Johann was able to arrive without too much fuss, because the Countess Emmanuelle had to make a grand entrance before any of her escorts. She had stepped out of the carriage as if expecting a cheering crowd and been disconcerted by the surly few standing by the inn, growling evilly.

Descending to the green velvet carpet, Johann could feel the hostility radiating at him. A man with a Fish insignia hawked a lump of phlegm onto the carpet and stalked away, disgusted.

Leos half-drew his sword, but thought better of it. If even the Deadly Blade was thinking twice, then something must be seriously wrong.

Elsaesser fussed nervously and tried to hurry them across the pavement. There were shouts off in the distance and they had passed the fire-fighters several times, dashing from one disaster to another.

Inside, Johann accepted de la Rougierre's greetings and took the measure of the company.

Mikael Hasselstein was as near drunk as Johann had ever seen him. He lurched towards them when they came in, but held back. Hals von Tasseninck was showing off a bandage, surrounded by serving girls, and his son was sulking about something. Dien Ch'ing, the Celestial, was sitting calmly, picking at a plateful of food. Marquess Sidonie dropped her glass when Leos walked in and looked around for a weapon, but was unable to find anything.

'Uncle Johann,' said Luitpold, 'how nice to see you.'

Johann bowed a little.

'And you too, Leos, of course.'

The viscount clicked his heels.

'I was afraid it was going to be a dull evening,' the future Emperor said, too loudly, 'but now I see we have a fine crew here tonight.'

Luitpold had had a little to drink and he wasn't used to it. Johann knew that he was honour-bound to look out for the heir. That gave him something else to worry about.

A few surprise guests showed up: Oleg Paradjanov, the Kislevite military attache; Snorri Svedenborg, one of the legates from Norsca; Mornan Tybalt, gloomily muttering about the sense of his thumb tax bill; and Baron Stefan Todbringer, son and heir to the Graf Boris of Middenheim. That was two more major foreign powers, an important minister of the court and another electoral seat.

He exchanged conventional pleasantries with the dignitaries and tried to watch everyone.

Elsaesser was standing by the door, nibbling on a cold chicken leg, stranded somewhere between servant and guest. Kleindeinst had sent the officer to watch over Johann, but as a spy or a guard he was not sure. The sharp young copper might be useful.

Hasselstein was in a corner with the countess, talking intently, illustrating his points with firm gestures. She looked bored. That would make a change, a man boring Emmanuelle von Liebewitz. At another time, Johann might have derived some amusement from the reversal. But not just now. Where was Wolf? And the Beast?

He had begun to suspect everyone. Most of the people in the room, except obviously Luitpold, were highly likely candidates.

He remembered the scrap of green velvet he had found in the alley adjacent to this place. He was almost tempted to go through all the cloaks in the hall and look for a torn patch. But nothing was ever that easy. Except in bad melodramas.

'Baron Johann,' said the Marquess Sidonie, 'might I speak with you? I'm getting up a petition to present to the Emperor and I was wondering whether you would consider lending your seal to it. As an elector, you have a lot of influence.'

Johann asked the thin-nosed woman what her petition was against.

She sniffed and said, 'Duelling, elector. It should be banned.'

There was a clapping sound and Johann turned to face the small stage at one end of the room. De la Rougierre was standing up, laughing.

'Honoured guests,' he said, raising a goblet, 'welcome to this magnificent affair. I trust that you've all been properly fed and watered.

Snorri, who had drunk a quite considerable amount, roared his approval.

'That is what I like to hear. Bretonnian hospitality is, as you know, legendary.'

'That's true,' muttered Hasselstein, who had turned away from the countess, 'in the sense that you can't prove it ever existed.'

The dwarf gave the Lector a nasty look and continued: 'I have selected only the best entertainment for your pleasure tonight. Permit me to introduce you to a lady whose talents are substantial'

The lights dimmed and the curtains parted. A flautist began to play a familiar old tune.

A dancer stepped out onto the stage, but Johann was more interested in the faces of the guests.

Looking at them, as they gazed with expressions ranging from the rapt to the disgusted, he wondered.

Which, if any?

There was fighting throughout the docklands.

Wolf couldn't understand what the fuss was about and couldn't find anyone sane enough to tell him.

He tried to keep out of the way, although he could feel his blood rising. His wet clothes had dried on him like a second skin.

He smelled blood and fire, and gripped his hook as if it were a part of him.

The Hooks and the Fish had formed a temporary, unprecedented alliance and were throwing people off one of the docks. A large crowd cheered with each splash.

Wolf saw that the victims were all in uniform or armour. Templars, militiamen, palace guards, officers of the watch.

'Death to Karl-Franz!' shouted a rabble-rouser.

The men in armour were struggling in the water, trying to cut the leather ties and let it fall off their bodies before it dragged them down. They were thrashing up a white foam.

