Temrai smiled, and yawned. 'True,' he said, 'but if I'd allowed myself to be put off by not knowing things, we'd never have started this war in the first place.' He sat still for a few seconds, then went on. 'I'll tell you something else,' he said. 'I'm prepared to bet that the man who brought this message - he's waiting in the guard tent, with ten men ready to cut him into slices if he so much as scratches his bum - is Loredan himself. Who else is he going to find to run his errands for him?'

Ceuscai shook his head, as if trying to wake up from a peculiar dream. 'Well, we'd recognise him if we saw him. Why not bring him in and see for ourselves?'

'Why not indeed?' Temrai grinned. 'Go fetch, Ceuscai. And bring plenty of guards, remember.'

Loredan sat in the middle of the circle, trying to put out of his mind the arrowheads trained on him. It was the first time he'd sat in a plains tent; he'd seen any number of them, but always from the outside. It was a clever design, he realised, efficient and comfortable. The heavy felt kept in the heat, while the oil and lard on the outside kept out the rain. The uprights were strong enough to keep it up even during the savage windstorms of the plains spring, but could be put up and taken down again quickly and easily by one practised man. Unlike so many city houses, it had adequate ventilation to allow the smoke from the fire to escape, rather than filling the room and blinding everyone inside. It would also catch fire at the least provocation, as he knew better than most; cut the guy ropes and pitch in a torch, and nobody would get out alive. Curious, that these eminently practical people had never dealt with such an obvious flaw in the design. They had some sort of blind spot where fire was concerned.

'It's very good of you to see me,' he said pleasantly, 'a busy man like yourself.'

Temrai shrugged. 'It's not every day we get visits from distinguished enemy lunatics,' he replied. 'Now then, what's all this really about?'

Everyone in the tent waited for Loredan to answer. He took his time about it, as he enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He was still damp after swimming the river, and with his hair plastered down over his forehead he didn't look particularly mysterious or threatening. He looks older than I'd have thought, Temrai said to himself, but it's definitely the same man, the one I remember. The thought of him getting away, dying cleanly in the lawcourts from a single thrust without knowing that his city was being destroyed and his people butchered, wasn't something that Temrai wanted to dwell on. To find his one true enemy again after so many years and then to lose him, at the very moment of consummation, would make the whole exercise meaningless. After all, it had been that last-minute meeting, just as he was about to leave the city with every part of him urging him to spare it, that had made him come here and shown him that this terrible thing had to be done.

'I'm sorry,' Loredan said. 'I can't have expressed myself clearly enough in my letter. You said you'd make a sword for me. I need one rather urgently. It's as simple as that.'

'I see.' Temrai scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'What sort of sword are we talking about?'

'A law-sword,' Loredan replied promptly. 'Do you know the design? It's a bit specialised.'

Temrai nodded. 'I know the general principle,' he said. 'But wouldn't you be better off buying one in the city? Old ones are the best, I gather, but there are supposed to be quite a few current makers turning out first-rate products. I'm sure you'd get a much better sword from them than from me.'

Loredan shook his head. 'I have this problem,' he said, 'with the wretched things breaking. It's something to do with the way the steel gets heated up when the cutting edges are being brazed to the core; the way we do it makes them brittle, and I suppose there's something in my fencing style that must put an unusual amount of strain on the weak part of the blade. I used to have quite a collection, but all the good ones have snapped on me over the last six months or so. The last one went yesterday, in fact, while I was practising. You see, I shall be fighting for my life in the courts very soon, and I have rather a bad feeling about the outcome. It's to do with who my opponent's going to be; it's all rather complicated, and I won't bore you with details. The point is, your technique with the silver solder makes a much less fragile blade, and I don't know anybody in the city who can do it. 'So,' he concluded, folding his arms, 'here I am.'

Temrai nodded again. 'And what makes you think I'd put myself out for you, of all people? You've got to admit, this whole business is extremely bizarre.'

'Oh, I thought you might,' Loredan replied equably. 'It was worth asking, anyway. My old commanding officer-'

'General Maxen?'

'That's right, General Maxen. He always used to say, When you can't trust your friends, try your enemies. He wasn't usually wrong.'

Temrai took a deep breath, held it and let it go. 'You could be mad,' he said, 'or extremely tired of your life. Or you could have come here to save your ruined honour by killing me, as my advisers have suggested. I was rather hoping you'd come to get your revenge on your city.'

