Time unravels now. Event clashes upon event. So much to recount, pray this sad-eyed round man does not falter, does not grow too breathless. History has its moments. To dwell within one is to understand nothing.

We are rocked in the tumult, and the awareness of one's own ignorance is a smothering cloak that proves poor armour. You will flinch with the wounds. We shall all flinch.

As might a crow or an owl, or indeed a winged eel, hover now a moment above this fair city, its smoke haze, the scurrying figures in the streets and lanes, the impenetrable dark cracks of narrow alleyways. Thieves' Road spreads a tangled web between buildings. Animals bawl and wives berate husbands and husbands bellow back, night buckets gush from windows down into the guttered alleys and in some poorer areas of the Gadrobi District into streets where pedestrians duck and dodge in the morning ritual of their treacherous journeys to work, or home. Clouds of flies are stirred awake with the dawn's light. Pigeons revive their hopeless struggle to walk straight lines. Rats creep back into their closed-in refuges after yet another night of seeing far too much. The night's damp smells are burned off and new stinks arise in pungent vapours.

And on the road, where it pa.s.ses through the leper colony west of the city, a weary ox and a tired old man escort a burdened cart on which lies a canvas-wrapped figure, worn riding boots visible.

Ahead awaits Two-Ox Gate.

Hover no longer. Plummet both wings and spirit down to the buzzing flies, the animal heat sweet and acrid, the musty closeness of the stained burlap. The old man pausing to wipe sweat from his lined brow with its array of warts and moles, and his knees ache and there is dull pain in his chest.

Of late, he has been carting corpses round day and night, or so it seems. Each one made him feel older, and the glances he has been casting at the ox are tainted with an irrational dislike, wavering in its intensity, as if the beast was to blame for . . . for something, though he knows not what.

The two guards at the gate were leaning against a wall, staying cool in the shade that would dwindle as the day rolled on overhead. Upon seeing the jutting boots one of the men stepped forward. 'Hold, there. You'll find plenty of cemeteries and pits outside the walls we don't need more-'

'A citizen of the city,' said the old man. 'Killt in a duel. By Councillor Vidikas, who said to send him back to his friends the dead man's friends, I mean.'

'Oh, right. On your way, then.'

Crowded as a city can be, an ox drawing a corpse-laden cart will find its path clear, for reasons involving a host of instinctive aversions, few of which made much sense. To see a dead body was to recoil, mind spinning a dust-devil of thoughts that is not me see the difference between us? That is not me, that is not me. No one I know, no one I have ever known. That is not me . . . but . . . it could be. that is not me see the difference between us? That is not me, that is not me. No one I know, no one I have ever known. That is not me . . . but . . . it could be.

So easily, it could be.

Remonstrance of mortality is a slap in the face, a stinging shock. It is a struggle for one to overcome this moment, to tighten the armour about one's soul, to see bodies as nothing but objects, unpleasant, to be disposed of quickly. Soldiers and undertakers fashion macabre humour to deflect the simple, raw horror of what they must see, of that to which they are witness. It rarely works. Instead, the soul crawls away, scabbed, wounded, at peace with nothing.

A soldier goes to war. A soldier carries it back home. Could leaders truly comprehend the damage they do to their citizens, they would never send them to war. And if, in knowing, they did so anyway to appease their hunger for power then may they choke on the spoils for ever more.

Ah, but the round man digresses. Forgive this raw spasm of rage. A friend lies wrapped in canvas on the bed of a cart. Death is on its way home. Forgive.

Wending through Gadrobi District, life parted its stream, voices dimmed, and it was some time after the pa.s.sing through of death that those voices arose once more in its wake. Curtains of flies repeatedly billowed open and closed again, until it seemed the ox pulled a stage of a thousand acts, each one the same, and the chorus was a bow wave of silence.

Journey on, comes the prayer of all, journey on.

At last, the old man finds his destination and draws the ox up opposite the doors, halting the beast with a tug on its yoke. He spends a moment brushing dust from his clothes, and then heads inside the Phoenix Inn.

It has been a long night. He hobbles to a table and catches the eye of one of the servers. He orders a tankard of strong ale and a breakfast. Stomach before business. The body's not going anywhere, is it?

He did not know if it was love; he suspected he did not understand that word. But there was something inside Cutter that felt . . . sated. Was it just physical, these tangled pitches and rolls and the oil of sweat, breaths hot in his face with the scent of wine and rustleaf? Was it just the taste of the forbidden, upon which he fed as might a bat on nectar? If so, then he should have felt the same when with Scillara, perhaps even more so, since without question Scillara's skills in that area far eclipsed those of Challice, whose hunger whispered of insatiable needs, transforming her lovemaking into a frantic search that found no appeas.e.m.e.nt, no matter how many times she convulsed in o.r.g.a.s.m.

