almost to death when he first acquired her to ensure she was no agent of the Farlan. Her small features and sparkling eyes were a long way from the Litse definition of beautiful; it was why he preferred her, and most often made the Litse girl debase herself. After all, that one had been a nobleman’s daughter until Celao bought her. Earning trinkets with a whore’s tricks was what she’d been bred to do, whether or not she’d realised it at the time.
‘Wine.’
The blonde was the first to scramble up and pour him a goblet. Celao smiled as he accepted it; she knew her place and was eager to please him. The fearful eyes and desperate smile caused a stirring in him and once he’d taken the wine Celao caught her arm. A look was all it took and she sank to her knees, fumbling at his trousers. He turned to face the city again, grabbing her by the throat to manoeuvre her around until her back was pressed against the balcony rail and her face obscured by the roll of his belly.
From somewhere in the city below he heard a mournful wail, carried on the wind from the concealed streets. He peered down, unable to make anything out at that distance, unsure even whether it had been a citizen of Ismess or an echo from the Dark Place. That and other, stranger, things had been reported to him of late — voices in the wilderness and great spiralling flocks of bats skirting Blackfang’s forbidding slopes.
The whole Circle City was gripped with fervour and fear, but the reports of daemons attacking Byora had only made Celao laugh. At last some misfortunes had taken place outside the stained white walls of Ismess, descending upon some other people than the pathetic remnants of Ilit’s chosen. Slum fever gripped the outer districts, while reports of the white plague from the countryside meant he risked bringing the latter in to the city as he tried to alleviate the former.
The sound of wings came from the dark above him. Celao yanked at the girl’s hair and she stopped her softly moaning attentions, refastening his trousers with deft fingers just as a dark shape descended. A servant ran forward even before Lord Celao reached out a hand, offering a scimitar-bladed spear that Celao grabbed hard enough to send the man tumbling.
Up above he saw the dark shape of outstretched wings, a white-eye circling slowly. Celao hissed with anger: Gesh had been his Krann for mere weeks, and the impudent worm was already presumptuous. Aware he had betrayed his emotions already, Celao lowered his spear and closed his wings. Another disadvantage of the damn things — the first hint of violence and they would open, for balance as much as flight. Even from high above Gesh would have been able to see the effect of his presence.
‘My Lord,’ Gesh said as he banked with effortless grace and landed on the rooftop, his white formal robes dancing in the darkness like a moth’s wings, ‘I trust your evening has been pleasant.’
Celao didn’t reply immediately, letting the man wait as he was inspected. He was armed, of course, but with nothing more than his Ilit-granted bow and a dagger. He was without his ceremonial breastplate, a slender and austere sight, but Celao’s sharp eyes noticed the pearls at his throat and gold pins in his rich blond hair.
‘You forget your place, Krann,’ Celao said eventually. ‘You do not land here without an invitation from your lord.’
‘Under the circumstances, I thought it prudent.’
Gesh furled his own wings and let the light of the lamps onto his face. Normally Gesh was impassive to the point of condescension, but tonight the Krann’s expression was tense with anticipation.
‘Circumstances?’ Celao tightened his grip on his spear and checked his guards out of the corner of his eye. Both were alert, their weapons ready. He had taken great pains to ensure their loyalty: they were bonded men and the lives of their families were forfeit if Celao died.
‘I heard of a plot to assassinate you,’ Gesh announced, hands conspicuously empty of weapons. ‘I thought it best to flout custom.’
Celao waddled away from him, edging towards the guards, while Gesh stood still and watched him. ‘Soldier, summon my guards!’ Celao barked nervously.
‘I don’t think that will do any good.’ Gesh took a step towards him, and Celao drove unexpectedly forward, his spear outstretched. Fat he might have been, but Celao still had the speed and strength of the Chosen, and he could move faster than a normal man when he needed to.
‘Didn’t have the guts to try it yourself? I expected as much,’ Celao spat, pushing the tip of the spear right against Gesh’s chest. The enchanted steel neatly sliced through the cloth, but Gesh didn’t retreat, nor did he unfurl his wings.
‘I’m not here to kill you, nor have I arranged anything of the sort,’ he said with infuriating patience, ‘and your spear is pointing in the wrong direction.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
‘I think he was trying to help,’ said a voice behind Celao as a sword-tip pierced his shoulder.
Celao grunted with shock and tried to turn, but a second blade impaled him low in the ribs and held him fast, caught like a stuck pig. His mouth fell open, but the only sound that came out was a faint hiss of expelled air as pain struck him like a hammer. Then the swords were withdrawn and Celao staggered sideways, drunkenly reaching for his two guards. In their place was a single figure in diamond patchwork clothes and a ghostly white mask. Blood trailed from each of its swords, which were held outstretched, as though the figure was awaiting applause after a dance, while the bodies of his guards twitched on the ground either side of it.
‘You politicians, always looking for the hidden meaning in what men say.’
Celao tried to turn and bring his weapon up, but his arm was a lead weight, his legs treacherous. He lurched around and saw a slim man in black behind him, Harlequin swords in his hands and teardrop tattoos on his cheek. When he spoke, the man’s voice seemed to come from elsewhere, as though he was being used as a tool for some far-distant mage.
‘It is time for a new ruler in Ismess, do you not agree, Lord Gesh?’
Celao tried to lunge, but he was clumsy and slow; the man in black moved, faster than he could follow through the haze of pain, and battered the blade away. Celao felt the patter of blood on his left foot and wavered, fighting to keep standing.
‘A change, yes,’ said Gesh, his eyes never leaving Celao’s bow, still in its sheath, ‘but one I could have brought about myself.’
The assassin looked thoughtful for a moment, then he reached forward. Celao watched the tip of his sword draw close, but his body was unresponsive as the man prodded him gently in the shoulder, once, twice. The motion was so neat and deliberate Celao didn’t even feel any pain, but his spear fell from his fingers and his arm flopped dead. He staggered back a step before catching his balance and looked down in disbelief at the now-useless limb hanging at his side.
‘You got it on the second,’ the black clad assassin said, almost to himself. ‘It doesn’t count — I win.’ He paused and cocked his head at Gesh. ‘Certainly you could have done this. I suspect that fine bow was intended for just this task. Lord Ilit would not have chosen a Krann likely to miss such a target.’
‘In which case, do not consider me in your debt.’
‘Debt?’ The assassin giggled like a girl and Celao blinked. The man’s expression hadn’t changed from studious concentration, yet the laughter didn’t sound forced. ‘No debt; this is a gesture of friendship.’
‘No price?’
‘None. It serves our purpose that the Litse have a stronger ruler, one less encumbered by alliances and allegiances.’
‘One easily influenced.’
In the firelight the assassin’s shadow twitched and moved as though alive. ‘Influence is best achieved through gain — if Ruhen’s friendship aids your purpose, you will continue and further it.’
‘Friendship,’ Gesh said, without feeling.
The assassin said, ‘I realise it does not come easily to your kind, but pragmatism does. You can either ally yourself to us and restore your people’s glory, or watch us from the sidelines.’
‘What do you need?’
‘You could usefully turn a blind eye to a series of unfortunate accidents; beyond that I ask only that you allow us to help our friends: your poor need feeding, your borders need protecting. Your lost souls need nurturing.’
Gesh said, ‘Your preachers will minister to my people, feed them and tell them tales of a child sent to intercede with the Gods on their behalf.’
‘It is not the warrior they expected, perhaps, but that is the difference between what a man wants and what