'What, do a deal with you and open the gates?' Loredan raised an eyebrow. 'Another thing Maxen used to say was, I like treachery but I don't like traitors. I'll be honest with you,' he went on, 'the thought had occurred to me, too. But I don't think I will, thank you all the same.'

Temrai looked at him for a while, then said, 'Fair enough. From what I gather, you're no longer in a position to do anything about it, so I won't press the point. For the same reason, I can't be bothered to have you killed. I suggest you go away before I change my mind.'

Loredan shook his head. 'I asked you to do something for me,' he said. 'As an enemy, and because you owe me. It's embarrassing to have to admit this, but I think my life may depend on it.'

'Really.' Temrai studied him for a while. 'I can't believe we're having this conversation,' he said. 'I keep expecting to wake up and find it's all a dream.'

'Have you been suffering from headaches recently?'

'No. Why?'

'Just asking. It's a long story.'

'We have a fairly effective cure for headaches,' Temrai said. 'Bark from a willow tree, boiled in water. When it's cool, you drink the water.'

Loredan nodded. 'I know,' he said. 'Well?'

'Do you know, I'm almost tempted to do it,' Temrai said. 'It's obvious that your habit of excessive drinking has finally undermined your wits, but it's got the makings of a very fine legend. A great chief ought to do unexpected and flamboyant things. Meghtai, get a forge heated up and find me about a dozen old horseshoes and some solder.'

Loredan watched Temrai through a curtain of fire as the young man mixed the flux, occasionally glancing sideways to watch the colours change in the steel. The wire that held the billets of hard steel to the core glowed bright orange, but the blade sections were still a dark purple.

'The trick,' Temrai observed, 'lies in tempering the edges while letting the core cool slowly. It's important to do everything in the right order,' he went on, spitting into the flux to make it smoother. 'First, solder the joints; then we pack the blade with bonemeal and dried blood while it's still cherry red, and we hold it there for as long as we dare, to let the hardness seep in through the pores of the steel. Then we've got to temper the blade, as far as possible without cooling down the core. That's difficult.'

Loredan nodded appreciatively. 'It's cooling it suddenly that makes it brittle, then?' he asked.

'That's partly it,' Temrai replied, 'though there's more to it than that. Some grades of steel don't harden at all. Also, you don't want the edges too brittle either; you actually want to soften them just a little after you've quenched off the original heat, and you do that by heating it up and quenching it a second time, except you take it to a much lower heat. You can tell the right heat by watching the colours; somewhere between reddish brown and purple's what you're after. The simplest thing to do is quench the edges only after the first heating - that's when we've got it red-hot and smothered it in bonemeal - so that the heat left in the core passes out into the edges (which we've just cooled) and brings them up to the right temperature. There, that ought to do,' he added, giving the flux a final stir. 'Are you interested in all this,' he added, 'or am I boring you?'

'Not at all,' Loredan said, 'it's fascinating. And knowledge is never wasted.'

Temrai grinned. 'Another time I'll show you how to build a siege engine,' he said. 'Here we are, look, that deep, rather attractive orange colour.' He nodded to the men working the bellows; they stepped up the rate of pumping, so that the metal glowed in the flame. 'The flux'll cool it, of course,' he added as he drew the billet out with a pair of tongs, 'so it'll have to go back in again before we can start soldering. Patience is a virtue in blacksmithing just as much as in siegecraft.'

The flux hissed and bubbled as it drew down into the joint, leaving dull grey flecks on the orange metal like clouds in a sunrise. When he judged that it was ready, Temrai pulled it out again and touched the solder stick to the sides of the joint, watching the silver disappear into the fine line between the parts of the blade. 'It only flows if it's hot enough,' he said, 'and if it doesn't flow, you're wasting your time. The flux helps, but it's the heat that does it.'

In the glow of the fire, Temrai's face shone a bright orange, like the steel he was working. Loredan mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

'It's taken,' Temrai said. 'Now we pack it with the hardening stuff and bring it back to cherry red.' He raised his head and looked Loredan in the eye. 'If the smell of burning blood and bone makes you feel ill, now's the time to stand well back. It can turn your stomach if you're not used to it.'

