‘Now nothing. We wait.’

Biting her lip she watched Hattar as he stared off into the darkness. After a moment, she asked, ‘You’ve disliked me from the start. What have you got against me?’

A slight clenching of his mouth seemed to betray that he was debating whether to reply. Then he growled, ‘I lost three good friends tonight. You’ve too high an opinion of yourself if you think you’ve got anything to do with my mood, lass.’ She looked down, her cheeks flushing. Who did he think he was – but then, who did she think she was? From his view she was just a meddlesome civilian – and a girl at that – nothing more than a security risk, and an impediment to his sworn task.

She clasped her hands together, studied the dusty tabletop. ‘I’m sorry. You’re doing your duty. I see that. But I’m not going to disappear just for your convenience. Dammit, I’ve gone through a lot tonight. As much as you, maybe. It has to be for something!’ Looking up, she wiped at her eyes, damned the tears of frustration. She glared at Hattar, daring him to dismiss her, then gaped in utter disbelief: the plainsman’s head hung back, mouth open, and his chest rose and fell steadily. Asleep! Well, damn him to the Abyss! How could he?

Watching him doze, she felt her own eyes droop. Her knee and shoulder and side all ached fiendishly, calling for rest. Sighing, she pushed back from the table and set to building a small fire in the hearth from kindling and split logs piled to one side. Soon it caught and she gathered her cloak about her and sat with her back to wall. Uncertainty for her safety still nagged at her, but her exhaustion swept over worry, and her chin sank eventually to her chest.

At the bottom of Rampart Way the two cultists who had escorted Temper to the stairs stepped out from the darkness to meet him. He ignored them. The slim one let fall the slightest of chuckles as Temper passed, as if he’d personally had a hand in the slaughter above and knew all the secrets those lips were sealed to protect. The conceit enraged Temper. He pulled short and turned on them; neither had earned the right.

They stopped, but much closer than before – arm’s reach in fact. The slim one jerked his hooded head back up to the Hold. ‘A waste of time, yes? As I said, now you serve my master.’

‘You should learn a little respect.’

The man glanced to his companion, laughed outright. ‘You’ve been sent by our master to run an errand, soldier. Do it and shut up.’

‘If Dancer’s your master, then yes, I made a deal. But it doesn’t include putting up with mouthy pups like you.’

Temper’s fist lashed out and caught the cultist on the side of his head.

The scorchmarked hood flew back, revealing a young man with cropped blond hair and beard. He stared, amazed past words, blood welling from the torn flesh of his cheek. He drew a knife from within his robes. Without comment, his stocky partner stepped aside. The youth wove the weapon before him in a backhanded grip. Trait warned us you’re a dangerous man, soldier. I say you’re just a tired old relic. I’m going to send you to my master.’