He couldn't understand it at all. Before the fog blew up, the city had been normal. Now everyone was blood crazy.

A bully laid hands on him and he instinctively lashed out, not with a fist like a man but curved fingers like an animal.

'We've got one that scratches here, lads,' said the bully.

Wolf concentrated hard and made a fist. He broke the man's nose and stuck an elbow in his chest. The man dropped to his knees, hands clasped over his bleeding face.

Wolf ran, hoping to be well away before any of the bully's friends rallied round and decided he could do with another cold bath.

He had his hook in his hand now and would be ready for any further trouble.

He did not know the way to the Wayfarer's Rest and kept looking for an inn or a building he recognized so he could get his bearings.

He collided with a group of young men and knew he was bound for the river. He held up his hook and tensed for a struggle.

But it never came.

'It's von Mecklenberg,' a familiar voice said. 'Wolf.'

Otho Waernicke loomed out of the fog and embraced him. The party were all Leaguers.

'We thought you were done for, for sure. With what happened to Trudi, we were certain the Beast had got you.'

Trudi's name was like an arrow sinking in up to the feathers.

'Trudi? The Beast?'

Otho didn't have time, or the desire, to explain.

'The wine-drinking contest is off,' the student leader said. 'Three hundred years of tradition scuppered. It's terrible.'

'We're fighting for the Emperor,' a student declared. 'The call has gone out to all the Leagues. The forces of revolution are inside the walls and we must all stand up or fall into perdition.'

It was a fine speech and would have been finer if the deliverer hadn't slurred almost all his words, been supported by two of his fellows and breathed out Estalian sherry in its gaseous form.

'Where's Trudi?' Wolf asked Otho.

The student leader couldn't conceal anything. 'Dead, Wolf. It was the Beast. Last night'

Wolf dropped to all fours and howled. The yell of his grief rose in his throat and escaped into the night, reverberating throughout the quarter.

Otho and the Leaguers stood back, amazed. The patriot was dumbstruck.

Wolf stood on his hind legs and tore at himself. His hook ripped his shirt and ploughed through his chest hair. He didn't feel the new pain, for his heart had already been pierced.

He turned from his friends and ran, more animal than man. He ran through fog and fire, his mind racing ahead of itself, trying not to believe what he knew must be true.

He was the monster. He had always been the monster. Even before Cicatrice.

In his mouth, his shifting teeth hurt.

X.

As Milizia danced, de la Rougierre's mouth filled with spittle. The big woman was monumental, magnificent, magisterial. For her, he would usurp a kingdom, slaughter a brother, betray his honour. And tonight he would have her all to himself, to do with as he saw fit.

Rosanna led him. His knife out, he followed her.

'This way, this way, this way,' she muttered, over and over.

She was dowsing for the Beast.

They were in the ladder of streets running parallel to the Street of a Hundred Taverns, zig-zagging closer to the main thoroughfare.

Occasionally, they passed people running one way or another, but a look at Harald's knife convinced them to keep going and leave the odd pair alone. An animal had screamed a few moments ago, but it was silentdead?now.

He could feel it too, now. He had never thought of himself as having a gift, but the turmoil in his stomach must mean something. The Beast was near.

Harald gripped the hilt of his Magnin and saw the fires gleam in the polished surfaces of the blade.

His guts gnawed at themselves.

When they caught the Beast, the murderer would live only long enough to confess before witnesses. Then, it would be ended. Harald's justice was neater and more final than that of the courts. No cells, no lawyers, no ropes. Just a quick, clean thrust.

Maybe then he would be able to eat again.

At the end of the street, someone stood, looking up into the sky, panting as he tried to peer through the fog.

Harald's stomach went quiet.

'Be careful,' he told the scryer.

She was still muttering, still leading him.

The man in the fog let out a cry that could not have come from a human throat.

Rosanna stopped and Harald stepped in front of her.

He had taken no chances with his weapon. When commissioning his knife, he had instructed Magnin to stir a little silver into the steel. Nothing, living or dead, would survive its sharp kiss.

The thing that had howled hunched over, its arms touching the cobbles like forelegs. A claw-thing was scraped on the stone.

It advanced, more like an animal than a human being.

Harald held up his knife for a throw They could see its yellow and red eyes, glowing in its dark face.

Rosanna touched his arm, holding him back.

'No,' she said, 'don't kill it yet. We have to be sure.'

Dead would have been sure enough for Harald, but the scryer had been right so far.

A fire flared up to the left of them, windows exploding from a house, and light spilled into the street.

The thing's face was human, and recognizable from Rosanna's sketch.

'Wolf,' she said, 'give yourself up.'

The Elector of Sudenland's brother crouched, tensed to leap. Harald's knife went up and his eye fixed on the madman's exposed, bloody chest. One flick and the blade would be through his heart.