In Scurrey, Goshawk’s tactics had been effective surprisingly swiftly. The turning point in his fight for the city had taken place just after he had seized control of the Mawkins Gang. Openly attending the funeral of Willet Mawkins in his customary somber black clothes, he had heard a whisper of fear among the “mourners” that caused his pitted cheeks to pucker in an almost-smile. The other criminal gangs had decided that Goshawk’s victory was inevitable . . . and from that moment it was. They fell over one another in their hurry to join his organization. And now Scurrey was docile, a city of empty, fearful streets and shuttered windows, where everybody paid their tithes to the Locksmiths . . .

The thief before him was by now deeply regretting the mission that had forced him to approach Aramai Goshawk.

“We’ve a man in the pound,” he was explaining, “our best sly-in-the-night. His trial’s due for the first day of the Assizes, four days from now . . .”

“. . . and you want me to send a pair of plumpers to give him an alibi?” The Locksmiths employed many “plumpers,” men who would perjure themselves for money. “I can do this. But first . . . I would like to see some evidence of your loyalty to us.”

A plan was forming in Goshawk’s mind. His eye slid over Clent’s report. In spite of the guild’s attempts to intimidate them, the Stationers had not halted their efforts to investigate the Locksmiths. Their interference did not frighten him—but it was an annoying distraction. Goshawk needed all his resources for a battle of wits that he was waging with a very different and more powerful enemy.

For months he had been fighting the Duke’s sister, Lady Tamarind, for control of Mandelion. Influencing the Duke was like trying to grab a fistful of maddened bees, but he was sure that he would have succeeded by now, were it not for Tamarind whispering in the Duke’s ear. Her network of spies seemed the equal of Goshawk’s own. The agents he sent to break into her apartments in search of her correspondence were almost invariably mauled by her monstrous pet collection. Worse still, their battle of wits seemed to have become tavern gossip, and crooks that should have flocked to join him hung back leerily, waiting to see who would win. Goshawk frowned. He could ill afford to let the underworld suspect that he was dancing daggers with the Stationers as well.

“The Stationers need to be frightened, that is all, and they will back down,” he muttered under his breath. “They are too afraid of an open guild war to risk a confrontation with us. Let us see. Their investigation has led them to this Pertellis, on whom they seem to place great value . . .”

He looked up at the waiting thief.

“Let us see how skilled your men are. By dusk I want you to find a man of letters named Pertellis.”