God of Night

by Tom Lloyd

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure

Synopsis

The time for heroes has come, but all the Riven Kingdom has is bastards. With war between the Militant Orders looming, the entire continent may soon be on fire. The very nature of magic has changed and the horrors of the deepest black are rising, but an even greater danger threatens to eclipse it all. Turning the tide of history may require a gamble only a bunch of drunken lunatics are willing to take. The old ways need breaking and that's one thing the Cards are good at. Just be careful what you wish for.

Release date: October 1, 2020

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 427

Sample

Once, Lynx was a soldier – an idealistic young man in the warrior state of So Han. As a commando lieutenant he was at the spearhead of So Han’s war of conquest, but refused to engage in the atrocities being committed. After killing his commanding officer in a duel, he was sent to the brutal To Lort prison and forced to labour in the mines there.

A decade after the end of the war, he finds himself joining a mercenary crew called Anatin’s Mercenary Deck – the Cards – on a rescue mission to the city of Grasiel. On the way, Lynx frees a young night mage called Sitain who elects to temporarily hide in their ranks. The job turns out to be protecting Toil, an agent of the city-state of Su Dregir, who has just assassinated the ruler of Grasiel before he can make an alliance with one of the most powerful Religious Militant Orders, the Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk.

They find themselves pursued out of the city by elite Charneler troops and in an attempt to escape, Toil leads them into the ancient Duegar ruin of Shadows Deep. Crossing the city, they are beaten to the only remaining bridges across a huge underground rift by the Charnelers.

In desperation, Toil wakes a beast of legend that inhabits the lower levels of the rift, a monster that feeds on magic called a golantha. The Charnelers are massacred, but the Cards manage to lure the golantha onto the bridge and use their mage-guns to drive it over the edge.

Not long after, Toil receives word that an academic in the city of Jarrazir, on the northern edge of the great inland sea called Parthain, is close to solving the riddle of the Labyrinth that lies beneath Jarrazir. As an experienced relic hunter, Toil goes to offer her services, but the Labyrinth is opened before she arrives and the Knights-Charnel have sent their own relic hunter, Sotorian Bade, ahead of an army. Bade uses the Labyrinth to cripple the city’s defences and a full invasion of the city begins while Toil and the Cards pursue Bade, a man who abandoned her in a city-ruin years ago. Bade escapes with a huge cache of God Fragments, but Toil and her team discover a hidden chamber. Inside is a stone tree surrounded by a strange moat and when a mage called Lastani touches it, something happens to them all. Every member of the party wakes to find themselves with white tattoos on their skin, and the three mages in the group are immeasurably more powerful.

Back on the surface they find themselves in a stand-off, but their augmented mages prove the tipping point. Toil triggers a firebomb, gambling that their mages can protect them while the Charneler leadership is killed, prompting a retreat.

Their next mission is in the southern city of Caldaire, the heart of a small archipelago known as the Mage Isles. The job is a simple one, but in the course of looking for an independent supplier of ammunition for the impending war against the Knights-Charnel, Toil manages to trigger an ancient mechanism. That stirs up the thousands of winged lizards that live in the caverns beneath the city in addition to several insectile golantha. A hastily prepared defence proves no match for the monsters, and Lastani – the most skilled mage in the Cards – is killed, but they use what they learned in Shadow’s Deep to kill one. With ammunition scarce in the city and the remaining golantha likely to return the next night, Atieno proposes a startling alternative: mage-cartridges charged with a rare blend of magics known in legend as dark magic. With only a limited number of cartridges to hand, a handful of teams set out to lure the golantha into a trap, and finally they manage to kill them all, at the expense of Teshen – the Knight of Stars.

It becomes clear that their actions in Jarrazir have had wide-ranging implications for magic and the power structure of the entire Riven Kingdom. The expected war between Militant Orders may start sooner, and see greater upheaval than anyone could have ever expected before. With the prospect of the Knights-Charnel growing stronger before marching on the states of Parthain, Toil proposes a radical solution.

‘Reckon it’s too late to become a nun and devote my life to prayer?’

Lynx grunted as they looked down from the fortress wall. Golden shafts of dawn light revealed the fields below had sprouted an impressive crop of armed wankers overnight.

‘For you, mebbe not,’ he conceded as Kas made a not entirely nun-like gesture at the mass of soldiers. ‘As for the rest of our esteemed brethren … I suspect the gods might rise again out of sheer bloody outrage.’

