“In the South most men either own someone or are owned themselves.”

“That’s a bastard custom,” muttered Shivers. “I thought you said this was part o’ the Union, though.”

“And they love their freedom over in the Union, don’t they? You can’t make a man a slave there.” She nodded towards some more, being led past meek and humble in a line. “But if they pass through no one’s freeing them, I can tell you that.”

“Bloody Union. Seems those bastards always want more land. There’s more of ’em than ever in the North. Uffrith’s full of ’em, since the wars started up again. And what do they need more land for? You should see that city they’ve got already. Makes this place look a village.”

She looked sharply across at him. “Adua?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Aye. I fought the Gurkish there. Got me this mark.” And he pulled back his sleeve to show the scar on his wrist. When he looked back she had an odd look in her eye. You might almost have called it respect. He liked seeing it. Been a while since anyone looked at him with aught but contempt.

“Did you stand in the shadow of the House of the Maker?” she asked.

“Most of the city’s in the shadow of that thing one time o’ day or another.”

“What was it like?”

“Darker’n outside it. Shadows tend to be, in my experience.”

“Huh.” The first time Shivers had seen anything close to a smile on her face, and he reckoned it suited her. “I always said I’d go.”

“To Adua? What’s stopping you?”

“Six men I need to kill.”

Shivers puffed out his cheeks. “Ah. That.” A surge of worry went through him, and he wondered afresh just why the hell he’d ever said yes. “I’ve always been my own worst enemy,” he muttered.

“Stick with me, then.” Her smile had widened some. “You’ll soon have worse. We’re here.”

Not all that heartening, as a destination. A narrow alley, dim as dusk. Crumbling buildings crowded in, shutters rotten and peeling, sheets of plaster cracking away from damp bricks. He led his horse after the cart and through a dim archway while Murcatto swung the creaking doors shut behind them and shot the rusted bolt. Shivers tethered his horse to a rotting post in a yard strewn with weeds and fallen tiles.

“A palace,” he muttered, staring up towards the square of grey sky high above, the walls all round coated with dried-up weeds, the shutters hanging miserable from their hinges. “Once.”

“I took it for the location,” said Murcatto, “not the décor.”

They made for a gloomy hall, empty doorways leading into empty chambers. “Lot of rooms,” said Shivers.

Friendly nodded. “Twenty-two.”

Their boots thump, thumped on the creaking staircase as they made their way up through the rotten guts of the building.

“How are you going to begin?” Murcatto was asking Morveer.

“I already have. Letters of introduction have been sent. We have a sizeable deposit to entrust to Valint and Balk tomorrow morning. Sizeable enough to warrant the attention of their most senior officer. I, my assistant and your man Friendly will infiltrate the bank disguised as a merchant and his associates. We will meet with—then seek out an opportunity to kill—Mauthis.”