He sprinkled the bonemeal and dried blood, making sure the edges of both sides were evenly covered. Loredan remembered the smell, but stayed where he was. As soon as the steel glowed red through the grey and brown crust, Temrai lifted the billet off the anvil and called for the quenching tray, a long wooden trough half-filled with water.

'A bit of salt in it helps,' he said. 'Fortunate that we're so near the sea, really. In fact, this is an ideal spot for this sort of job. Now then,' he added, as he dipped the edges carefully in the trough, moving his head away as the steam rose up (the meeting of fire and water, after the burning of blood and bone), 'here's a useful tip. When you're quenching, keep moving the metal up and down in the water, or else you'll find you get tiny cracks which'll ruin the whole thing. There,' he concluded, holding up the billet. 'Quickly scrape off this crud from the edges so we can see the colours, and there we are.'

Loredan watched the colours change, straw to mud, mud to purple; then Temrai swung the blade dramatically through the air and held it up, examining it carefully. 'That'll do,' he said. 'Now we cool it for the last time, using oil because it cools more slowly than water, and that's the job done. It isn't all that difficult to understand,' he added, 'once you know why it's got to be done that way. Like so many things in life.'

'Indeed,' Loredan replied. 'Thank you, it's been quite an education.'

Temrai smiled as he wiped sweat from his face. 'Amazing what you can pick up just by listening to people while they're working. By the way,' he went on, 'I didn't make this thing out of old horseshoes just because I'm a cheapskate; it's the best material I know for blade steel. There's something about being continually bashed about and trodden on that makes the stuff remarkably tough and hard. You'll have to provide your own hilt,' he said, wrapping a scrap of rag round the tang. 'It's too late at night to go drilling bone and messing about with skin and wire. Here you are.'

The swordsmith handed the sword to the swordsman, holding it by the blade and offering him the rag-bound tang. Loredan took it and felt the balance, then held it up and looked down it to check the straightness. Along the narrow ribbon of steel he could see Temrai watching him, as if he were the other man in a matter of justice. 'Thanks,' he said, 'it's a neat job. For a first attempt, it's very good indeed.'

'I like getting things right first time,' Temrai replied. 'And doing things I haven't attempted before. Does that make us all square, do you think?'

Loredan nodded. 'As far as I'm concerned,' he said. 'I expect you're glad not to be beholden to me any more.'

'It was the least I could do for an enemy,' Temrai said. 'Now get out of this camp before I have you crucified.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

'It can't be,' said the wheelwright's wife.

'It is.'

'It can't be.' She frowned, and peered. 'He's bedridden, never leaves his palace-'

'Lodgings,' her husband corrected her. 'The Patriarch's house is called his lodgings.'

'Whatever. Still can't be him, surely.' She peered again. 'It looks like him,' she conceded.

'Well, there you are, then.'

'Doesn't mean it actually is him. I mean, what's the Patriarch doing getting out of bed when he's seriously ill to go watching a lawsuit?'

'Ah.' The wheelwright lowered his voice. 'He's a friend of this Loredan, by all accounts. Great friends, they were, during the emergency. They do say,' he added in a furtive whisper, 'that he's implicated.'

His wife looked shocked. 'Get away,' she said. 'Patriarch Alexius?'

'So I've heard.'

'Don't believe a word of it.' His wife scrutinised the figure on the opposite side of the spectators' gallery for a minute or so, hardly noticing the honeycakes she was munching as she did so. 'Are you sure?' she asked.

'Well, there's no hard and fast evidence, of course, though I've heard it said-'

'And there he is, bold as brass,' his wife muttered, scandalised. 'How he's got the nerve to show his face in public-'

Once every so often, the fixture lists pinned to the door of the lawcourts produced what could only be described as a dream ticket; a combination of issues and participants so perfect that they could hardly have been better if they'd been chosen by popular demand. This was just such an occasion; the gorgeous and enigmatic girl fencer who had recently been appointed Attorney-General versus the notorious Colonel Loredan on a treason charge - which meant the City Prefect would be presiding in person, dressed in all his traditional finery, with a platoon of guards in parade armour standing by and, to crown it all, free admission . . .

