'Not sure exactly,' Quick Ben said quietly. 'Whatever it was, it took care of the demon in less than a minute. I heard the death cry when we were only a block away. Assassin mages, Sergeant, coming down out of the sky. Seemed intent on wiping out the city's Guild.'

Whiskeyjack returned to his chair and dropped into it, the wood complaining beneath him. 'From the sky. Tiste Andii.'

'Yes,' Quick Ben muttered. 'We thought that. The sorcery had that flavour. Old, dark and icy cold. Kurald Galain.'

'From what we saw,' Kalam added, 'they did a damn good job. No contact established, Sergeant. It was messy up there.'

'So the Moon's active here.' Whiskeyjack paused, then pounded his fist on the chair's arm. 'Worse, the Moon's lord is a move ahead of us. He reckoned we'd try to contact the Guild, so what does he do?'

'Takes out the Guild,' Kalam said. 'How's that for arrogance?'

'Whatever arrogance that lord has,' Whiskeyjack said, grimacing, 'he's earned it. I'll give him that. I wonder how good this city's Guild Master is – good enough to take on Tiste Andii? Unlikely.'

'And about the other thing,' Quick Ben said. 'It worked.'

The sergeant stared at the wizard for half a dozen seconds, then nodded.

'We also ran into Sorry,' Kalam said, wincing as Mallet pressed a hand on his wound. The healer muttered under his breath.

'Oh? I sent her after some fat man she thought was important. How come she ran into you two?'

Quick Ben's brows had risen. 'So she told the truth, then. We don't know how she found us, but she'd found the man we were looking for – and gave him to us.'

Mallet raised his hand. Where the wound had been there was now a pink scar. Kalam grunted his thanks and sat up.

Whiskeyjack tapped his fingers against the chair's arm. 'If we only knew who was running this damn city, we could try it ourselves.'

The assassin sniffed. 'If we start taking out Council members, maybe we'll flush out the real rulers.'

The sergeant frowned. 'Not bad,' he said, rising to his feet. 'Work on that. The Moon's lord knows we're here, now, with that demon popping up. We'll have to move fast.'

Fiddler spoke up, 'We could blow up Majesty Hall,' he said, smirking at Hedge.

'You've got enough munitions to manage that?' Whiskeyjack asked.

Fiddler's face fell. 'Well, uh, we've got enough to take out an estate, maybe. But if we pull up some of the mines we planted ...'

Whiskeyjack sighed. 'This is getting absurd. No, we leave things as they are.' He watched the non-existent card game. It seemed to involve complete immobility. A stand-off. The sergeant's eyes narrowed. Were they trying to tell him something?