No, something was indeed different. Still, he was troubled, wondering if this strange flavour came from the betrayal they committed time and again. A married woman, the sordid man's conquest. Had he become such a man? Well, he supposed that he had, but not in the manner of those men who made a career of seducing and stealing the wives of other men. And yet, there was a sense, an extraordinary sense, he admitted, of dark pleasure, savage delight, and he could see just how addictive such living could become.

Even so, he was not about to pursue the headlong pitch of promiscuity. There remained a part of him that thirsted for an end or, rather, a continuation: love and life made stable, forces of rea.s.surance and comfort. He was not about to toss Challice aside and seek out a new lover. He was, he told himself, not Murillio, who could travel with practised ease from bedroom to bedroom and see where it had got him him, d.a.m.n near murdered by some drunken suitor.

Oh, there was a lesson there, yes. At least it seemed that Murillio had heeded it, if the rumours of his 'retirement' were accurate. And what about me? Have I taken note? It seems not. I still go to her, I still plunge into this betrayal. I go to her, so hungry, so desperate, it is as if we have remade ourselves into perfect reflections. Me and Challice. Hand in hand in our descent. And what about me? Have I taken note? It seems not. I still go to her, I still plunge into this betrayal. I go to her, so hungry, so desperate, it is as if we have remade ourselves into perfect reflections. Me and Challice. Hand in hand in our descent.

Because it makes the fall easier, doesn't it?

There was nothing to stop Gorlas Vidikas from exacting vengeance. He would be entirely within his rights to hunt them both down and murder them, and a part of Cutter would not blame him if he did just that.

He was thinking such thoughts as he walked to the annexe warehouse, but they did little to a.s.sail his antic.i.p.ation. Into each other's arms again, desire hot as a fever in their mouths, their hands, their groins. Proof, to Cutter's mind, of the claims of some scholars that humans were but animals clever ones, but animals none the less. There was no room for thinking, no s.p.a.ce for rationality. Consequences thinned to ethereal ghosts, s.n.a.t.c.hed in with the first gasp and flung away in the next. Only the moment mattered.

He made no effort to disguise himself, no effort to mask the destination of his journey, and he well knew how the locals around the warehouse watched him, with that glittering regard that was envy and disgust and amus.e.m.e.nt in equal parts; much as they had watched Challice perhaps only moments earlier, although in her case l.u.s.t probably warred with all the other emotions. No, this affair was a brazen thing, and that in itself somehow made it all the more erotic.

There was heat in his mind as he used his key to open the office door, and when he stepped within he could smell her perfume in the dusty air. Through the office and into the cavernous warehouse interior, and then to the wooden steps leading to the loft.

She must have heard his ascent, for she was standing facing the door when he arrived.

Something in her eyes stopped him.

'You have to save me,' she said.

'What has happened?'

'Promise you'll save me, my love. Promise!'

He managed a step forward. 'Of course. What's-'

'He knows.'

The heat of desire evaporated. He was suddenly cold inside.

Challice drew closer and in her face he saw an expression he struggled to identify, and when he did the cold turned into ice. She is . . . excited. She is . . . excited.

'He will kill you. And me. He'll kill us both, Crokus!'

'As is his right-'

In her eyes a sudden fear, and she fixed him with it for a long moment before turning round. 'Maybe you you have no problem with dying,' she hissed as she walked to the bed, where she faced him again. 'But I have!' have no problem with dying,' she hissed as she walked to the bed, where she faced him again. 'But I have!'

'What do you want me to do?'

'You know what to do.'

'What we should should do,' he said, 'is run. Take what you can and let's just run. Find some other city-' do,' he said, 'is run. Take what you can and let's just run. Find some other city-'

'No! I don't want to leave here! I like like it here! I like the way I live, Crokus!' it here! I like the way I live, Crokus!'

'It was just a day or two ago, Challice, that you were lying in my arms and talking about escaping-'

'Just dreams that wasn't real. I mean, the dream wasn't real. Wasn't realistic just a stupid dream. You can't take any notice of what I say after we've . . . been together. I just come out with any old thing. Crokus, we're in trouble. We have to do something we have to do it now.' now.'

You just come out with any old thing, do you, Challice? But it's only after we've been together that you say you love me.

'He'll kill me,' she whispered.

'That doesn't sound like the Gorlas you've been describing.'

She sat down on the bed. 'He confronted me. Yesterday.'

'You didn't mention-'

She shook her head. 'It seemed, well, it seemed it was just the usual game. He said he wanted to know about you, and I said I'd tell him when he got back he's at the mines right now. And then, and then, walking here just now O G.o.ds! I suddenly understood! Don't you see? He was asking about the man he planned to kill!' He was asking about the man he planned to kill!'

'So he plans to kill me. What of it, Challice?'

She bared her teeth, and it was an expression so brutal, so ugly, that Cutter was shocked. 'I said I understood understood. First you. Then he'll come back to me, so he can tell me what he did to you. In every detail. He will use every word like a knife until he pulls out the real one. And then he'll cut my throat.' She looked up at him. 'Is that what you want? Does his killing me matter to you, Crokus?'

