Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

stung him. Ah yes, Aragan realized. His failure in averting her assassination. ‘Yes. A lesson there for all of us.’

‘Lesson?’ Somehow Aragan could not help probing; it pleased him to be able to penetrate the fellow’s irritating manner.

Elbows on his knees and hands hanging loose, the master assassin said, ‘That in our line of work we all die alone, Ambassador.’

Aragan didn’t know whether to laugh or snort his scorn. What the devil did he mean by that? What line of work? He served the Throne.

Topper stood. ‘I will begin making my arrangements, then.’

‘You’ve located our assets?’

‘Oh yes. And it’s time I paid a visit. They will be none too pleased.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘See to our regular forces, Ambassador. Leave the rest to me.’

Aragan nodded. ‘Very good. May Oponn favour you, Clawmaster.’

A clench of pain crossed Topper’s face. ‘Let’s leave those two out of this, shall we?’

‘I’m tellin’ ya it’s some kinda foundation … but for what I got no idea.’ Spindle sat back in his chair and frowned his confusion. ‘Seems too flimsy for a wall.’

At the table Picker sent a glance to the historian, Duiker. The man was unaware of her regard, his thoughts obviously distant as he pursued the problem. Good. May it rouse the man even further. ‘Guards?’ she asked Spindle.

‘Hardly any. City Wardens, that’s it.’ The mage drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Naw, it’s them mages you gotta watch for. Plenty scary, them. Remind me of the Old Guard cadre, Hairlock and Sister Chill.’ He rubbed a hand over his greasy shirt. ‘You know, I swear one had me cold to rights. But damned if he didn’t let me go.’

‘Which?’ the old man asked.

‘The tall one — scholarly look to him.’

The historian grunted, returned to studying the tabletop.

‘There’s more than them to worry about,’ the bard, Fisher, said from the bar.

Picker cocked a brow. ‘Oh?’

‘Sadly, Envy supports this Legate.’

Blend, behind the bar, let out a long drawn-out ‘Damn …’ The front door opened and a customer entered. Blend sent a cursory glance over then froze, her eyes bulging. ‘Look out!’ she bellowed and disappeared behind the bar.

Fisher just stared his puzzlement.

Picker knocked over the table to duck behind. Spindle threw himself into a booth. The historian remained in his chair. He eyed the newcomer first with surprise, then distaste. He raised a hand for a halt. ‘He came in the front door, Blend,’ he called.

Blend straightened from behind the bar, a cocked crossbow trained on the man at the door. ‘You’ve got some nerve showing yourself here, y’damned snake.’

The tall fellow held up both gloved hands. ‘Now, now. I come in peace.’

Spindle emerged, hand on the shortsword at his side. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘Just a chat. Let us sit down together over drinks. Reminisce and tell lies of the old days.’

‘I’d rather fall into a privy,’ Picker said, standing, twin long-knives out.

‘Who’s this?’ Fisher asked Blend.

‘Topper. Clawmaster. The Empire’s found us.’

Topper looked to the ceiling. ‘We never lost track of you, Blend.’

‘Everyone relax,’ Duiker said. ‘If Mallick wanted your heads he wouldn’t send this one.’

Topper squinted, edging forward. ‘Do my eyes deceive me? Not Imperial Historian Duiker?’

‘Ex.’

Blend raised her crossbow, pulled out the bolt. Picker sheathed her long-knives and righted the table. ‘What’re you after?’ she grumbled.

‘We have a common enemy.’

Blend, Picker and Spindle shared quick looks, then Picker snorted, ‘No, we don’t.’

Topper pulled a chair to the table. He undid his dark green silk-lined cloak and hung it over the back, then sat. The shirt beneath was a fine satiny forest green. He drew off his gloves and peered round innocently at everyone. ‘A drink, perhaps?’

Blend drew a pint from the bar and ambled over. ‘Whatever you’re sellin’ we don’t want any,’ she growled.

The Clawmaster took the earthenware pint and sipped. He made a face. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ Spindle started up from the table and Picker flinched. Topper raised a placating hand. ‘A joke.’

Spindle’s mocking smile was sickly. ‘Very funny.’

Duiker eyed the Clawmaster, his lined face stony behind his grey beard. He steepled his hands on the table. ‘What is your proposal? And bear in mind — these soldiers are retired.’

Topper hooked an arm over the top of his chair. He turned the pint in circles before him. ‘Retired? Is that what you call it? According to the lists you are all deserters. Except for our honoured historian here.’

‘Not according to us,’ Picker ground out.

‘Dujek told us-’ began Spindle.

‘He was not in a position to offer anything,’ Topper interrupted.

‘Don’t push that line,’ Blend warned from where she now stood behind Topper’s chair. ‘That dog won’t hunt.’

Topper gave a small shrug. ‘Fair enough. I understand you’ve already accepted a contract to collect intelligence. What would it take for you to sign on for something a little more … direct?’

‘As free agents?’ Picker said.

‘Yes. Free agents.’

Picker opened her mouth to name something, a price perhaps, but Duiker took hold of her arm, silencing her. He whispered into her ear and her tangled brows rose. She cuffed the old man’s shoulder. ‘Our price, Clawmaster, is the formal decommissioning of the Bridgeburners.’

Topper’s slit gaze glanced aside to the historian and his lips pursed. After turning the mug in circles on the rough slats of the table he gave a slow nod. ‘Agreed. It will be arranged.’

‘And the job?’ Spindle asked nervously.

An easy shrug from the slouched Clawmaster. ‘Well … it seems for reasons known only to himself this Legate wants a wall built … Therefore, we should do our best to interfere with that.’ His gaze rose to Spindle. ‘I take it you have munitions?’ The saboteur-trained mage gave a jerked nod. ‘Excellent. Then you lot can do what you’re best at.’

‘And you?’ Blend demanded, her chin stuck out.

‘I’ll provide cover in case there are any … complications.’

Picker snorted. ‘Somehow I’m not so relieved by that.’

The Clawmaster laid his hands flat on the table. His smile was now supremely assured. ‘You should be.’

At their servants’ table in the kitchens of the Lim estate, Leff let out a long loud sigh. Scorch, opposite, roused himself, blinking. ‘You say somethin’?’

Leff shook his head. He tucked his hands up under his arms, sighed again. ‘You know, Scorch, I don’t think anyone’s comin’ back. I’m gettin’ the distinct feeling that we’ve been handed our hats.’

Scorch’s puzzled frown deepened even further. ‘Howzat? Hats? I ain’t got no hat.’

Leff glared his disapproval. ‘It’s an expression, man. Means we’re fired.’

Scorch goggled at his partner. ‘What? Fired? We ain’t even been paid yet!’

Now Leff banged his chair forward, gaping. ‘Ain’t been paid yet? How can that be? You’re supposed to be in charge of all that.’

Scorch’s consternation creased his forehead until his brows met between his small darting eyes. ‘I thought