“Not much. You go into a smoke-house and ask for a man called Sajaam. You say Nicomo demands his presence at the usual place. You bring him to me.” She paused for a moment. “Then you help me kill a man.”

It was no surprise, if he was honest with himself for once. There was only one kind of work that he was really good at. Certainly only one kind that anyone would pay him fifty scales for. He’d come here to be a better man. But it was just like the Dogman had told him. Once your hands are bloody, it ain’t so easy to get ’em clean.

Something poked his thigh under the table and he near jumped out of his chair. The pommel of a long knife lay between his legs. A fighting knife, steel crosspiece gleaming orange, its sheathed blade in the woman’s gloved hand.

“Best take it.”

“I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”

“I know what you said. The blade’s just to show Sajaam you mean business.”

He had to admit he didn’t much care for a woman surprising him with a knife between his thighs. “I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Right then. Just as long as you know.” He snatched the blade from her and slid it down inside his coat.

The knife pressed against his chest as he walked up, nuzzling at him like an old lover back for more. Shivers knew it was nothing to be proud of. Any fool can carry a knife. But even so, he wasn’t sure he didn’t like the weight of it against his ribs. Felt like being someone again.

He’d come to Styria looking for honest work. But when the purse runs empty, dishonest work has to do. Shivers couldn’t say he’d ever seen a place with a less honest look about it than this one. A heavy door in a dirty, bare, windowless wall, with a big man standing guard on each side. Shivers could tell it in the way they stood—they had weapons, and were right on the edge of putting ’em to use. One was a dark-skinned Southerner, black hair hanging around his face.

“Need something?” he asked, while the other gave Shivers the eyeball.

“Here to see Sajaam.”

“You armed?” Shivers slid out the knife, held it up hilt first, and the man took it off him. “With me, then.” The hinges creaked as the door swung open.

The air was thick on the other side, hazy with sweet smoke. It scratched at Shivers’ throat and made him want to cough, prickled at his eyes and made them water. It was dim and quiet, too sticky warm for comfort after the nip outside. Lamps of coloured glass threw patterns across the stained walls—green, and red, and yellow flares in the murk. The place was like a bad dream.

Curtains hung about, dirty silk rustling in the gloom. Folk sprawled on cushions, half-dressed and half-asleep. A man lay on his back, mouth wide open, pipe dangling from his hand, trace of smoke still curling from the bowl. A woman was pressed against him, on her side. Both their faces were beaded with sweat, slack as corpses. Looked like an uneasy cross between delight and despair, but tending towards the latter.