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  “I don’t think they’re the ones we’re interested in,” said Roza.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the way they’re all looking at him. He’s not the leader, he’s something else. A figurehead. Maybe a smuggler of something unusual. A new drug perhaps?”

  None of the people seemed to be burning with rage or struggling to control their temper. Belief fired the blood and made people very passionate and animated.

  As Katja watched, one of the women hurried to the bar to fetch the bearded man a drink. The huge smile on her face showed how much pleasure she took from serving him in this simple act. As soon as she moved away others rushed to catch his attention, hanging on his every word when he spoke.

  “Maybe a sex cult,” muttered Katja, gesturing with her chin towards the woman and man sat on either side of the bearded man. Both were stroking a leg and trying to attract his attention while he spoke to someone else. Whatever the group was involved with, it all centred around one individual.

  She and Roza finished their drinks and left, making sure they weren’t followed before continuing to the next place on the list.

  In the next bar Katja saw another mixed group of people who were doing a bad job of being inconspicuous. The rich at the table had thrown ragged cloaks over expensive silk and richly dyed wool that she knew was the latest fashion in the city. They had made a small effort and removed any jewellery, but pale bands showed on the fingers of three men, indicating they normally had several rings on each hand. Then there were their weapons, which shone so brightly they created reflective circles on the walls that danced whenever one of them moved.

  The group were huddled together, revealing their inexperience in such establishments as the room had been carefully laid out to facilitate private conversation. Whenever someone strayed even slightly close to their part of the room, the whole group fell silent, tracking the individual with their eyes. Only when they were sure the person was out of earshot would their frantic whispering recommence.

  They were thrill-seekers. Rich sons and daughters of wealthy families who were roughing it. Pretending to being bad boys and girls to show they were tough and could drink in some of the worst bars in the city. Katja thought it possible they were planning something, but it would be a petty and childish prank. Perhaps painting a rude phrase on the side of a building or even something as depraved as killing someone, just to see if they could get away with it.

  If that was the case it would be something for the Watch or the Guardians to deal with, not her.

  Studying their faces she saw no indications of panic or genuine fear. So far no one had crossed any lines. She and Roza finished their drinks and left them to their games.

  As the night wore on, frustration caused energy to build up inside her, making Katja’s skin itch. She was desperate to act, to do something physical, but this search required a level of stillness that made her increasingly uncomfortable.

  They went to yet another bar that seemed like a dead-end for the first hour. Just as Katja was starting to despair she saw an odd group of people drinking together.

  At first glance they didn’t look too unusual. But from looking at their clothes, their manners and even the way they sat, Katja could see they came from different backgrounds. By itself that wasn’t uncommon but their conversation was full of tense silences, holes in the natural rhythm that told her they were newly acquainted. Nevertheless a common purpose had brought them together.

  Even though she couldn’t hear what was being said, Katja picked up a great deal about the mood from their body language and gestures. Most were anxious, but all were clearly irate about something. They were passionate and focused on a united purpose. One would speak and the others would keenly listen, nodding in agreement and making encouraging gestures. The only exception at the table was a tall Seve woman wearing a sword on her back. She never said a word. Her face showed no emotion and her eyes constantly scanned the room. When their eyes met Katja didn’t look away, instead she offered a friendly smile. The Seve woman held her gaze for a few seconds then resumed looking around, clearly finding nothing of interest in her and seeing no sort of a threat.

  “They might be the ones. They’re planning something,” said Katja.

  “The man with the red beard. Did you notice his hand?” asked Roza.

  “No.”

  “His fingers drum the table when someone gets too close, but the conversation never stops, it just changes. It’s getting late,” said Roza, draining the last of her ale with a grimace. “We should leave before they do.”

  As Katja followed her out the front door she felt someone’s eyes boring into her back. Her instincts told her to turn around and see who it was, but she ignored it and tried not to tense up.

  Once they were a few streets away she and Roza ducked into an alley, moving deep into the shadows, weapons at the ready. A few tense minutes passed in silence with Katja’s heart pounding loudly in her ears. The two of them stayed like that for a long time, listening and waiting. Eventually Roza signalled they were not being followed and Katja relaxed. They retraced their steps until they were standing in an alley down the street from the tavern.

  “What do we do?”

  “Find out where red beard and the big woman are staying and who else they’ve spoken to. The group tonight could be their first batch of recruits or their fifth.”

  “Couldn’t we just take them off the street and press them for answers?” suggested Katja, one hand moving towards her concealed blade.

  Roza shook her head. “We could, but remember what the Silent Order told us? Even they couldn’t find out who was behind it all. These two are most likely just the latest pawns in someone else’s game. We need to infiltrate the group and find out what they’re planning.”

  “How?”

  Roza bit her lip. “I’m working on it.”

  They didn’t have to wait too long until the bar closed and the owner, apparently keen for his bed, started urging people out of the door. Individuals from the group they’d been observing left first and then red beard and the big swordswoman last, going in separate directions.