Needless to say, all the city dignitaries were present; the Lord Lieutenant, entitled by virtue of his rank to sit in the Emperor's own box, surrounded by the heads of all the offices of state and a buzzing swarm of magnificently costumed clerks and functionaries; the upper hierarchy of the Order, including the Patriarch himself (but where was the City Archimandrite, late Deputy Patriarch, until recently the Patriarch's inseparable companion? Rumour had it he'd either fled the city or been forced into exile on the pretext of an overseas appointment because of what he knew about the Patriarch's clandestine involvement in whatever it was Colonel Loredan was supposed to have done; the plot thickened.) To the people of the city, whose morale had recently been so sadly depleted by the indignities of the emergency, this display of civic pomp and gratuitous justice was just what they needed to remind them of the awesome majesty and splendour of Perimadeia, the strength of her institutions and the unquestionable rightness of her cause and proceedings. At a time when it was of the utmost importance to make the citizens feel good about themselves and the city, the perfect event had suddenly materialised, almost as if it had been planned that way by some public-spirited deity.

'What's her name?' whispered the wheelwright's wife. 'You know, the Attorney-General.'

'Don't ask me,' replied her husband. 'Presumably she's got one but I can't remember ever having heard it.'

In the entrance hall trumpets blared, a signal for everyone in the courthouse to stand. While the magnificent domed roof was still reverberating with the sound, like a lover of fine wines savouring a special vintage, the main doors swung open and the Prefect entered the court at the head of a procession. In honour of the occasion he had ordered a brand-new set of official regalia; a flowing robe of gold tissue trimmed at the collar and cuffs with ermine and otter, and a tiara embroidered with gold and silver thread. In one hand he carried the lavishly embellished sword of state, while the other held the book of ordinances. He walked with a slow, measured dignity towards the place reserved for him, tucked the skirts of his gown around his knees, and sat down. Around him, his entourage filled the rest of the dais like a quart slopped into a pint jug, not quite pushing and shoving for the few available seats, while the Prefect and the Lord Lieutenant exchanged poisonous looks and the rest of the spectators plumped up their cushions and made themselves comfortable.

When the important matters of protocol had been sorted out and the ushers had hushed down the crowd, the Prefect opened his document case and nodded to the clerk; elderly, short-sighted Teofano, who had sat below the dais watching advocates die every day for half a century.

Teofano recited the grievances of the city of Perimadeia against the prisoner Bardas Loredan, customarily styled Colonel but without authority to use such title; that while commanding an expeditionary force against the national enemy he had by his negligence and failure to exercise due care allowed the said enemy to inflict on the said expeditionary force a severe defeat resulting in the loss of nine hundred and seventeen lives, injuries to a further two hundred and forty-eight of the soldiers comprising the said force and losses of horses and property both of the state and of private persons amounting to the sum of twelve thousand, three hundred and eight gold quarters; further, that while commanding the defence of the city in the capacity of Deputy Lord Lieutenant he had wilfully and without authority of the Council deployed and used an unauthorised weapon namely an incendiary compound, thereby tending to enrage the enemy and exacerbate the existing state of war between such enemy and the city and people of Perimadeia; further, that while serving in the said capacity he had negligently and carelessly performed his duties with the result that the said enemy had severely damaged the said defences and killed seven hundred and sixty-one citizens, injured a further three hundred and ninety-six citizens and caused damage to property both of the state and of private persons amounting to the sum of two million, three hundred and forty-nine thousand, five hundred and forty-nine gold quarters; further, that while charged with the duties and responsibilities of the said office of Deputy Lord Lieutenant, he had corruptly and fraudulently seized private property namely rope valued at eight thousand four hundred gold quarters; further, that while charged with the said duties and responsibilities he had corruptly sold state property valued at twelve thousand gold quarters to a third party for the sum of ten thousand gold quarters, to his own advantage and to the detriment of the state.

When Teofano had finished, there was an appropriately awed silence. Then the Prefect cleared his throat and asked who appeared for the state. A long, thin girl of no more than seventeen years of age, with a thin face and pale blue eyes, stood up and gave the court her name and details of her professional qualifications, adding that she was the Attorney-General of the city. Then she bowed to the Prefect and sat down.

'Very well,' the Prefect said. 'Who appears for the prisoner, Bardas Loredan?'

After a moment, a dark-haired, clean-shaven man of just over average height stood up and faced the bench. 'I do, my lord,' he said, a little bit too softly. He raised his voice slightly as he gave his name; Bardas Loredan, fencing instructor, appearing as a litigant in person.

