“That’s all!” she snapped.

Any normal person would have been lightly dressed on a day so sticky warm, but Murcatto, with characteristic contrariness, had opted for full and, as it happened, ludicrously flamboyant armour. Morveer’s only option, therefore, was to take aim at her exposed face. Still, a smaller target only presented the greater and more satisfying challenge for a marksman of his sublime skills. He took a deep breath.

To his horror she shifted at the crucial moment, looking down at the platform, and the dart missed her face by the barest whisker and glanced from one of the pillars of the ancient Senate House behind her.

“Damn it!” he hissed around the mouthpiece of his blowpipe, already fumbling in his pocket for another dart, removing its cap, sliding it gently into the chamber.

It was a stroke of ill fortune of the variety that had tormented Morveer since birth that, just as he was applying his lips to the pipe, Murcatto terminated her incompetent rhetoric with a perfunctory, “That’s all!” The crowd broke into rapturous applause, and his elbow was jogged by the enthusiastic clapping of a peasant beside the deep doorway in which he had secreted himself.

The lethal missile went well wide of its target and vanished into the heaving throng beside the platform. The man whose wild gesticulations had been responsible for his wayward aim looked about, his broad, greasy face puckering with suspicion. He had the appearance of a labourer, hands like rocks, the flame of human intellect barely burning behind his piggy eyes.

“Here, what are you—”

Curse the proletariat, Morveer’s attempt was now quite foiled. “My profound regrets, but could I prevail upon you to hold this for just a moment?”

“Eh?” The man stared down at the blowpipe pressed suddenly into his callused hands. “Ah!” As Morveer jabbed him in the wrist with a mounted needle. “What the hell?”

“Thank you ever so much.” Morveer reclaimed the pipe and slid it into one of his myriad of concealed pockets along with the needle. It takes the vast majority of men a great deal of time to become truly incensed, usually following a predictable ritual of escalating threats, insults, posturing, jostling and so forth. Instantaneous action is entirely foreign to them. So the elbow-jogger was only now beginning to look truly angry.

“Here!” He seized Morveer by the lapel. “Here…” His eyes took on a faraway look. He wobbled, blinked, his tongue hung out. Morveer took him under the arms, gasped at the sudden dead weight as the man’s knees collapsed, and wrestled him to the ground, suffering an unpleasant twinge in his back as he did so.

“He alright?” someone grunted. Morveer looked up to see a half-dozen not dissimilar men frowning down at him.

“Altogether too much beer!” Morveer shouted over the noise, adding a false little chuckle. “My companion here has become quite inebriated!”

“Inebri-what?” said one.

“Drunk!” Morveer leaned close. “He was so very, very proud to have the great Serpent of Talins as the mistress of our fates! Are not we all?”