The assassin was already making the second jump. Beyond, Erlan could make out two more balconies, then a short distance below another roof ran perpendicular, the private wing connecting the emperor’s palace with the Hippodrome. Darting across the second balcony he shoved Wrathling into his belt, freeing both hands for the hazards ahead. Another giddy jump, a missed footing on the ice, his hand catching him, holding him against the balustrade. The shadow was disappearing ahead, nimble as a tree-rat. For a second, he saw the assassin hesitate atop the final balustrade, glance behind, take three quick steps and leap into the frosty void. A moment later there was a rattle of tiles, the sound of sliding, a muffled grunt, then he saw a shadow dangling off the edge of the roof. It was a drop of sixty feet or more to the pavings below. To fall meant death, but Erlan didn’t waste the time chance had bought him. He reached the last balcony, climbed up and stood tall; the assassin was pulling himself up, swinging one foot over the gutter. Erlan stole a breath and ran, launching himself off his good ankle as high and far as he could. He arced through the air, hovering like a hawk for a breathless moment, then came hurtling down onto the tiles with brutal force, the impact bludgeoning a crater into the broken shards and timber.

He pulled himself out of the hole, then slipped on the snow, slamming his jaw into the tiles. His face jarred with pain. He could hear the clatter of footsteps over the tiling to his right. He scrambled up to the roof ridge on all fours and gaining the summit he started running. The night was a brilliant velvet canopy, the stars burned in the black like beacon fires. Ahead was the silhouette of the assassin, sprinting for the massive looming shape that rose above the city like a titan. The Hippodrome. If the assassin reached there, Erlan was sure to lose him.

Ahead he could see a blank wall where the roof abutted the eastern side of the Hippodrome. Left and right there were darker shadows, apertures that let the daylight into the eastern stands of the stadium. Above them was a row of support beams projecting from the wall. The assassin reached the end of the roof ridge. He hesitated, looked left and right, then skittered down the north slope of the roof. Erlan cut diagonally down the roof, sucking up the pain in his leg, feeling tiles cracking in his wake. The assassin leaped, swooping down onto the first beam, then leaped again, but Erlan had already launched himself off the roof.