'Very well,' the Prefect repeated, and he began to read the depositions. They were more than usually long and complicated, phrased in the mystical language of lawyers' clerks, and while his voice droned and droned the spectators sat in mesmerised silence, relishing the tension and studying the advocates' faces, occasionally nudging their neighbours and indicating the size and odds of their wagers with their fingers.

In his seat at the back of the spectators' gallery, Alexius gave up trying to follow the legal rigmarole and concentrated on keeping his eyelids from drooping. The Prefect's voice was a heavy monotone, and Alexius could feel sleep slowly crowding in on him. He fought it, but- -Sat upright, to find he was exactly where he had been, sitting in the courthouse, with its high domed roof, the rows of stone benches encircling the sandy floor, the judge's platform, the marble boxes where the advocates waited for the command. He could see Loredan's back, and over his shoulder the girl on whose behalf he had once dreamed exactly the same dream; older now, grown up, somehow suddenly beautiful in a way that made him uneasy. He could see the red and blue light from the great rose window burning on the blade of her sword, a long, thin strip of straight steel foreshortened by the perspective into an extension of her hand, a single pointing finger.

He saw Loredan move forward, his graceful, economical movement; and the girl reacts, parrying backhand, high. Now she leans forward, scarcely moving her arm at all except for the roll of the wrist that brings the blade level again. Loredan's shoulder drops as he tries to get his sword in the way, but he's left it too late, the sin of an overconfident man. Because Loredan's back is to him, he can't see the impact or where the blade hits; but the sword falls from his hand, he staggers back and drops, bent at the waist, dead before his head bumps noisily on the flagstones. The girl doesn't move, and the blade of her sword points directly at Alexius, her eyes staring into his along the narrow ribbon of steel whose point hangs in the air, motionless, unwavering . . .

Alexius reached out for the moment, the double handful of time he'd just seen for the second time, caught it, held onto it tightly like a blacksmith trying to hold onto the hind leg of a nervous horse while he presses the red-hot iron shoe onto the hoof, and the air is filled with smoke and the smell of burning, and steam as the hot iron is quenched- -And woke up, to hear the Prefect's voice still droning. The woman sitting next to him was nudging him in the ribs.

'You were almost asleep,' she hissed. 'Don't want to miss the big fight.'

He smiled his thanks and sat up, trying desperately to remember whether he'd managed to catch that double handful of moment, and if he had, what he'd done with it.

'Five quarters on the girl,' whispered the woman. 'Two to one.'

Alexius considered for a moment. 'Done,' he whispered back, fumbling in his sleeve for the money.

The Prefect gave the signal, and the two fencers took guard. At precisely the same moment they both raised their swords into the guard of the Old fence, so that between them lay one continuous ribbon of steel that connected them hand to hand and eye to eye. For what seemed like a lifetime they held the position, their arms outstretched but absolutely steady, their sword-points not wavering by the thickness of a hair. One minute, a minute and a half, two minutes; they could have been an instructor and his pupil practising the oldest and most arduous exercise of all, which strengthens the muscles and trains the mind to be patient and alert. Three minutes- Alexius' head began to hurt, very badly. He put his fingertips to his temples, closed his eyes, opened them; then the pain began in his chest and arm, and he leant forward, trying unsuccessfully to breathe. Just as he thought he was about to black out, he felt a hand on his arm; and at once the pain stopped, his head cleared, his lungs filled with air- 'You all right?' asked the man on his left; a large, thickset bald man with an accent. 'You had me worried for a moment.'

Alexius gestured that he was fine; then he recognised- 'Gorgas Loredan,' he said.

'That's right,' the man replied. 'Fancy you knowing my name.'

'I-'.

'Ssh. They're off.' Gorgas Loredan was gazing intently ahead. 'You a betting man, by any chance?'

'Sometimes.'

'Five quarters on our kid. Two to one.'

Oh, well, thought Alexius. 'Done,' he said.

Then he looked down at the two small figures below. Loredan had his back to him; he was lunging now, graceful and economical in his movements. The girl parried, backhand, high, and counterthrust. Loredan dropped his shoulder to parry, realising he was late on the movement, but just in time- (Ah, said Alexius to himself.) -He caught the point of her sword on the shell of his hilt, his elbow high and cramped, his wrist turned over. Her blade passed his body, slitting his shirt; then Loredan turned his arm back, converting the late parry into an almost uncounterable riposte. The girl sidestepped; two quick shuffles forward, while twisting her thin body out of the way and frantically trying to cover herself with her sword. In mid-thrust Loredan saw she'd done enough; he aborted the thrust and sidestepped to match her movement, pre-emptively deflecting her blade before she was through with her own parry. This time, when he counterthrust, there would be nowhere for her to go.