'He won't kill you-'

'You don't know him!'

'It sounds as if you don't, either.' At her glare, he added, 'Look, a.s.sume he'll take pleasure in killing me, and he will. And then, even more pleasure in telling you all about it yes? We're agreed on that?'

She nodded, a single motion, tight.

'But if he then kills you, what has he got? Nothing. No, he'll want you to do it again, with someone else. Over and over again, and each time it'll turn out the same he kills your lover, he tells you about it. He doesn't want all that to end. The man's a duellist, right, one who likes killing his opponents. This way, he can lawfully do it to as many men as you care to collect, Challice. He wins, you win-'

'How can you say I win I win!'

'-because,' he finished, 'neither of you gets bored.'

She stared at him as if he had just kicked in some invisible door hidden inside her. And then recovered. 'I don't want you to die, Crokus. Cutter I keep forgetting. It's Cutter Cutter now. A dangerous name. An now. A dangerous name. An a.s.sa.s.sin's a.s.sa.s.sin's name. Careful, or someone might think there's something real behind it.' name. Careful, or someone might think there's something real behind it.'

'Which is it, Challice? You don't want me to die. Or am I the man I pretend to be? What is it, exactly, you're trying to appeal to?'

'But I love you!'

And there was that word again. And whatever it meant to her probably was not what it meant to him not that he knew what it meant to him, of course. He moved to one side, as if intent on circling the bed even if it took him through the outer wall, then halted and ran his hands through his hair. 'Have you been leading me to this moment all along?'

'What?'

He shook his head. 'Just wondering out loud. It's not important.'

'I want my life as it is, Cutter, only without him. I want you instead of him. That's how I want it.'

What would Murillio say in this situation? But no, I'm not Murillio.

Still . . .

He'd be out through this window in a heartbeat. Duels with wronged husbands? Hood's breath! He faced her. 'Is that what you want?' He faced her. 'Is that what you want?'

'I just told you it was!'

'No, that's not what I meant. I meant . . . oh, never mind.'

'You have to do it. For me. For us.'

'He's at the mines west of the city? For how much longer?'

'Two days at least. You can go out there.'

And suddenly she was standing in front of him, hands on the sides of his face, her body pressing hard, and he stared down into her dilated eyes.

Excitement.

I used to think . . . that look this look . . . I used to think . . .

'My love,' she whispered. 'It has to be done. You see that, don't you?'

But it was always this, just this. Leading up to this moment. Where she was taking me or have I got it all wrong?

'Challice-'

But her mouth was on his now, and she swallowed down all his words, until none were left.

Spin round and rush back. Murillio still lies in the dust, a crowd mechanically cheering in the pit below. The day draws to a close, and a youth named Venaz gathers his gang of followers and sets out for the tunnel called Steep.

Not much need be said about Venaz. But let us give him this. Sold to the mine by his stepfather dear Ma too drunk to even lift her head when the collectors showed up and if she heard the clinking of coins, well, her thoughts would have crawled the short distance to the moment when she could buy another bottle, and no further. That had been four years ago.

The lesson that a child is not loved, not even by the one who bore it, delivers a most cruel wound. One that never heals, but instead stretches scar tissue over the mind's eye, so that for that orphan's entire life the world beyond is tainted, and it sees what others do not, and is blinded by perpetual mistrust to all that the heart feels. Such was Venaz, but to know is not to excuse, and we shall leave it there.

Venaz's pack consisted of boys a year or so younger than him. They vied with each other for position in the pecking order and were as vicious individually as they were in a group. They were just versions of him, variations only on the surface. They followed and would do anything he told them to, at least until he stumbled, made a mistake. And then they would close in like half-starved wolves.

Venaz walked emboldened, excited, delighted at this amazing turn of events. The Big Man wanted Harllo and not to pat him on the head either. No, there would be even more blood spilled on this day, and if Venaz could work it right, why, he might be the one to spill it at the Big Man's nod, that's all it would take, and maybe the Big Man would see how good Venaz could be. Good enough, maybe, to recruit him into his own household. Every n.o.ble needed people like Venaz, to do the ugly stuff, the bad stuff.

They reached the slope leading to the mouth of the tunnel. Three grown-ups were trying to fix the axle of a cart and they looked up when Venaz arrived.

'Where's Bainisk?' Venaz asked.

'New vein,' one of them replied. 'He in trouble again?'

'He got his moles with him?' It felt good being so important he didn't have to answer the man's question.

Shrugs all round.

Venaz scowled. 'Has he got his moles with him?'

The one who'd spoken slowly straightened. His backhanded slap caught Venaz by surprise, and was hard enough to knock the boy back. He was then grabbed and thrown on to the stony ground. The man stood over him. 'Watch your mouth.'

Venaz sat up, glaring. 'You ain't seen what just happened? Up on the ridge?'

Another grunted. 'We heard 'bout something.'

'A duel the Big Man killed someone!'

'So what?'