“He’s doing good work down there,” Talamir observed as dispassionately as he could, and settled himself into the padded chair opposite Dethor’s. It was difficult to be dispassionate about Dethor’s bland statement. Every time Alberich had “something on the boil,” there was usually a great deal of violence involved before it was over. Alberich was directly involved in that violence at least half of the time; if Talamir hadn’t been aware of just how much he despised unnecessary force, he’d have suspected that the man was seeking out opportunities to thrash someone.

But—perhaps he is, and he’s simply making sure that the opportunity calls for necessary violence. That wouldn’t be too difficult in the neighborhoods Alberich had to prowl.

“I wondered how much you’d kept track of,” Dethor said. “What with everything else you’ve got going on.”

“All of it, I think,” Talamir admitted. “And he’s as good as you ever were in the covert work, and better, far better, than I. We are, perhaps, too much the gentlemen. He fits in down there better than we ever could, no matter how much we deluded ourselves about our acting abilities.”

The words hung heavily in the air, and Talamir glanced out the window of the sitting room. It was moon-dark, and a Companion ghosted into and out of sight among the trees out there, a glimmer of white in the darkness.

“There’s too many bloody bastards taking advantage of the situation to make trouble. Or money. Or both,” Dethor muttered. “You cut one down, and two more spring up to replace him. It wasn’t like that when I was doing the dirty work. It was never that vile down by Exile’s Gate.”

Talamir shrugged; they both knew that was true enough. Haven had been stripped of all but a skeleton staff of the Guard; constables and even private bodyguards had gone to join the army. The opportunities for the criminal and unscrupulous were legion. Alberich and a trusted handful of constables and the Palace and City Guard were accomplishing more than even the Council guessed. None of it had anything to do with being a Herald, of course—other than an occasional use of the Truth Spell and his communication with Kantor, Alberich never did anything that could not have been done by an ordinary constable.

Providing, of course, that an ordinary constable had his knack for subterfuge and covert work. Which, of course, none of them did. There was only one Alberich.

He couldn’t rid the place of crime forever, but every time he removed a criminal from the streets, it look a while for someone else to fill the void left behind, a breathing space for the constables still at work on the street.