They stood in the shadow of a building opposite, trying to make out whether there was anything to trouble them in or around Vance’s house.

“It’s early. Maybe they’re still sleeping.”

“No . . . the whole place is quiet. Pavisse is waking up, but not here. Listen.”

Kosar listened. In the distance he made out an occasional shout, traders urging their mules to the best-selling pitches. Blackbirds and honey doves chattered across rooftops, vying for space much the same as the traders, and here and there a skull raven sat on its own, other birds too wary to settle nearby. A pack of dogs ran along the neighboring street, the subject of their pursuit letting out a solitary panicked squeal. Window blinds crashed open, people coughed and spat the night from their lungs. Wheels whispered along the dusty streets.

Vance’s house was a dead zone in a place coming to life. No birds rested on his roof, no animals prowled the yard.

A’Meer drew a short sword from a leather scabbard on her belt and advanced across the street.

“Wait!” Kosar hissed. “There may be more Monks.”

A’Meer glanced back briefly. “I think they’ve been already,” she said softly. And then she ran.

Kosar stood in wide-eyed disbelief as A’Meer reached the front door of the house, swung it open and disappeared inside, all before he had time to draw breath for a reply. He had seen her run across the yard, kicking up silent clouds of dust, making no sound as she swung herself inside . . . he had seen every movement and moment, and yet it was impossible. She had moved as if the air itself parted before her.

Kosar had taken only several steps himself before A’Meer appeared at an upper window, leaning out.

“The house is safe. They’ve been.” And then she withdrew again, closing the window softly behind her.

Kosar found her in one of the bedrooms upstairs. He had smelled the body immediately upon passing through the front door, and as he climbed the stairs the stench grew worse; blood that was almost fresh, the rich tang of butchery. A’Meer was standing in an open doorway, panting as if she had just run twenty miles, and then he glanced past her at what was left of Rafe’s uncle.

A sudden, staggering possibility hit Kosar. “What if that’s Rafe?” he said.

“Did the boy have a beard?”

“No.”

“Then this can’t be him. There’s only one person here, and this belonged to them.” A’Meer lifted her sword, and dangling from its point was a clot of fur, blood and skin. It looked like a slaughtered furbat stripped of its wings.

“A Monk did this?” he asked.

“I assume so. Although they’re usually very calculating, very sparse in their murdering. This Vance must have annoyed or angered it somehow to warrant this.”