“And if they send Viktor Akadra in his place?” The woman shook her head. “What then?”

The wolf’s-head spat. His face paled beneath its thick stubble. “Then we kill him, too.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Then why’d you have us do this?”

The woman grinned. “Why else? For the coin in his saddlebags. And because even so humble a functionary as his excellency can be humbled further.” She turned her gaze on Makrov. “Strip.”

A muscle danced in Makrov’s cheek. “I’ll do no such thing.”

The woman flicked her wrist. The sword-point prodded the fleshy folds of the archimandrite’s chin. “You will, or I’ll have my lads assist. And they’ll be a sight rougher.”

Quivering with anger, Makrov rose to his feet. Fingers fumbled at heavy buttons, and scarlet robes tumbled into the mud. Embroidered waistcoat and cotton shirt followed.

“And the rest, my lord.” The woman shrugged. “Let’s give Ashana a good view. Not often she’s granted clear sight of one of her sister’s blessed priests.”

Makrov, sword-point still at his throat, fumbled with boots and britches. Melanna looked on in morbid fascination and wondered if the archimandrite would make further protest. He did not, but the gleam in his eye promised retribution.

Woollen underclothes joined the growing pile. The woman withdrew her sword. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The archimandrite shot her a look of pure poison but said nothing. Even stark naked and shivering, he clung to dignity.

The woman pointed away downhill. “Well, off you go. Steer clear of the villages. Don’t want to scare the children, do we?”

The slap of sword on buttock sent the archimandrite lurching away.

Even before he was lost to sight, the laughing wolf’s-heads began bundling up the discarded clothes. Leaving them to it, Melanna slipped away uphill. The night was young, and she was determined not to waste it.

Three

Three

The city of Tressia, bastion of the north and heart of the Republic, lay cloaked beneath the gloom of night. Barnacle-crusted kraikons stood waist-deep and motionless in the dockside’s tidal waters. The evening sun, still a-glimmer through the Silverway tavern’s leaded windows at the first pull, had long since slunk beneath the horizon. The vibrant bustle of day had retreated alongside. The great city was subdued, and its river wharves a haunt for dubious endeavours. It was no place for the sons and daughters of quality to seek their pleasures, and it was therefore inevitable that many did so.

Malachi Reveque stared into the brimming tankard, awash with that peculiar caution born of inebriation. Jeers, arguments and snatches of dockers’ shanties burst from the fug of conversation and echoed beneath the Silverway’s sunken beams. Malachi knew it would continue well into morning.

As would he, if he wasn’t careful.