One of the guards stepped round the pillar, his back to Shivers, and then another. They were no more than arm’s length away, between him and her. He could almost have reached out and touched their backplates.

“Where you staying?”

“With some friends, near the fountain on Lord Sabeldi Street, but I’m new in the city, and,” she gave a hopeless laugh, “I’ve quite misplaced it.”

One of the guards pushed back his helmet. “I’ll say you have. Other side of town, that.”

“I swear I’ve been wandering the city for hours.” She began to move away, drawing the men gently after her. Another guard appeared, and another. All four now, with their backs still to Shivers. He held his breath, heart thumping so loud it was a wonder none of them could hear it. “If one of you gentlemen could point me in the right direction I’d be so grateful. Stupid of me, I know.”

“No, no. Confusing place, Westport.”

“ ’Specially at night.”

“I get lost here myself, time to time.” The men laughed, and Monza laughed along, still drawing ’em on. Her eye caught Shivers’ just for an instant, and they looked right at each other, and then she was gone round the next pillar, and the guards too, and their eager chatter drifted away. He closed his eyes, and slowly breathed out. Just as well he weren’t the only man around with a weakness for women.

He swung himself up onto the square base of the pillar, slid the rope around it and under his rump, hooked it to make a loop. No idea what the count was now, just knew he had to get up there fast. He set off, gripping the stone with his knees and the edges of his boots, sliding the loop of rope up, then dragging it tight while he shifted his legs and set ’em again.

It was a trick his brother taught him, when he was a lad. He’d used it to climb the tallest trees in the valley and steal eggs. He remembered how they’d laughed together when he kept falling off near the bottom. Now he was using it to help kill folk, and if he fell off he’d be dead himself. Safe to say life hadn’t turned out quite the way he’d hoped.

Still, he went up quick and smooth. Just like climbing a tree, except no eggs at the end of it and less chance of bark-splinters in your fruits. Hard work, though. He was sweating through by the time he made it up the pillar and still had the hardest part to go. He worked one hand into the mess of stonework at the top, unhooked the rope with the other and dragged it over his shoulder. Then he pulled himself up, fingers and toes digging holds out among the carvings, breath hissing, arms burning. He slipped one leg over a sculpture of a woman’s frowning face and sat there, high above the lane, clinging to a pair of stone leaves and hoping they were stronger than the leafy kind.