Viktor stared back at his dwindled army and let his shadow swell. Just a little. Enough to know it would come when called. Even a glimpse of his magic would make truth of Ebigail’s lies. But the time for discretion was rapidly falling behind.

“We go in hard. We go in fast. Essamere leads the charge. You come behind. Free as many prisoners as you can, and get them away.”

Suspicion gleamed in Josiri’s eyes. “And you?”

“I fear I shall have to do something . . . provocative. But I would not see it wasted. Can I trust you with this duty, brother?”

The play of Josiri’s expression told Viktor he at least suspected the truth – that the request sprang as much from giving Josiri a fighting chance at survival as any other factor. But he nodded all the same.

The church was as decrepit inside as out, with cracked tiles underfoot and pews sagging like mooring rope at high tide. Rubble skittered away from Malachi’s feet as he drew near to the altar.

Mist hid the walls from sight more often than not. At times, they were narrow tile. At others, rotten plaster or crumbling brick. The world drew back with every step, leaving Malachi abandoned in a place that was no place.

The elder cousin held up a hand as he reached the altar. No other had crossed the church’s threshold. A bell tolled. The mists ebbed, and three black marbled thrones stood revealed beneath a vast iron chandelier; preachers’ pulpits left for centuries in sodden dark, their stalactite-crusted flanks lending stone the waxy appearance of dying candles. No two were on a level, nor shared more than the simplest of shapes. Dark clung to the hollow beyond, though Malachi made out a deeper gloom within, given shape by the backwash of gleaming green eyes.

The elder cousin sank to his knees in the mist. Malachi stood firm, though his own knees strove to betray him.

“You have a petition,” said one, her voice dry as dust.

Malachi sucked down a deep breath. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Nothing in the chamber felt real, save for the scrap of ground upon which he stood. “I do.”

“Do you speak for yourself, or for the Council?” asked another.

“Or for your family?” asked a third.

“I speak only for myself, Malachi Reveque.”

Dry laughter echoed through the mist. “So say they all.”

“Will you hear my petition?”

The shadow within the shadow shifted. “We will hear it.”

“What do you desire of the Crowmarket?” said another.

Only directness would serve, Malachi decided. Strip away the supernatural, and this was a negotiation like any other – and a negotiation from a position of weakness was no negotiation at all. So he told himself, and so he almost believed.

“Withdraw your support from Ebigail Kiradin. Return those you have stolen.”

“Ebigail Kiradin has long been a friend of the Crowmarket,” said one.