The pimp’s head turned at the sound of Fiddler striding through the dried leaves. He had the white skin of a Skrae and showed blackened teeth in a knowing grin. ‘Gral, she’s yours for a half jakata, once I’ve broken her skin. The other will cost you more, being younger.’

Fiddler stepped up to the man. ‘I buy,’ he said. ‘Make wives. Two jakatas.’

The pimp snorted. ‘I’ll make twice that in a week. Sixteen jakatas.’

Fiddler drew the Gral long-knife he’d purchased an hour earlier and pressed the edge against the pimp’s throat. ‘Two jakatas and my mercy, simharal.’

‘Done, Gral,’ the pimp grated, eyes wide. ‘Done, by the Hooded One!’

Fiddler drew two coins from his belt and tossed them into the leaves. Then he stepped back. ‘I take them now.’

The simharal fell to his knees, scrabbling through the dried fronds. ‘Take them, Gral, take them.’

Fiddler grunted, sheathing the knife and gathering one girl under each arm. Turning his back on the pimp, he walked out of the alley. The likelihood that the man would attempt any treachery was virtually nonexistent. Gral tribesmen often begged for insults to give cause for their favourite activity: pursuing vendettas. And it was reputedly impossible to sneak up on one from behind, so none dared try. For all that, Fiddler was thankful for the thick carpet of leaves between him and the pimp.

He exited the alleyway. The girls hung like oversized dolls in his arms, still numbed with shock. He glanced down at the face of the older one. Nine, maybe ten years of age, she stared up at him with wide, dark eyes. ‘Safe now,’ he said. ‘If I set you down, can you walk? Can you show me where you live?’

After a long moment, she nodded.

They had reached one of the tortuous tracks that passed for a street in the Lower City. Fiddler set the girl down, cradling the other in the crook of his arm – she seemed to have fallen asleep. The older child immediately grasped his robes to keep from being pushed away by the jostling crowd, then began tugging him along.

‘Home?’ Fiddler asked.

‘Home,’ she replied.

Ten minutes later they passed beyond the market district and entered a quieter residential area, the dwellings modest but clean. The girl guided Fiddler towards a side street. As soon as they reached it, children appeared, shouting and rushing to gather around them. A moment later three armed men burst from a garden gate. They confronted Fiddler with tulwars raised as the crowd of children dispersed on all sides, suddenly silent and watchful.

‘Nahal Gral,’ Fiddler growled. ‘The woman fell to a Red Sword. A simharal took these two. I bought them. Unbroken. Three jakatas.’

‘Two,’ corrected one of the men, spitting on the cobbles at Fiddler’s feet. ‘We found the simharal.’

‘Two to buy. One more to deliver. Unbroken. Three.’ Fiddler gave them a hard grin. ‘Fair price, cheap for Gral honour. Cheap for Gral protection.’