was silent now. Ash loosened his cloak, brought his scabbard ready to hand. Nico did the same, wondering at himself as he did so. His whole body was trembling. He remembered to focus on his breathing.

The side street ran along the rear of a broad marble building, its grand façade adorned with gargoyles with faces fixed in grotesque grimaces. Music could be heard through the glowing windows, some form of opera not unlike something Nico might have heard back in Khos. Above the sound, barely audible, came the clacking of iron-shod footfalls from behind. Nico cast a glance over his shoulder to see five figures striding after them.

‘Master,’ hissed Nico, as further shapes stepped directly into their path only ten paces ahead. Regulators, undoubtedly.

A rasp of steel in the night air. Blades glimmered. ‘Halt,’ instructed a voice. ‘You’re to be placed under arrest, all of you.’

‘Keep walking,’ instructed Ash as he cast his cloak from his shoulders. They advanced towards the Regulators in front, even as those behind closed the distance. ‘You will have to fight, both of you. Remember your breathing, and once you see a clear space, make a break for it, understood?’

It was no plan at all, as far as Nico was concerned. He gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword for some vague reassurance, ready to draw it as he was trained to. Nothing any longer seemed real to him.

One of the figures raised a pistol in his hand. A pistol. ‘Halt!’ he shouted again.

Ash: ‘How close are they?’

‘Six paces.’

Nico jumped in shock as something exploded next to his head. In front of them, the pistoleer cried out and tumbled backwards to the ground.

Serèse tossed her own smoking pistol away and drew a long hunting knife without breaking stride. Nico paused, marvelling at the sight of her – and then Ash sprang into action too.

In one seamless movement the old man drew his blade and ducked, with foreleg bent and hindleg stretched back, and raked his sword across a man’s belly; still following through the same motion, he deflected a down-coming blow from another Regulator, turned away the blade, stabbed out.

Nico missed what happened next. By then he was in the thick of it himself. He swerved from a slash as he had been endlessly drilled to do, felt the cool breath of the blade as it passed his face. This is real, his mind suggested. These men are trying to kill me.

His body took over. He drew his sword and with his next step thrust it forwards. He felt resistance and then he was through it – a face grimacing inches away from his own. It was a man, a human, impaled on his blade. The man struggled. Nico could feel his desperate movements through the hilt of his sword. He would have let go out of disgust if he hadn’t felt a sudden lightness in his grip as the man pulled himself clear of the blade, gasped as though in relief, then sat himself down on the ground.

Nico backed away from him.

He felt arms lock around his neck, pulling him backwards and downwards as his sword was knocked from his grasp. He hit the cobbles, a weight pressing on him, a man’s stinking breath in his face as someone else held his legs. Cursing and struggling, Serèse was thrown to the ground next to him.

Nico wrenched his head free and lifted it enough to catch sight of Ash.

The farlander was still on his feet, cutting a dance through the cloaked men gathered round him. Nico watched him in awe as did the Regulators pinning him down. For a moment it looked as though the old man couldn’t be stopped, his movements so fast there was no chance to react to them, his own actions seeming to pre-empt all others that occurred around him.

But there were too many Regulators, and anyway, Ash could barely see. He missed with one strike and suffered a cut across his left arm, a sudden slash that would have taken off the limb entirely had the old man not somehow known to swerve aside in time. He took the wound with a grunt and a defensive sweep of his blade. A blackness dripped in the dim light from the sudden rent in his sleeve.

‘Run!’ the old farlander hollered, unaware that both his companions had been brought down. Another sword struck Ash, the flat of the blade crashing into the side of his head. He reeled, bounced off the wall, came off it with a snarl and his blade already lashing out. The Regulators jumped back beyond his range.

One drew a pistol, took careful aim at Ash’s kneecap.

‘Master Ash!’ shouted Nico in warning, trying to fight free as the Regulator squinted and pulled the trigger.

There was the slightest of delays before the blackpowder charge ignited . . . and then something wholly unexpected happened.