  They waited a minute and then followed the swordswoman, keeping her just in sight ahead of them on the street.

  After a while Katja realised they didn’t need to be so cautious as the swordswoman never once checked to see if she was being followed. She strode with purpose, never wavering from her path, and people moved out of her way or crossed the street as she approached. Katja suspected she was taking the most direct route simply because it was the quickest.

  The swordswoman was exactly what she appeared to be. A blunt implement used to bludgeon people. The only mystery would be her reason for getting involved, not her role. Katja looked forward to hearing her twisted justification for conspiring to murder not one but two Queens.

  Half an hour later the woman marched into a slightly rundown inn called the Pear and Partridge. The sign was battered, the windows grimy, but someone had made an effort to make it look nice by adding hanging baskets. These couldn’t disguise the worn nature of the building and modest accommodation it offered.

  They waited a few minutes, giving the swordswoman time to settle, and then Roza circled around the back while Katja kept watch. A few minutes later Roza reappeared and Katja fell in beside her as they walked away from the tavern.

  “I spoke to the owner. He didn’t want to talk at first, but I loosened his tongue. Our friend, the big swordswoman, is supposed to be staying in room five. Apparently the owner accidentally stumbled into her room one night and found it deserted. She’s paying for a room here and sleeping elsewhere.”

  It was beginning to sound as though this group, whether paranoid or just cautious, was more than amateurs or thrill-seekers.

  “What do we do?” asked Katja when they were a few streets away.

  “Go back to the inn tomorrow and hope they return,” said Roza. “In the meantime I’ll get some more bodies to follow other members of the
group. Be careful and take precautions on your way home. Someone could be watching us.” Katja couldn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched.

  Taking the long route home, Katja walked fast, hoping to burn off some of her energy. It was no good. She needed something else and ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away.

  Changing her route again Katja took a side street and went deeper into the dark heart of the city. She walked briskly while letting her hair down and unfastening the top buttons on her shirt, exposing the tops of her breasts. Without her really thinking about where she was going her feet took her away from the main streets, down winding alleys and up narrow lanes. Not once did she look behind her to check if she was being followed. Her mind had become focused only on what lay ahead.

  Katja felt the music before she found the place. A low thrum deep in her chest that vibrated through her bones. Her pace quickened as she went down the grimy set of stairs to a thick door set below street level.

  She knocked and waited, anxiously hopping from foot to foot. On the other side of the door she could hear the music, an insistent beat that called to her.

  Eventually a slot at eye level slid back to reveal the bald head of a big man. The black door opened to reveal a dirty and smelly corridor, the floor sticky and daubed with muddy footprints.

  The doorman was a massive slab of meat, covered with faded blue tattoos on his thick arms and up one side of his pockmarked face. He was so tall that he barely fitted in the corridor and the top of his head brushed the ceiling. He jerked a thumb towards a doorway to his left and locked the door again.

  “That must be really annoying,” she said, gesturing at the ceiling then his head. His impassive face regarded her carefully, perhaps to see if she was making fun of him.

  “Is that someone coming or going, Marrow?” said a rasping voice from the doorway. Marrow guided her towards the door, lightly resting one hand on the small of her back.

  Through the doorway sat a grey-haired Zecorran woman whose black eyes were utterly without pity. A permanent sneer curled the corners of her mouth and she looked at Katja as if she were a maggot that had just crawled out of an apple she’d bitten into.

  “The price is eight,” she said, stabbing the scarred surface of the table with two black fingernails.

  “Eight? Last time it cost five.”

  The sneer stretched even wider, exposing yellow and black teeth. “You pay eight or Marrow will throw you into the street. Don’t think flashing your tits will change the price.”

  The music was much louder now and she could feel it passing through her body in waves, over and over like the tide. Gritting her teeth she counted out eight silver bits onto the table, making sure no part of her skin touched its surface.

  The gatekeeper’s hand snapped out and scooped up the coins. “Have fun,” she said, offering another sickening smile.

  Turning her back on the wretched woman Katja went into the corridor and headed towards the music. It pulled her forward, calling to her in ways she couldn’t put into words. She pushed open the thick door at the end of the corridor, and passed through a set of heavy black curtains.

  The first thing to hit her was the insistent drumbeat and then the heat from all the bodies, dancing and writhing together. Katja immediately began to sweat and her body swayed in time to the music.

  The large oval room had a low ceiling and the dancers had their hands extended towards it. At the far side of the room several musicians performed on a raised stage. Lighting came from flickering alchemical lamps set into glass-fronted alcoves along the walls, but the dull green glow did little except show her the outline of many sweaty bodies. Around the edge of the room were several short corridors where people could find dark corners and continue enjoying themselves in other ways.

  The tempo of the endless drums increased, and with it the sea of bodies started to writhe more quickly, each in time with one another, as if they had become one monstrous creature with hundreds of arms and legs. A screeching fiddle scratched at her eardrums, seemingly at random. Somewhere in the chaos lay a pattern that slowly started to emerge.

