Then Ninefingers gave an animal growl. The Feared held him still, but his blue arm. was trembling with the effort. As if he was suddenly weakened, and could squeeze no further. Every sinew of West's own body was rigid as he watched. The thick strap of the shield bit into his palm. His jaw was clenched so tight that his teeth ached. The two fighters were locked together, straining against each other with every fibre and yet entirely still, frozen in the centre of the circle.

The Dogman sprang forward, knife raised and ready.

'Stop.'

He froze solid in a moment. He'd never heard a voice like it. One word and there was no thought in his head. He stared at the pale woman, his mouth open, his breath hardly moving, wishing that she'd say another.

'You too,' she said, glancing over at Grim, and his face went slack, and he grinned, halfway through drawing his bow.

She looked Dogman up and down, then pouted as if she was all disappointment. 'Is that any way for guests to behave?'

Dogman blinked. What the hell had he been thinking barging in here with a drawn blade? He couldn't believe he'd done such a thing. He blushed to the roots of his hair. 'Oh… I'm sorry… by the dead…'

'Gugh!' said Grim, throwing his bow into the corner of the room as if he'd suddenly realised he had a turd in his hand, then staring down at the arrow, baffled.

'That's better.' She smiled, and the Dogman found he was grinning like an idiot. Some spit might've come out of his mouth maybe, just a bit, but he weren't that bothered. As long as she kept talking nothing else seemed o' too much importance. She beckoned to them, long white fingers stroking at the thick air. 'No need to stand so far away from me. Come closer.'

Him and Grim stumbled towards her like eager children, Dogman near tripping over his feet in his hurry to please, Grim barging into a table on the way and coming close to falling on his face.

'My name is Caurib.'

'Oh,' said Dogman. Most beautiful name ever, no doubt about it. Amazing, that a single word could be so beautiful.

'Harding Grim's my name!'

'Dogman, they call me, 'count of a sharp sense o' smell, and… er…' By the dead, but it was hard to think straight. There'd been something important he was meant to be doing, but for the life of him he couldn't think what.

'Dogman… perfect.' Her voice was soothing as a warm bath, as a soft kiss, as milk and honey… 'Don't sleep yet!' Dogman's head rolled, Caurib's painted face a black and white blur, swimming in front of him.

'Sorry!' he gurgled, blushing again and trying to hide the knife behind his back. 'Right sorry about the blade… no idea what—'