A giant of a man crashed on to the scene. With a single swipe he took the top of the pistoleer’s skull off, so it flapped against his cheek on a vivid hinge of raw scalp. The weapon fired even as the pistoleer toppled to the ground. The shot flew high. The giant charged onwards into those pinning holding down Nico and Serèse.

It was Baracha, and behind him came a wild-eyed Aléas. As though felling wood, Baracha heaved and chopped with his oversized blade. Aléas followed him, covering his back, jabbing and cutting left and right. Ash pressed the attack.

On his back, still numbed by shock, Nico watched the three Rshun cut down their opponents in a grimly indifferent silence. Within moments, every Regulator was down.

A roar of applause erupted from inside the opera house. The perfomance drawing to a close.

Nico kept shaking, and his stomach heaved as he looked across the bodies bleeding out on to the cobbles, unable to stop gagging at the copper stench of it. His man was there somewhere, he knew, the one he had struck down. He could not even tell which one it had been.

He heard retching and turned to see Serèse vomiting against a wall. It surprised him to witness that.

Ash was cleaning his blade on a cloak of one of the fallen. Baracha just stood there, breathing heavily, and looked at his daughter with obvious relief. Around them, on the wet cobbles, the fallen men coughed, wheezed, struggled to move.

‘A fine mess,’ the Alhazii growled at Ash. ‘It’s as well we’ve been keeping our own watch on the house. I feared this might happen when you finally arrived. You did not take adequate precautions, old man.’

Ash sheathed his sword with a firm shove. ‘It is good to see you too, Baracha.’

A shrill whistle sounded in the distance.

‘Perhaps we should leave our chit-chat for a later time?’ This from Aléas.

Nico picked up his fallen sword. It took him several attempts to grasp it then he noticed the blood on his hands, and wiped his palms against his tunic. It would not all come off. He tried to sheathe the blade but he could not seem to manage it.

Ash settled a hand on his arm. ‘Just breathe,’ said the old man.

‘Yes, master,’ Nico said, and slid the blade home.

‘Tomorrow then?’ Ash said to Baracha.

‘Aye, tomorrow – and be sure you take proper precautions this time.’

With quiet words, Ash instructed Nico to lead the way.

*

Ash’s wound continued to bleed badly on the way back. He and Nico tried to stem the flow, but still the blood ran down to his hand, dripped from his glistening fingers. Ash refused to catch a tram back to the hostalio, considering his wound too conspicuous for that. He clenched a torn-off piece of his tunic against the wound for the entire journey back, making no complaint on the way. They stopped twice at deep puddles at Nico’s insistence, where he tried to wash the gore from his own hands as best he could.

‘Can you see again yet?’ asked Nico, as he shook his hands dry.

‘Yes, my sight clears.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you exactly?’

‘Nothing is wrong with me. I told you, I suffer from head pains. If they get bad enough they can make it difficult to see.’

Nico did not press him further, not while his master was still in obvious pain.

When they at last reached the hostalio almost an hour later, they were bone-weary and beyond. They made it past the dozing night attendant without trouble, clambering up the four flights of stairs with thoughts of nothing but collapsing on their beds.

They first locked the door of their dark room with a quarter taken from the pile of loose change Ash had left in the washbowl for their purposes. They then fed another quarter into the slot beneath the gaslight, and lit it with a match. Another coin was necessary to unfold Nico’s bed.

Before they could sleep, though, they needed to attend to Ash’s wound. Nico used yet another quarter to run the spigot and fill the washbowl with water, the remaining coins still lying at its bottom. Meanwhile Ash took out the medico pack and rummaged through it for sterilized bandages, a vial of pure alcohol, also a needle and thread.

The old man dripped some alcohol into the wound, hissing through his teeth as he did so. The gash was not overly deep, but gaped open and pink. The flesh around it, for the entire span of his upper arm, was now bruised a dark purple. Some more of the alcohol he poured on to the bandages. He used a match to heat the end of the needle red-hot, then threaded it with precision, though his fingers shook as the blood coursed freely down his arm. Once it was threaded, he held the needle up to Nico, and said, ‘Stitch me up, boy.’

