She frowned even harder. 'Yulwei was a good man. He helped me in the desert. He saved my life.'

'And mine, more than once. But good men will only go so far along dark paths.' Bayaz' bright eyes slid down to rest on the cube of dark metal under Ferro's hand. 'Others must walk the rest of the way.'

Sulfur stepped through the doorway, and Bayaz pulled the weapon he had brought from the House of the Maker from under his coat, grey metal glinting in the soft light from the windows. A relic of the Old Time. A weapon that Ferro had seen cut stone as if it was butter. Sulfur took it from him with a nervous respect, wrapped it carefully in an old oilskin. Then he nipped open his satchel and slid out the old black book that Ferro had seen once before. 'Now?' he muttered.

'Now.' Bayaz took it from him, placed his hand gently on the scarred cover, closed his eyes and took a long breath. When he opened them he was looking straight at Ferro. 'The paths we must walk now, you and I, are dark indeed. You have seen it.'

She had no answer. Yulwei had been a good man, but the gate of the Maker's House was sealed, and he was gone to heaven, or to hell. Ferro had buried many men, in many ways. One more pile of dirt in the desert was nothing to remark upon. She was sick of stealing her revenge one grain at a time. Dark paths did not scare her. She had been walking them all her life. Even through the metal of the box, she thought that she heard the barest hint of a whisper, calling to her. 'All I want is vengeance.'

'And you shall have it, just as I promised.'

She stood face to face with Bayaz, and she shrugged. 'Then what does it matter now, who killed who a thousand years ago?'

The First of the Magi smiled a sickly smile, his eyes bright in his pale and bloody face. 'You speak my very thoughts.'

Tomorrow's Hero

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The hooves of Jezal's grey charger clopped obediently in the black mud. It was a magnificent beast, the very kind he had always dreamed of riding. Several thousand marks-worth of horse flesh, he did not doubt. A steed that could give any man who sat on it, however worthless, the air of royalty. His shining armour was of the best Styrian steel, chased with gold. His cloak was of the finest Suljuk silk, trimmed with ermine. The hilt of his sword was crusted with diamonds, twinkling as the clouds flowed overhead to let the sun peep through. He had foregone the crown today in favour of a simple golden circlet, its weight considerably less wearisome on the sore spots he had developed round his temples.