‘What in the Enchantress’s unsleeping eyes is going—’ Temper broke off as someone else stepped soundlessly from the shadows. An Imperial Claw in an ankle-length black cloak, hood up. Lubben grimaced, offered Temper a small helpless shrug of apology. The Claw’s hood revealed only the lower half of a lined and lean face tattooed with cabalistic characters. Symbols that looked to Temper like the angular script of those who delve the Warren of Rashan, the Path of Darkness. The Claw turned to Lubben.

‘Trouble, gatekeeper?’

Lubben bowed deeply. ‘No, sir. No trouble at all.’

The hood swung to Temper, who immediately jerked his head down. Perhaps he was being too careful, but the Claw might interpret the act as deference. He’d seen in the past how deference pleased them.

‘What do you want, soldier?’

Temper squeezed his belt in both hands until his fingers numbed. Staring at the courtyard flagstones – two broken, four chipped – he began, cautiously. ‘Well, sir, I’m pretty much retired from service y’know, and I’ve a room of my own in town. I was only called up on account of the visit. Extra guards, y’see.’

‘Gatekeeper. Do you vouch for this man?’

Lubben flashed Temper a wink. ‘Oh, aye, sir. ‘Tis as the man says.’

‘I see.’

The Claw stepped close. Temper raised his head, but kept his gaze averted. Sidelong, he watched the Claw examine him. The last time he’d stood this close to one of these assassins had been a year ago and that time they’d been trying to kill him. He’d been prepared then, ready for the fight. All he felt now was shocked amazement at actually having run into one of the official’s escorts. Were they out patrolling as Chase suggested? Why this night?

‘You’re a veteran. Where are your campaign badges?’

‘I don’t wear them, sir.’

‘Ashamed?’

‘No, sir. Just consider myself retired.’

‘In a hurry to leave Imperial service?’

‘No, sir. I’ve just worked hard for my pension.’ Temper took a breath, then hurried on: ‘I’m building a boat you see. She’s the prettiest thing you’d ever—’

A hand rose from within the cloak to wave silence. ‘Very well. Gatekeeper, allow the man to pass.’

‘Aye, sir.’

At the far end of the entrance tunnel, Lubben lifted his ring of keys and unlocked the small thieves’ door in the main gate. Temper stepped through. Lubben poked his head out after him and grinned lop-sided, ‘You never told me you were building yourself a pretty little boat.’

‘Kiss Hood, you sawed-off hunchback.’

Laughing silently, Lubben answered with a gesture that needed no words then slammed the door. The lock rattled shut.

Temper started down Rampart Way’s steep slope. A staircase cut from the very stone of the cliff, it switched back four times as it descended the promontory’s side. Every foot of it lay within range of the Hold’s townward springalds and catapults. Above, a cloud front rolled in over the island, massing up from the Sea of Storms. The night looked to be shaping into one to avoid. Island superstition had it that the Stormriders themselves were responsible for the worst of the icy seasonal maelstroms that came raging out of the south.