He’d not seen Iskaral Pust in over a week. Apart from occasional tingling sensations at the tips of his fingers and toes, he was more or less recovered from the enkar’al demon’s attack. Kalam had delivered the diamonds and was now chafing to leave.

Faint singing echoed from the hallway. The assassin shook his head. Maybe one day Mogora will get it right, but in the meantime . . . gods below, it grates! He strode to his tattered backpack and rummaged inside until he found a spare shirt.

Sudden thumping sounded outside his door, and he turned in time to see it flung open. Mogora stood framed in the doorway, a wooden bucket in one hand, a mop in the other. ‘Was he here? Just now? Was he here? Tell me!’

‘I haven’t seen him in days,’ Kalam replied.

‘He has to clean the kitchen!’

‘Is this all you do, Mogora? Chase after Iskaral Pust’s shadow?’

‘All!’’ The word was a shriek. She stormed up to him, mop thrust forward like a weapon. ‘Am I the only one using the kitchen! No!’

Kalam stepped back, wiping spittle from his face, but the Dal Honese woman advanced.

‘And you). Do you think your suppers arrive all by themselves? Do you think the shadow gods simply conjure them out of thin air? Did I invite you here? Are you my guest? Am I your serving wench?’

‘Gods forbid—’

‘Be quiet! I’m talking, not you!’ She thrust the mop and bucket into Kalam’s hands, then, spying the bhok’aral pup curled up on the cot, dropped into a predatory crouch and edged closer, fingers hooked. ‘There you are,’ she murmured. ‘Leave your skin everywhere, will you? Not for much longer!’

Kalam stepped into her path. ‘Enough, Mogora. Get out of here.’

‘Not without my pet.’

‘Pet? You’re intending to wring its neck, Mogora!’

‘So?’

He set the mop and bucket down. J can’t believe this. I’m defending a mangy bhok’aral. . . from a D’ivers witch.

There was movement in the doorway. Kalam gestured. ‘Look behind you, Mogora. Harm this pup and you’ll have to face them.’

She spun, then hissed. ‘Scum! Iskaral’s beget – always spying! That’s how he hides – using them!’

With a ululating scream she charged into the doorway. The bhok’arala massed there shrieked in answer and scattered, although Kalam saw one dart between her legs and leap onto the cot. It scooped the pup up under one arm then bolted for the corridor.

Mogora’s wailing cries dwindled as she continued her pursuit.

‘Hee hee.’

Kalam turned.

Iskaral Pust emerged from the shadows in the far corner. He was covered in dust, a sack draped over one bony shoulder.

The assassin scowled. ‘I’ve waited long enough in this madhouse, Priest.’