But he was too good a teacher to have neglected such emergencies. The girl jumped backwards from a standstill, just as she'd been taught, and feinted a slash at Loredan's knees, to make him parry low and leave his chest and head exposed. He in turn anticipated the feint, starting to make the anticipated parry and then converting it into a block for the blow she'd intended to make, a short, wristy slash at his face. Having parried that, he stepped back, lowering his sword-point to cover his retreat. She circled, stepping back and to the right to defeat his intended line, but she'd failed to read the signals correctly. Instead of lunging, being parried and laying himself open to a counterthrust, Loredan bent his knees until his outstretched left hand touched the ground, simultaneously slashing with his sword at ankle height. Just in time she skipped over the blade, only to find as she landed that Loredan's sword was pointing at her heart, and she had no chance of blocking the thrust in time.

Jerking her head back she wrenched herself to one side; instead of running her through, the blade sliced into her side a hand's span above her hip. It was a sharp blade, there was very little pain, but it was the first time she'd been cut, and she panicked. Without even trying to move her feet or find her balance she slashed wildly; Loredan fended the blow away from his face with the thick part of his blade while stepping back and left, bringing his blade round to face her undefended side. Then, with a short bend of his arm and a sharp turn of his wrist, he struck her right hand, catching her fingers against the grip of her sword and shearing them off just below the knuckle. Her sword clattered on the flagstones and he stepped back to make the final thrust; hesitated- She kicked hard. He turned away, taking the force of the blow on his thigh. Before he could line up, she had sprung back a good three yards and was scrabbling left-handed for her sword. Damn, Loredan thought, I hate fighting southpaws; he retreated a step or two and took the guard of the City fence, knees bent and sword angled up. She'd been taught the rudiments left-handed, although she was of course at a grave disadvantage even without the pain and shock of her injury. It ought to be fairly straightforward, provided he didn't underestimate her at the last. He forced himself to relax, to let his weight sink to his knees.

She attacked, swinging a sideways cut at his head. Easy enough to duck under that and then lunge; easy enough for her to turn the lunge and back away, using her feet to get out of trouble, just as she'd been taught. Loredan stayed where he was; time was against her now, she'd know she had to finish it soon before loss of blood made her too weak. He felt something under his foot and decided he knew what it was.

She attacked again; a feinted thrust at eye level, but he knew she was going to convert that into a cut to his forearm, so he moved his head out of the way and parried the cut; turned it and replied with a ferocious short-arm slash at her neck. She'd been expecting the counterthrust (as she'd been taught) and only just managed to get her blade in the way. Even as Loredan followed through the slash, in his mind's eye he could visualise his recovery, the short, fast lunge into her heart that she would be completely unable to prevent- Their blades clashed, and there was a crack. Loredan's sword had snapped, six inches below the hilt.

Oh, for crying out loud, he thought; and, without thinking, he pivoted on his right foot, bringing his left fist round and ramming it into her face. He felt her nose crunch as her head was turned sideways; then she dropped backwards like a sack full of rocks and sprawled on the ground, falling across her own sword and breaking the blade.

Pity, he said to himself. It was only modern, but it looked like a late-series Mesteyn, worth the price of a drink. He looked down at the hilt in his right hand, at the grey frosting of the fractures in cross-section, noticing that the core had given way, in exactly the same way all the others had. Enough to make a man believe in witchcraft, he thought bitterly, and let it fall onto the stone floor.

He rested the palm of his hand on the pommel of his dagger. Now he really ought to finish the job; but what the hell, nobody was paying him. It would mean a verdict of not proven rather than not guilty, but the practical effect was the same. Certainly the difference wasn't enough to justify the unpleasant effort of bending down and slicing through the side of her neck, getting blood all over his cuffs and hands. He was free to go, and he was on his own time. Stepping over the girl's body, he walked out of the courthouse in dead silence.

Alexius turned to the woman on his right.

'He didn't finish it,' she said. 'I think you'll find that means all bets are off.'

Alexius looked at her.

'Tell you what,' she said. 'Double or quits on the next case.'