Even at this distance the black-and-white uniforms of the Knights-Charnel were obvious. Thousands of the bastards stared up towards the fortress. They weren’t in battle order, just scattered across the fields without any indication they meant to attack. Still, the sight was enough to make Lynx’s hand tighten around his mage-gun. Around him the last few squads of panicked Brethren of the Shards joined the Cards at the rampart wall.

‘There’s the celibacy thing though,’ Kas said.

Lynx shrugged. ‘Aye, there’s that.’

The rest of Anatin’s Mercenary Deck were spread along the wall. In a rare feat of readiness they had beaten most of their employers to the best vantage points. Lynx turned his back on the Charneler army. Puffing on one of Llaith’s roll-ups, he inspected the interior of the sanctuary-fortress.

‘You’d probably have to repent your sins,’ he warned.

‘Repent?’ Kas sucked her teeth. ‘Deepest black, that could be a tough one to say with a straight face. Some of the immoral things I’ve done were really bloody fun.’

Some officer further down the line yapped for quiet in the ranks. Kas turned her imperious gaze his way until the fuzz-lipped youth looked away, abashed. The Cards might be calling themselves the Red Scarves at the moment, but things hadn’t changed so much that they were likely to meekly obey some chinless crotch-stain who’d spent half his life in a seminary.

‘Are they going to attack?’ asked a young soldier nearby. He wore the grey and yellow of the Brethren of the Shards, a venerable and rich Militant Order that rivalled the Knights-Charnel for influence in the Riven Kingdom. Barely old enough to shave, his uniform was pristine and his mage-gun gleamed. Kas had already had to tell him to keep his fucking fingers off the trigger.

‘Attack?’ Kas snorted. ‘Look at ’em! They’re just standing around holding their dicks. I’m no student o’ siege warfare tactics, but I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than hard stares.’

‘Maybe they’re trying to summon the energy for it,’ Lynx suggested. He shouldered his own gun and yawned expansively. ‘Digging earthworks. Building pickets. Assembling trebuchets and the like. All too much like hard work for this early. Why not get breakfast in first?’

‘But they can’t starve us out, not here.’

‘Don’t expect a lot of sense from those shitweasels. Why do you think we’re on your side? Fucking Charnelers are crazy. If your lot have any snipers, have at ’em. Otherwise, this is the good bit.’

‘Good?’ the young soldier echoed.

‘Better’n the killing,’ Lynx asserted. ‘Screams, blood, shit and terror. Don’t you worry though. We’ve got the high ground, siege weapons and a whole bloody mage sanctuary to resupply us. The bad bits are mostly reserved for them that’s outside the walls.’

The armies stared at each other in silence. It was some subtle strategy to unnerve the defenders, Lynx guessed. Unfortunately, the Cards were too hungover to spell disquieted, let alone feel it without a long run-up and coffee.

All was otherwise quiet in this desolate southern corner of the Lae Valley. It was a few hundred miles east of Parthain and the Brethren of the Shards ruled supreme round here. The Charnelers, on the other hand, were a long way from home. No matter that the Brethren were less warlike than many Orders, this looked like a stupid move. Nonetheless, the five-thousand-strong Charneler army had set every city, town and commandery aflutter when news arrived of them punching deep into Brethren territory – more so when they crushed a hastily mustered response.

It was a declaration of war and one that had caught the Brethren unawares due to its audacity. Small but mobile, well beyond any lines of supply, the force of Charnelers would be slaughtered once a proper response was organised. Until then they would have every inhabitant of the huge Lae Valley guessing and shitting themselves. Lynx didn’t know what the Brethren’s leadership were doing right now, but so far it seemed to be mostly panicking over the idea of an assault.

A piercing whistle broke the silence. Most heads on the walkway turned to see Anatin craning his head in search of someone.

‘Kas!’ the man yelled.

‘Our master calls,’ Kas muttered. ‘Come on, Lynx.’

‘What’s happening?’ the young soldier asked.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said with a shake of the head. ‘We’ve got a fair bit more of the boring bit to come yet.’

They headed towards the stairway that would lead them up to the barbican’s weapon platform where Anatin stood. The sanctuary-fort occupied the entire hilltop. Magery had been employed to create a sheltered valley within the surrounding rampart. The wall was studded with catapult platforms and at either end stood a barbican built into the hillside. By contrast, the low ground inside more resembled a small town. It had streets of large stone-built warehouses, townhouse-type residences and an array of workshops. Towards the rear stood a smaller compound where forty-odd mages were confined: ‘sanctuary’ being a euphemism even among the most pious.

