In the companionway outside the captain’s cabin, Salk Elan shook his head and muttered, ‘He couldn’t have been serious.’

The assassin eyed the man. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The ale was atrocious. “Drink up” indeed.’

Kalam scowled. ‘No Claw in the city – now why would that be?’

The man’s shrug was loose. ‘Aren’s not its old self, alas. Filled with monks and priests and soldiers, the gaols crowded with innocents while Sha’ik’s fanatics – only the most cunning left alive, of course – spread murder and mayhem. It’s also said the warrens aren’t what they used to be, either, though I gather you know more about that than I.’ Elan smiled.

‘Was that an answer to my question?’

‘And am I an expert on the activities of the Claw? Not only have I never run into one of those horrid throat-slitters, I make it policy that my curiosity about them is thoroughly curtailed.’ He brightened suddenly. ‘Perhaps the treasurer will not survive his heat prostration! Now there’s a pleasing thought!’

Kalam swung about and made his way to his cabin. He heard Salk Elan sigh, then head in the opposite direction, ascending the companionway ladder to the main deck.

The assassin closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Better to walk into a trap that you can see than one you can’t. Yet the thought gave him scant comfort. He wasn’t even sure if there was a trap. Mebra’s web was vast – Kalam had always known that, and had himself plucked those strands more than once. Nor, it seemed, had the Ehrlitan spy betrayed him when it came to delivering the Book of Dryjhna – Kalam had placed it into Sha’ik’s hands, after all.

Salk Elan was likely a mage, and he also had the look of a man capable of handling himself in a fight. He had not so much as flinched when the treasurer’s bodyguard had closed on him.

None of which puts me at ease.

The assassin sighed. And the man knows bad ale when he tastes it. . .

When the High Fist’s breeding stallions were led through the gate into the Imperial yard, chaos ensued. Stamping, nervous horses jostled with stablers, dockhands, soldiers and various officials. The Master of the Horse shrieked and ran about in an effort to impose some order, fomenting even more confusion in the seething press.

The woman holding the reins of one magnificent stallion was notable only for her watchful calm, and when the Master finally managed to arrange the loading, she was among the first to lead her charge up the broad gangplank onto the Imperial transport. And though the Master knew every one of his workers and every one of the breeders in his care, his attention was so tugged and strained in multiple directions that he did not register that both woman and horse were unknown to him.