Unhappy about it, Temper decided to push on. Wary of Warren-anchored traps, he slashed the air at the next stair-way. Shadows over the steps rippled like heat waves. Temper backed off, swords raised. He prayed to Fener it wasn’t another hound.

A shape took form, that of a slim figure, male or female, in a hooded robe like the Shadow cultists in town, only of finer material that seemed to shimmer. It stepped lazily down the stairs and in those few movements Temper recognized whom he faced. Rarely had they met, but Temper knew him beyond a doubt from the tired, almost bored stance – the carriage of absolute arrogance. It was Dancer, Kellanved’s co-conspirator, bodyguard, and the top assassin of the Empire.

This could be it for him. No one could match Dancer. The man was an artist at murder. In fact, so subtle was he that many had forgotten that Kellanved had a partner. The worst kind of killer: the kind no one notices. And the slippery bastard was supposed to be dead, too.

Temper decided to break the stand-off. ‘Are we going to go a round?’

Dancer gave a nonchalant wave that utterly dismissed Temper as if he weren’t worth the trouble, and reminded him that he had much more important matters to deal with.

‘You wouldn’t agree, Temper,’ he said in that soft patronizing voice, ‘but we’re on the same side.’

Temper decided against scoffing. He’d play this close to the chest. Dancer was like a viper that could squeeze through the smallest opening. He said nothing, waited, watched.

‘A lot of care and energy have gone into arranging tonight’s drama. It’s invitation only and I’m the gatekeeper.’

Temper wet his lips, thought of Corinn. ‘A woman came up before me, ex-mage cadre. Where is she?’

‘I have her.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. Her and Ash. They remained loyal and came to serve.’

‘Give her to me and I’ll go.’

Dancer’s laugh whispered like falling sand. ‘Why should I? You’ll go anyway, Temper. You’ve no choice.’

Temper hunched, took a fresh grip of his weapons. ‘Give her up, Dancer.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’

Damn the man for stacking the deck! He decided to try negotiation. ‘I’m not the one acting the fool here, Dancer. You’re leaving me no choice and that’s not smart. Everyone has their pride. I can’t just turn around now.’

‘But you see,’ Dancer whispered, ‘there is a choice.’

Inwardly, Temper groaned. Dancer had simply been demonstrating the strength of his position. Corinn was nothing to him; he wanted something in return. Through clenched teeth Temper ground out, ‘And that is?’

‘One last fight, Temper. One last service from the last shard of the shattered Sword.’

The last? Something stabbed at Temper’s chest. Truly the last? He seemed unable to breathe. Then Ferrule – even Dassem – dead?

‘What is it?’ he murmured, vaguely aware that he’d lowered his weapons.

‘I relinquish the woman. You return to Pralt who commands my servants in town. I understand the two of you have met already; that should make things easier. There, you do as he says. Understood?’