No-one, and the clouds were a solid cloak. Faint light bled from a few shuttered windows, which had the effect of deepening the gloom everywhere else. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.

He stepped outside and padded down one edge of the crate-littered alley.

A pool of deeper darkness occupied an alcove near the alley mouth ahead. Kalam’s eyes found it, locked on it. He pulled out his knife and hatchet and without pause swept straight for it.

The darkness poured its sorcery over him as he plunged into the alcove, his attack so sudden, so unexpected, that the two figures within had no time to draw weapons. The brutal blade of the work-knife tore out one man’s throat. The hatchet chopped down to crush a clavicle and snap ribs. He released that weapon and slapped the palm of his left hand over the man’s mouth as he drove the head back to crunch against the wall. The other Claw – a woman – slid down with a wet gurgling sound.

A moment later Kalam was searching their bodies, collecting throwing stars, throwing knives, two braces of short, wide-bladed stickers, a garrotte and the most cherished prize of all, a ribless Claw crossbow, screw-loaded, compact and deadly – if only at close range. Eight quarrels accompanied it, each one with an iron head that glistened with the poison called White Paralt.

Kalam appropriated the thin, black cloak from the man’s corpse, pulling up its hood with its gauze vents positioned over his ears. The projecting cowl was also of gauze, ensuring peripheral vision.

The sorcery was fading as he completed his accoutrements, revealing that at least one of his victims had been a mage. Damned sloppy – Topper’s letting them get soft.

He emerged from the alcove, raised his head and sniffed the air. A Hand’s link had been broken – they would know that trouble had arrived, and would even now be slowly, cautiously closing in.

Kalam smiled. You wanted a quarry on the run. Sorry to disappoint you.

He set out into the night, hunting Claw.

The Hand’s leader cocked his head, then stepped into the clear. A moment later two figures emerged from the alley and closed to confer.

‘Blood’s been spilled,’ the leader murmured. ‘Topper shall be—’

A soft clicking made him turn. ‘Ah, now we learn the details,’ the man said, watching their cloaked companion approach.

‘The killer has arrived,’ the newcomer growled.

‘I am about to pluck Topper’s strand—’

‘Good, it’s time he understood.’

‘What—’

Both of the leader’s companions fell to the cobbles. An enormous fist connected with the leader’s face. Bone and cartilage crunched. The leader blinked unseeing eyes that filled with blood. With septum lodged in his forebrain, he crumpled.

Kalam crouched down to whisper in the dead man’s ear. ‘I know you can hear me, Topper. Two Hands left. Run and hide – I’ll still find you.’