'You all right, Sarge?' Fiddler asked quietly. Behind the two saboteurs, Mallet approached, his gaze calculating and fixed on Whiskeyjack's white, sweat-soaked face.

The sergeant grimaced. 'We're behind schedule. How much longer?'

Their faces smeared with white dust and sweat, the two men looked at each other, then Hedge answered, 'Three hours.'

'We decided on seven mines,' Fiddler said. 'Four Sparkers, two Flamers and one Cusser.'

'Will that bring down some of these buildings?' Whiskeyjack asked, avoiding Mallet's eyes.

'Sure. No better way to block an intersection.' Fiddler grinned at his companion.

'You got one in particular you want dropped?' Hedge enquired.

'The estate behind you is an alchemist's.'

'Right,' Hedge said. 'That should light the sky all right.'

'You've got two and a half hours,' Whiskeyjack said. 'Then it's on to the Majesty Hill crossroads.'

Mallet stepped close. 'Another headache?' he asked softly.

Whiskeyjack closed his eyes, then gave a sharp nod.

The healer raised a hand and passed it over the sergeant's brow. 'Just easing it a little,' he said.

The sergeant grinned ruefully. 'This is getting old, Mallet. You're even using the same words.' A cool numbness flowed through his thoughts.

Mallet's face was drawn. He lowered his hand. 'When we have time I'll find the source, Whiskeyjack.'

'Right.' The sergeant smiled. 'When we have time.'

'Hope Kal and Quick are doing OK,' Mallet said, turning to watch the street traffic. 'You sent Sorry off?'

'Yes. We're on our own. They know where to find us, all three of them.' He glanced up at the estate window. The man with the red hands was still there, though now he was studying the distant rooftops. A cloud of dust rose between them, and Whiskeyjack returned his attention to the city map, where every major intersection, the barracks and Majesty Hill had been circled in red. 'Mallet?'

'Sarge?'

'Bit the inside of my cheek again.'

The healer stepped close, once more raising his hand.

Crokus Younghand strode south on Trallit's Walk. The first signs of the upcoming Gedderone Fête had appeared. Dyed banners hung from clothes-lines over the street, painted flowers and strips of bark framed doorways, and bushels of dried weeds had been tacked to walls at every crossing.

Outlanders already filled the streets, Gadrobi herders, Rhivi traders, Catlin weavers – a mob of sweaty, shouting, excited people. Animal smells mixed with human, making the narrower alleys so redolent as to be almost impassable, which in turn crowded the main thoroughfares even more.