'Why the alchemist?' Lady Simtal was asking, evidently resuming a conversation begun inside. 'A fat old man smelling of sulphur and brimstone. Hardly suggestive of political power. Not even a council member, is he?'

Lim laughed softly. 'Your naivety is a charm, Lady, a charm.'

Simtal pulled back from the railing and crossed her arms. 'Educate me, then.' Her words came sharp, tightly bridled.

Lim shrugged. 'We have naught but suspicions, Lady. But it is the wise wolf that follows every spoor, no matter how slight. The alchemist would have people think as you do. A doddering old fool.' Lim paused, as if in thought, perhaps weighing how much he should reveal. 'We have sources,' he continued cautiously, 'among the magery. They inform us of one certain fact heavy with implications. A good many of the wizards in the city fear the alchemist, and they name him by a title – that alone suggests a secret cabal of some sort. A gathering of sorcerers, Lady, is a fell thing.'

Lady Simtal had returned to the councilman's side. Both now leaned on the railing studying the dark garden below. The woman was silent for a time, then she said, 'He has Council ties?'

'If he has, the evidence is buried deep.' Lim flashed a grin. 'And if he hasn't, then that might change – this very night.'

Politics, Rallick snarled silently. And power. The bitch spreads her legs to the Council, offering a vice few can ignore. Rallick's hands twitched. He would kill this night. Not a contract: the Guild had no part in this. The vendetta was personal. She was gathering power around her, insulating herself, and Rallick thought he understood why. The ghosts of betrayal would not leave her alone.

Patience, he reminded himself, as he took aim. For the last two years the life of Lady Simtal had been one of indolence, the riches she had stolen had served to whet her every greed, and the prestige as sole owner of the estate had done much to grease the hinges of her bedroom door. The crime she'd committed had not been against Rallick but, unlike her victim, Rallick had no pride to halt vengeance.

Patience, Rallick repeated, his lips moving to the word as he sighted down the crossbow's length. A quality defined by its reward, and that reward was but moments away.

'A fine-looking hound,' Councilman Turban Orr said, as he handed Roald his cloak.

In the room Baruk was the only one capable of discerning the aura of illusion surrounding the black hunting dog lying curled on the rug before the fireplace. The alchemist smiled and gestured to a chair. 'Please be seated, Councilman.'

'I apologize for disturbing you so late at night,' Orr said, as he lowered himself into the plush chair. Baruk sat down opposite him, Crone between them. 'It's said,' Orr continued, 'that alchemy flowers best in deep darkness.'