Overlooking a paved square in the centre of the fort was the dome of a temple to Veraimin, the Brethren’s god of choice. Barracks nestled below each keep with a mess and tavern on the near side. All told there were at least five hundred inhabitants in this small place with extensive tunnels and storerooms beneath too. Brethren soldiers were of course in charge of the sanctuary, artillery and magazines. Operating as a battalion of the Red Scarves mercenary company now, the Cards were one of eight detachments sent to bolster numbers at key strongholds in the region.

‘Night’s whispers, take yer fucking time, eh, woman?’ Anatin yelled down at them. They were in no rush, Lynx could see that, but the moment of levity seemed to ease some of the tension at the wall.

They ascended four sets of stone steps that twisted around the back of the keep. At the upper platform two teams stood at their catapults. Past them were Anatin and Toil alongside the Abbot-Protector of the sanctuary, two of his officers and a pair of soldiers.

‘Who are these?’ one of the aides snapped.

‘Well now, Sergeant-Prior, the pretty one’s my scout, got the best eyes in the battalion. The other one’s had some experience with siege warfare so also might be useful.’

‘You think I’m pretty, boss?’ Lynx beamed.

Anatin gave him a half-cut grin. ‘Sure, just more of ya to love. Ain’t that what I always say?’

Kas walked forward and gave the officers a vague nod. ‘Guess that makes me the expert then. In my professional opinion, all the best sieges start with morons standing idly in a field.’

All three Brethren officers were pale and fleshy men with narrow piggish eyes and greasy drooping moustaches. That seemed to be the standard in these parts from what Lynx could tell. It seemed a form of piety within the Brethren of the Shards to imitate your elders’ distressing grooming mistakes, perhaps to encourage Kas’s flirtation with celibacy.

‘Is that a deputation coming this way?’ Anatin asked as Kas joined him at the wall.

‘Five people,’ she confirmed. ‘Three in black and whites, two out of uniform.’

‘Scouts?’

‘Mebbe. Women I reckon. One of ’em is carrying something. Probably a flag of parlay.’

‘We have nothing to discuss,’ the Abbot-Protector declared. ‘Shoot them.’

‘Under a flag of parlay?’ Anatin gasped, wide-eyed. ‘My Lord Abbot! I’d expect that sort o’ talk from those goat-fuckers, but I thought your lot had some principles.’

‘They wage war upon us! They have no doubt come to steal our holiest relics. There is no truce or compromise to come to.’

‘I must protest all the same,’ Anatin said. ‘The Red Scarves is a noble company o’ the highest reputation. What with all my many years o’ steadfast service, what’d Commander Deshar think o’ me if I besmirched the sacred code o’ mercen— Um, mercenariness? Mercenarydom?’

The Sergeant-Prior took a step forward. One hand moved to his holstered mage-pistol.

‘He would think you obey orders, Commander,’ the man growled. ‘Your contract with us includes no stipulations or limitations. Do not pretend your profession is so honourable.’

Anatin shrugged. ‘Pretty sure he’d ask why we were in such a hurry to start the siege, but fair enough. I guess the job description does boil down to killing arseholes for money.’

He raised his voice. ‘Right then – boys and girls of the Red Scarves an’ everything in between, weapons ready! Get into position to kill these arseholes. Fire on my signal!’

His order was rapidly passed down the line. Some of the mercenaries shifted to get a better position while their allies watched. For his part, Anatin pulled the mage-pistol from his belt and checked the cartridge.

‘You think you will hit them with a pistol at this range?’ the Sergeant-Prior scoffed.

Anatin grinned. ‘Nah, o’ course not,’ he said. ‘That’d be daft.’

‘What then?’

‘Reckon I’ll just surrender instead,’ Anatin said, just before shooting the Abbot-Protector in the face.

The great north wind was born deep in the ice-bound mountains of the north, far beyond the limits of human civilisation. It scoured vast and barren valleys that nestled in the lee of a thousand nameless peaks. There the air was so cold and thin it could kill in minutes. Channelled across the huge inland sea known as Hinholm, it created a vast, flat sheet of ice that melted only for one brief, magnificent month of the year.