Nico rocked back on his feet. He blinked, barely able to keep his eyelids apart. His body trembled with exhaustion, and he was close to falling down. There was no getting out of it though, so he took the needle and sat down beside the old man. He tried to pretend to himself that he knew what he was doing, that he had been listening during the field surgery lessons back at the monastery, that he had not been fooling around with Aléas at all.

Carefully, he stitched the ugly lips of the wound together, while Ash sat impassively and observed his work. In a way, Nico’s exhaustion was a blessing just then; his brain was too far gone to become squeamish at what he saw.

At last Ash nodded with a sigh: ‘That will do.’

Nico cut the thread with a knife and fixed a bandage, as best he could, around the arm. He then took off the old man’s boots and helped lift his feet on to the bed, making sure his head was properly propped on the pillow.

Ash closed his eyes. His breathing grew shallower.

Nico thought of this old man dancing through the armed Regulators while near-blind, wielding his blade as though it was weight less, all the glamour and myth surrounding him suddenly bearing truth.

‘I think I killed a man tonight,’ Nico said quietly over his master’s still form.

Ash inclined his head by the smallest degree to look up at him. ‘And how do you feel, now it is done?’

‘Like a criminal. As though I took something I had no right to take. As though I have become someone else, someone tainted.’

‘Good, may it always be that way. Only worry if after the act is done and your blood cooled, you feel nothing at all.’

But that was what Nico wished for most of all, just to feel nothing. How could he ever return home to his mother and meet her eye, knowing what he had done?

‘He might have had children,’ Nico said. ‘A son, like me.’

Ash shut his eyes, let his head straighten back on the pillow.

‘You did well, Nico,’ the farlander croaked.

The words barely registered on Nico. He kept his own boots on as he made the hardest climb of his life up on to the top bunk. He had barely sprawled on the thin mattress before his body gave up on him. He fell into a deep unconsciousness.

Both of them lay dead to the world, each covered in a sheen of sweat and dried blood, oblivious to the pounding of a fight in the room overhead, the coins falling and clattering endlessly behind other walls.

*

It was quiet in the dark streets surrounding the opera house. The great building itself lay in silence, the perfomance finished for the night. Its patrons had long departed for home or gone on to further late-night engagements.

The cart rocked on its wheels as another corpse was thrown on to it. The clean-up squad worked in silence, save for the occasional grunt of exertion from behind the kerchiefs wrapped around their faces or the odd curse in response to the reeking evacuations of the bodies they trod amongst. Two figures stood apart from the scene, a man and a woman. He puffed on a hazii stick; she leaned against a wall, wrapped tightly in her cloak.

‘He comes at last,’ the man declared.

Another zel-drawn cart creaked into the side street, a stout wooden box on wheels. Its driver clucked the zel on as quietly as he could, and pulled in the reins as he drew parallel with the two figures.

‘You took your time,’ the woman reproached him, pushing herself off the wall.

The driver shrugged. ‘How long?’ he asked, before dismounting.

‘An hour – no more.’

The driver clucked his tongue, strode to the back of the cart. He tugged open the doors and a pair of bloodhounds stared out at him from a wire cage, their tails wagging furiously.

‘Come my darlings,’ he said to them. ‘Time to earn your supper.’

After opening the cage he fastened thick leashes to their collars, then allowed them to jump down.

The hounds pulled hard against his bodyweight, keen to begin the hunt. They remained quiet save for their open-mouthed panting, as they had been trained. ‘The trail of blood leads that way,’ the woman pointed out helpfully.

But dogs were already on to it, and they scurried after the scent with their handler barely able to restrain them. ‘We move fast,’ he warned over his shoulder, not waiting to see if anyone came after him.

The two Regulators exchanged a glance, then followed.