Paran looked down at the weapon. 'It's yours, if you want it.'

'Ah.' Cotillion smiled, stepping over to pick it up. 'I'd suspected a change of heart, Captain. The world is so complex, isn't it? Tell me, do you pity the ones who used you?'

Paran closed his eyes. A terrible burden seemed to drain from him. He recalled the Finnest's grip on his soul. He glanced up at the Hound. In Rood's eyes he saw something almost... soft. 'No.'

'Wisdom returns quickly,' Cotillion said, 'once the bond is severed. I will return you now, Captain, with this one last warning: try not to be noticed. And when next you see a Hound, run.'

The air swirled into darkness around Paran. He blinked, saw the trees of the estate garden rising before him. I wonder, will I run from it ... or with it?

'Captain?' It was Mallet's voice. 'Where in Hood's Name are you?'

Paran sat up. 'Not in Hood's Name, Mallet. I'm here, in the shadows.'

The healer scrambled to his side. 'We've got trouble everywhere. You look—'

'Deal with it,' the captain barked, climbing to his feet.

Mallet stared at Paran. 'Hood's Breath, you look chewed to pieces ... sir.'

'I'm going after Lorn. If we all live through this we will meet at the Phoenix Inn. Understood?'

Mallet blinked. 'Yes, sir.'

Paran turned to leave.

'Captain?'

'What?'

'Don't treat her kindly, sir.'

Paran moved off.

The images remained with Crokus, brutally sharp. They returned again and again even as he tried to move away from them, his thoughts driven by panic and desperation.

Uncle Mammot was dead. In the youth's head a distant, steady voice told him that the man who had borne Mammot's face was not the man he'd known all his life, and that what had been ... claimed by the roots was something else, something horrific. The voice repeated this, and he heard its clear statement rising and falling beneath the storm of what he had seen with his own eyes: the images that would not leave him.

The central chamber of Lady Simtal's estate was abandoned, the fête's trappings scattered about on the floor amid puddles and smears of blood. The dead and those whom Mammot had hurt had been carried away by the guards; the servants had all fled.

Crokus raced across the room to the open front doors. Beyond, torchlight cast a hissing blue glow down on to the walkway's paved stones and the gates, which had been left ajar. The thief leaped down the steps and hurried for the gate. He slowed as he approached it, for something was wrong in the street.

Like Simtal's main floor, the street was empty, littered with pennants, banners and fetishes. Eddies of dry wind whipped tatters of cloth and reed paper about in dancing circles. The air felt heavy and close.