Many citizens of Siquil had already departed for the seasonal villages that huddled in the crumpled cliffs of Hinholm’s shore. They were there to join the frantic and savage summer hunts. Some to trap the strange cold-water beasts that crept onto land to spawn, others to set out in the narrowboats after white-eyed toothfish or vast shoals of red shrimp.

The days were long in the northern summer and the work was hard, but it was a lucrative month. The salt fields not far away ensured that the catch would last, and the whole of the north was an eager market. In the meantime, the city became oddly quiet and peaceful. Even the lower districts, away from the bustle of the river’s industry and the various enclaves of religious and banking endeavours, possessed a rare serenity.

As he did every day before his scheduled patrol, Sergeant Delgar paused at the top of the watch-house steps. There he looked down over the streets of his domain. He had walked them in the iron-grey uniform of the Knights-Artificer of Jekir for more than twenty years now. He knew the denizens like family – indeed, a good few were exactly that.

Just one look was enough to tell him what sort of a day would unfold; walking the streets, poking his head into a dozen or more doorways before eventually relieving the guards on the main south gate.

In truth he could tell by the sound of the city that nothing more was needed. All the same, the sight of Siquil’s dour granite streets, softened by the summer sun, was a welcome one. As Corporal Seless joined him, just a grunt passed between the old friends. Each of them slipped on the black leather helm that Siquil’s watch were known for and started out.

Delgar headed down the steps into the late evening shadows, his mind on what entertainment the night might bring later. After patrol they stood at the gate for two hours. Mostly it involved talking and watching, trusting their instincts to catch the slightest thing out of place. The shift proved typically uneventful. As the pair started their long looping patrol back to the watch-house, it was with the light step of men at ease with the world.

As was their way, the final patrol paused at a large, old tavern that at night doubled as a fighting den – one of several in the city. A faded sign hung above the door, almost as old as Delgar was. He remembered the vivid colours from his childhood – staring up in wonder at the red-rimmed board that portrayed a mechanical dragon draped in fantastical strips of colour.

Even in a Knight-Artificer city the image had seemed a marvel. Something worthy of all their industry and skill. Growing up he’d only ever seen a jerky model no bigger than his knee. It was a disappointment that, in quiet honesty, Delgar had never fully forgiven Siquil’s renowned craftsmen for.

The Clockwork Dragon wasn’t busy as they reached it. He banged a fist on the door and its owner, Koail, opened up the barred window without the usual babble of noise behind.

‘Quiet night?’ Delgar asked. ‘Or are you closed?’

Koail waved a dismissive hand. ‘A private booking, my friend, but you are, of course, welcome. Come!’

He ushered the two inside and pulled the door shut behind out of habit. The fighting dens were a popular pastime in Siquil and betting was fierce. No one entered without Koail’s say-so. He was a genial and rotund man who seemed to constantly be sweating with nerves, but he had a tough side that meant Delgar’s patronage was more of a technicality than true protection.

‘Vissil,’ Koail called to his wife. ‘Drinks for Delgar and Seless.’

While the beer was being poured, Delgar took a moment to inspect the tavern. It was indeed quiet, but far from empty. There was an air of anticipation that put him on edge. Thirty or forty men and women stood around the square room – in the centre of which was the fighting pit. Sloped sides led down to a level dirt floor about ten yards square, empty for the present but still half the onlookers were turned that way.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, eyeing the assembled strangers.

They were mercenaries, that much was obvious from the sheer range of faces on show. A mean-looking group, all sporting red scarves around their necks. They were all drinking, but the tension was making most shift restlessly rather than enjoy the beer.

The greater part were olive-skinned Parthish types with a scattering of darker southerners. One glowering westerner had to be Hanese while there was also a huge man even paler than the locals of Siquil. By his face he looked to be from Shuderi to the north-east where, once, half the champions of the old kingdom had come from. Delgar remembered little from his childhood lessons beyond the twelve prayers to Lord Veraimin, but they had all listened, enthralled, to the tales of the time when the kingdom had not been riven.

‘A duel,’ Koail told him, a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. ‘A blood duel. I told them nothing could take place until you got here, to sanction it.’

‘Are these our guests of honour?’ called a rough voice, confirming the Parthish conclusion.

A burly woman with red hair stepped to one side to reveal the mercenary’s commander. He was greying and thin. Once handsome perhaps, but years in his profession had left him weathered and one-handed as well as scarred by a sparker on his face.

‘They are, Captain Adrin,’ Koail said as Vissil brought two tankards over.

