Whiskeyjack stood quickly. He went to the bed and retrieved his sword. At the table the others remained intent on their card game, their only betrayal of anxiety a subtle shifting of chairs. Whiskeyjack pushed past Trotts and closed the door to a crack, through which he looked. Across the street, at the mouth of an alley, two figures crouched, the larger leaning heavily against the other. Whiskeyjack's breath hissed through his teeth. 'Mallet,' he said over his shoulder.

At the table the healer frowned at the two saboteurs, then carefully set down his cards.

The two figures in the alley crossed the street. Whiskeyjack's hand crept to grip his sword.

'Which?' Mallet asked, as he rearranged the blankets on one of the beds.

'Kalam,' the sergeant replied. The two men reached the door and he swung it wide to let them through, then shut it again. He beckoned at Trotts, who walked over to the curtained window, pulling back a corner to watch the street.

Kalam was pale, sagging against Quick Ben. The assassin's dark grey shirt was soaked with blood. Mallet moved to help the wizard and together they carried Kalam to the bed. As soon as the healer had him laid out, he waved Quick Ben away and began removing Kalam's shirt.

Quick Ben shook his head at Whiskeyjack and sat down in the chair Mallet had occupied. 'What's the game?' he asked, picking up Mallet's cards and frowning as he studied them.

Neither Hedge nor Fiddler replied.

'No idea,' Whiskeyjack said, as he walked over to stand behind Mallet. 'They just sit and stare.'

Quick Ben grinned. 'Ah, a waiting game, right, Fid?' He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs.

Mallet glanced up at the sergeant. 'He'll be down for a while,' the healer said. 'The wound is clean, but he's lost a lot of blood.'

Crouching, Whiskeyjack studied the assassin's pallid face. Kalam's gaze remained sharp, focused on the sergeant. 'Well?' Whiskeyjack demanded. 'What happened?'

Quick Ben answered behind him. 'Had a bit of a mage duel out there.'

Kalam nodded in confirmation.

'And?' Whiskeyjack asked, straightening to glare at the wizard.

Quick Ben wilted slightly in his chair. 'It went sour. I had to release an Empire demon to get us out alive.'

Everyone in the room went still. At the window Trotts turned and made a tribal warding gesture, tracing the woad lines on his face.

Whiskeyjack's voice was soft. 'It's loose in the city?'

'No,' the wizard answered. 'It's dead.'

'Who did you run into?' Whiskeyjack bellowed, throwing up his hands.