Tattersail slowly let out her breath, which she had been holding since the sergeant first rose to his feet. His needs were clear to her now: he wanted Sorry to be just human, just a girl twisted hard by a hard world. Because that was something he understood, something he could deal with. 'Back in Seven Cities,' she said quietly, 'the story goes that the Emperor's First Sword – his commander of his armies – Dassem Ultor, had accepted a god's offer. Hood made Dassem his Knight of Death. Then something happened, something went ... wrong. And Dassem renounced the title, swore a vow of vengeance against Hood – against the Lord of Death himself. All at once other Ascendants started meddling, manipulating events. It all culminated with Dassem's murder, then the Emperor's assassination, and blood in the streets, temples at war, sorceries unleashed.' She paused, seeing the memories of those times reflected in Whiskeyjack's face. 'You were there.' And you don't want it to happen again, here and now. You think if you can deny that Sorry serves Shadow your conviction will be enough to shape reality. You need to believe that to save your sanity, because there are some things in life that you can go through only once. Oh, Whiskeyjack, I can't ease your burden. You see, 1 think Quick Ben and Kalam are right. 'If Shadow has claimed the girl, the trail will be evident – Hairlock will find it.'

'Do you walk away from this?' the sergeant asked.

Tattersail smiled. 'The only death I fear is dying ignorant. No, is my answer.' Brave words, woman. These people have a way of bringing out the best – or maybe the worst – in me.

Something glittered in Whiskeyjack's eyes, and he nodded. 'So that's that,' he said gruffly. He leaned back. 'What's on your mind, Fiddler?' he asked the sapper, who was still pacing behind him.

'Got a bad feeling,' the man muttered. 'Something's wrong. Not here, though, but close by. It's just—' He stopped, cocking his head, then he sighed, resuming his uneasy walk. 'Not sure, not sure.'

Tattersail's eyes followed the wiry little man. A natural talent? Something working on pure instinct? Very rare. 'I think you should listen to him,' she said.

Whiskeyjack gave her a pained look.

Kalam grinned, a network of lines crinkling around his dark eyes. 'Fiddler saved our lives in the tunnel,' he explained. 'One of his bad feelings.'

Tattersail leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She asked, 'So where is Sorry right now?'

Fiddler whirled, his eyes widening on the sorceress. His mouth opened, then snapped shut again.

The other three surged to their feet, chairs toppling backwards.

'We've got to get going,' Fiddler grated. 'There's a knife out there, and it's got blood on it.'