‘In which case their drinks are on me,’ Adrin declared. ‘Come, join me, my new friends!’

‘What’s this about a blood feud?’ Delgar demanded, one hand on his mage-pistol.

‘Aha, the main entertainment for the night!’ Adrin said with an expansive gesture, spilling a little beer onto the mercenary beside him. ‘It’s a long and sordid tale, Corporal Delgar. I will not bore you with the details. Suffice to say that one of our number has been challenged to a duel.’

‘Parthish mercenaries bothering to duel rather than just drunkenly beat the snot out of each other?’ Seless interrupted in his gravelly rumble. ‘Since when?’

‘Since one of our number was from Olostir,’ Adrin explained. ‘Please, join me.’

He indicated two of the seats at his table and the mercenaries standing around it moved respectfully aside.

‘Come on, shift yourselves,’ Adrin chided his troops. ‘Give the fine men of the watch some space.’

With that encouragement the mercenaries cleared the ground around Adrin’s table so the watchmen didn’t have armed foreigners looming over them. Delgar glanced at Seless, who shrugged. The pair sat. Adrin was accompanied by a tall, stern-looking woman and a battered older man with stained fingers and a pipe clamped between his teeth.

‘Our comrade,’ Adrin continued, ‘is an exile from Olostir – of noble blood you understand, but less than noble spirit. I don’t condemn him for that, the bugger’s a dear friend o’ mine, but it’s no surprise he didn’t last in genteel circles!’

‘And the duel?’

‘Some young buck from the old country, tracked Salvir down over a year or more. Turns out he wants his head for killing his father. The usual shit about honour an’ family, right? Anyway, we was all for killing the mouthy bugger, but o’ course that’d be murder and we’re most respectful of local laws.’

Seless laughed. ‘You mean you thought it’d be better to bet on the fight instead?’

‘You wound me!’ Adrin exclaimed with a broad grin, clutching at his chest. ‘Never would such a thought have crossed our minds – until Salvir said he wanted to do the duel all proper like. At that point we thought a few beers and a quiet wager might not be so awful after all.’

‘They’ve paid,’ Koail added. ‘A good sum for the use of the pit.’

‘If our boy wants to fight, we’ll not bother hanging around some back alley,’ Adrin said. ‘Too cold and there’s no beer.’

‘Cold? It’s summer.’

‘Not compared to our last posting,’ Adrin said with a theatrical shiver. ‘Not by a long shot.’

‘Both men are determined to fight?’ Delgar asked.

‘They are – both trained Olostiran duellists. Should be a good show.’

One look at Seless was enough to tell Delgar that his friend was excited by the prospect. The Knights-Artificer of Jekir was one Militant Order that hadn’t spent much time out east trying to convert the heathens, so there was little animosity towards Olostir. All the same they’d heard tales of the swordsmen; grand duels conducted in the pillared halls of palaces or before crowds of thousands.

‘I’m sure we can turn our eye the other way then,’ Delgar decided. ‘So long as we get to see the pair before we make our bets, that is.’

Adrin’s face lit up and he clapped his hands together. ‘Summon our contestants!’

Delgar and Seless both took long drinks and settled back in their seats. Someone on the far side of the fighting pit went to knock on a pair of doors there. Soon the first of the doors opened, prompting a general shifting of feet and a rise in the mutters of anticipation.

Delgar watched a man close to his own age walk out, tall and proud with a younger man’s lean physique on show. He wore only boots and an Olostiran kilt, an ornate rapier sheathed in his hands. When the second door opened, a shorter, younger man with a deep frown and plainer kilt emerged. Neither looked at the other, they both stared straight at Delgar as he tried to see which he would be backing.

‘Sorry ’bout this,’ Adrin muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Eh?’

Delgar didn’t get anything more out as something smashed into the side of his head. He pitched sideways, stars bursting before his eyes. An arm clamped around his throat and held him upright. He struggled in panic at the choking grip, distantly aware of hands clawing at his gun and pistol. More hands grabbed his arms and held him fast.

‘What’s going on?’ Koail roared in the background.

Delgar twisted and bucked but couldn’t dislodge the hold on him. His ears began to roar as the squeeze on his neck became unbearable. In his exertions he didn’t hear what else was said – everything was just a distant burble.

Darkness started to intrude. He felt something kick his leg and realised Seless was also fighting for his life. With every last ounce of strength left in his body he fought to free himself, but whoever was holding him had an arm like oak. His strength faltered, his body went limp, and the world faded from view.