  As Katja moved through the crowd, bodies pressed on all sides and she merged with them, becoming one, moving in time. A woman with red hair laughed and threw her arms around Katja’s neck, kissed her on the cheek and then span away. As the music passed into her being, filling the void and easing the terrible ache deep inside, she closed her eyes. Strong hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the floor and Katja laughed and felt herself raised above the crowd. A sea of hands passed beneath her and she floated, drifting for a time, losing herself in the beat, swallowed by the music. When her feet finally touched the ground again a smile would not leave her face.

  Across the room she saw a familiar Morrin man disappear into one of the shadowy alcoves with a local woman with red hair. By the time Katja cut through the crowd the woman was already walking away and chewing something.

  “What have you got?” she shouted, trying to compete with the music and noise from the crowd.

  The Morrin’s horns emerged from the shadows first, making him look demonic. The image was intensified by the feral grin and wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  “Whatever you want, pretty lady,” he said, launching into his spiel. “Something to make you float, something to bring you back down, something to make you cry like a little girl, or smile because life is beautiful. Or maybe you just want to forget everything for a night?”

  “I’ll take a blue button,” said Katja, fishing out the gold coin from underneath her clothing. He bit the coin before handing her what resembled a small blue pebble. She let it dissolve on her tongue and merged back into the group of dancers.

  A second fiddle began to weave in and out of the first, as if they were duelling. The sounds blended together into something indescribable, as the drumming increased in tempo again.

  Her heart began to beat faster. The room span and Katja felt her arms reaching towards the ceiling with everyone else. But now she could see through the wet stones to the street above, and beyond that to the sky filled with stars. She felt part of her mind leave the room, passing over fields and farms, mountains and rivers, caves and forests. Leaving her flesh behind was so simple. She wondered why she’d never done it before.

  Somewhere she felt hands on her hips and then a hungry mouth pressed into hers. Even as she continued to travel, her eyes found an unfamiliar face and she felt something hard pressing into her hip. She led him by the hand to an alcove where the shadows were deep and no one was watching. His mouth explored her neck and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling up her skirt then guiding him into her.

  With the music pounding and her heart racing, her skin tingling and face on fire, she ground her hips against him, building towards a climax. Time had no meaning and she stayed in that perfect moment, suspended in time, feeling nothing, until suddenly the music had changed and the man had gone.

  Katja rejoined the crowd and danced until all colour bled from the world and the sun touched the sky. Eventually she found her way home and collapsed on her bed fully clothed.

  CHAPTER 12

  The silence inside a church of the Maker always filled Choss with a sense of peace. As a boy he’d often just listened to the silence, soaking it up as if he were a dry sponge. The house was always busy and full of noise. His mother tirelessly working in the kitchen. His father talking loudly. His sister and her friends cackling at play. It made it hard for him to think or rest. At home he’d always felt on edge, waiting for the door to bang open, for the shouting to begin, for the screaming to start.

  At first he’d always chosen one of the seats near the back, in case the priest tried to chase him out, but he never did. The old man had just smiled and left him alone for the first couple of weeks. Later they’d talked and Choss had told him about his mother and sister, the bruises and his drunken father.

  They were all gone now. The drunk burned up into ash. His sister liv
ing a new life in Seveldrom. His mother dead ten years from the creep.

  The silence in the church felt different now, lighter somehow. It also felt as if it was waiting for something, but Choss didn’t know what for.

  At the front of the church a pale-faced woman stood beside the attending priest. The old man he’d known as a boy was long gone, but the new priest had a similar look. World weary and stooped, with a lined face and eyes that seemed to know many things.

  On the other side of the priest was a young man, proud and angry with tight shoulders. Laid out on a plinth at the front was what remained of Brokk. Normally a body sat in plain view so that people could see the face, preserved somehow with alchemical liquids so it didn’t droop or smell. Since bits of Brokk were missing, chewed up and spat out by Gorrax, a heavy grey sheet lay over the body, covering it from head to toe. No one wanted to be reminded of how he’d died, but they all knew. The Patriarch, a local man with a ruddy complexion, stood watch over the remains, already into his second day. His eyes never moved. His face never changed. He stared into the long distance.

  Once the woman had finished her business with the priest she turned around and Choss saw the red around her eyes. Fresh tears ran down her face unnoticed, but she’d stopped making any noise when she cried. Now the tears had become a reflex. Her body’s way of trying to expunge the pain in the only way it knew. Although he’d not met her before, Choss knew she was Brokk’s widow and the other man his brother.

  Despite being hunched over they easily spotted him sat in the back row.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Choss as they approached, not knowing what else to say. The words felt small against their pain. He’d been in the same position as them after the death of his mother. He knew the words didn’t really matter, as long as the sentiment was honest. “He had a lot of talent.”

  The wife, whose name he couldn’t remember, wiped at her cheeks and her expression turned angry. “They’re saying my Brokk was using venthe. He’d never do that. He was a good man. A good husband.”