Tattersail sighed. Before, it had been just a suspicion. She saw Mallet and Kalam exchange glances, and guessed at what passed between them. Wherever Sorry was, when she returned to the fold there would be some hard questions. And Tattersail now knew – with certainty – that the girl belonged to Shadow.

'And that means,' Quick Ben resumed blithely, 'that whoever interceded on Paran's behalf is now in direct opposition with the Realm of Shadow.' His head turned, dark eyes fixing on the sorceress. 'We'll need to know what Paran knows, whenever he comes around. Only—'

'We won't be here,' Kalam finished.

'As if Hairlock wasn't enough,' Tattersail muttered, 'now you want me nursing this captain of yours.'

Quick Ben rose, brushing the dust from his leather leggings. 'Hairlock will be gone for some time. Those Hounds are stubborn. It may be a while before he can shake them. Or, if the worst comes to the worst,' the wizard grinned darkly, 'he'll turn on them and give the Shadow Lord something to think about.'

Kalam said to Mallet, 'Gather up Hedge. We've got to move.'

Quick Ben's last comment left Tattersail cold. She grimaced at the ashen taste in her mouth, and watched in silence as the squad prepared to leave. They had a mission ahead of them, one that would take them right into the heart of Darujhistan. That city was the next on the Empire's list, the last Free City, the continent's lone gem worthy enough to covet. The squad would infiltrate, prepare the way. They'd be entirely on their own. In a strange way, Tattersail almost envied the isolation they were about to enter. Almost, but not quite. She feared they would all die.

The Mason's Barrow returned to her thoughts as if raised by her own fears. It was, she realized, big enough to hold them all.

With dawn a blade-thin crimson streak at their backs, the Black Moranth, crouching on the high saddles of their Quorl mounts, glittered like diamonds slick with blood. Whiskeyjack, Fiddler and the High Fist watched the dozen fliers approach. Overhead the rain had lessened, and around the nearby rooftops smudges of grey mist sank down to scuff stone and tile.

'Where's your squad, Sergeant?' Dujek asked.

Whiskeyjack nodded at Fiddler, who turned and headed back to the trap-door. 'They'll be here,' the sergeant answered.

The sparkling, skin-thin wings of the Quorl, four to each creature, seemed to flip for the briefest of moments, and as one the twelve Moranth descended towards the turret's rooftop. The sharp whirring sound of the wings was punctuated by the clicked commands of the Moranth riders as they called out to each other. They swept over the heads of the two men with a bare five feet to spare, and without ceremony landed behind them.

Fiddler had disappeared into the room below. Dujek, his hand on his hip, glared at the Moranth for a moment before grumbling something inaudible and making his way to the trap-door.