After that, there was nothing.

‘What have you done?’ Koail wailed. The man backed up against the bar where his wife had retreated. Both froze in the next moment as two mercenaries levelled their mage-guns.

‘Nothing bad,’ a woman snapped as she eased Seless to the ground. ‘Piss me around and I’ll kill ’em both – you too. Understand?’

‘But … But they’re Knights-Artificer soldiers!’ Koail babbled, too shocked to take the warning. ‘You can’t just—’

‘I can and I have,’ the woman said. ‘No reason anyone needs to die over it.’

‘You sure about that?’ Adrin drawled. ‘Don’t stuff like “not killin’ folks” get us kicked out of the fraternity of mercenaries or somethin’?’

She grinned. ‘I reckon your reputation’s safe, Adrin.’

‘Oh no doubt,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t mean we should pass up the opportunity to further my fearsome legend though.’

‘It’s sweet you think you’re more’n a footnote in my legend,’ the woman said, ‘but sure, we can hire someone to embellish the truth if we survive.’ She turned to Koail. ‘Now – you and your staff are going to have a quiet night in, understand? Anyone alerts the authorities and we’ll leave a blazing ruin behind as we blow a path out of here.’

Koail opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. He nodded. ‘I understand. What do you want us to do?’

‘Just keep quiet and out of the way.’ She pointed down at the two guards. ‘Someone shift these two into one of the fighter’s rooms. Strip them and tie them up.’

‘Strip them?’ Vissil gasped. ‘Oh. Oh!’

‘No!’ Koail said a moment later. ‘You can’t be—’

‘A lack of ambition has never been my problem,’ the woman replied.

‘But it’s madness! It’s suicide!’

One of the mercenaries, the big Hanese with the tattoo on his face, laughed at that. ‘Both o’ those are something of a speciality of ours,’ he said. ‘Watch and learn, my friend.’

‘Or rather, don’t,’ the woman added. ‘Doing either might get you killed.’

In the darkest hours of night in Siquil, three figures had the winding streets to themselves. Two soldiers in the livery of the Knights-Artificer of Jekir supported a tall dark-skinned man with greying hair. A cloudy night left the skyriver a merest suggestion. It was barely noticeable that the soldiers weren’t as pale as most Knights-Artificer. Nor that the coat of one barely stretched across his broad frame.

The pair escorted their charge, hands bound behind his back and unsteady on his feet, to the fortress that occupied the eastern flank of the city. As with many Knights-Artificer buildings, it was a piecemeal construction that had been near constantly developed over the two centuries of its existence.

Their destination was the watch-house on the northern corner. It was flanked by the ugly block of the city gaol and the Lesser Tower, while behind stood a large complex of buildings. A mage sanctuary nestled there with barracks and workshops, a fortress wall and the imposing presence of the Greater Tower beyond.

A gas lamp sputtered outside the watch-house portico. Its weak pool of light revealed little beyond their uniforms. In the brief seconds it took to reach the door, even an observant guard would have noticed little. The iron-grey uniform, slashed with red, showed one to be a sergeant, one a corporal. No voice challenged them as they entered the gloom of the portico. When the sergeant banged a fist on the door it opened moments later. Yellow light spilled out, illuminating the muzzle of a mage-pistol to the surprise of the man who’d opened it.

‘Wha—’

He didn’t get any further. Lynx unceremoniously jammed the muzzle into his mouth and shoved him backwards. The hallway of the watch-house was a square room with a smooth stone floor, partitioned by a wooden wall across the middle. A heavy door was set into that partition with a large barred window. Two Knights-Artificer stared in astonishment through the barred window. Before they could react, the pair flinched, then simply folded up, collapsing to the ground.

By the time the soldier who’d opened the door had got over his surprise, Toil had slipped around behind him. She swung an arm around his neck just as Lynx removed the pistol and used his free hand to punch him in the gut. Winded and outnumbered, the soldier went down quickly. Lynx scrambled up the nearby steps to check the cramped guardroom above the portico. There was only space for two men to crouch in there anyway, but on a quiet night in the city the soldier who’d opened the door was alone.

As Lynx descended, Toil checked through the bars in the partition. She had her pistol at the ready, but all that came from the far side was a woman’s voice.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

Toil shook her head. ‘I trust you, Sitain,’ she said, ‘but bad luck can catch us all out.’

‘It’s all clear,’ Sitain replied, ‘so come and