Rengel clamped down on his pipe, grumbling under his breath. Temper rapped the shutter’s stained wood slats. ‘Solid as rock, I’d say. And I plan to be inside all night as well, so don’t fret. I’ll be testing the brew at the Hanged Man.’

The old man’s brows quivered with interest. ‘What’s that? Testing, heh?’ He grinned, puffing more smoke. ‘Well, don’t be too hasty in making a decision.’

Temper laughed. ‘Gods, no. Likely take till the morning.’

At the door, Rengel hesitated, urged Temper close with a crook of a finger. He growled in an undertone, ‘What d’you know of the Return?’

Temper shook his head, perplexed.

Impatient, or maybe disgusted, the old man waved him off. ‘Stay indoors, friend. Fiends and worse will rule this night.’

Temper backed away, unsure what to make of his warning. Rengel tapped the door, pointed to something – a mark chalked on the wood – then yanked it shut. The door’s rattle echoed down the narrow lane.

The sign of Coop’s Hanged Man Inn was just that: a painting of a hanged man, arms bound behind his back, his head bent at a sickening angle. Rain, falling freely, now brushed past in gusts. Temper’s cloak hung heavy and cold from his shoulders. He heard the surf rolling into the pilings just a few streets down, while the bay glistened in the distance like an extension of the rain.

The clouds still held some of the day’s light, but the gloom obscured anything a stone’s toss away. The evening was developing into a night to chill the bones and numb the spirit. He looked forward to slipping into his regular seat just within distance of the inn’s massive fireplace. He also hoped Corinn would stop by so he could ask her about Shadow Moons and this prophesy business . . . though it’d been nearly a week since he’d last seen her and, truth be told, he worried whether he’d ever see her again. He’d reached a few conclusions of his own. Return stank of the cult that worshipped Kellanved, the man who along with his partner, Dancer, had founded and built the Imperium. They’d been missing for years. Some thought both dead, others that they’d vanished into some kind of thau-maturgic seclusion.

Opposite the Hanged Man, across the wet cobbles, hunched the low stone wall of what was reportedly the oldest building in the city. It was an abandoned stone house, too far gone to repair. Temper had never paid it much attention, except that now old man Rengel’s tale called to mind another local superstition: that the house predated the town, and that its ruined walls and abandoned rooms had always been haunted.

Rumour also held that it was there Kellanved and Dancer, along with others including Dassem and the current Regent, Surly, had lived and plotted everything that followed. Eyeing it now, on a dark wet night, with the black limbs of dead trees outlined around it, and the bare and tumulus-looking grounds, it did appear sinister. The locals preferred the pretence it didn’t exist, but whenever they had to mention it, they called it the Deadhouse. Personally, he couldn’t believe any sane person could have lived there – which meant Kellanved and Dancer could very well have once stared out of its empty gaping windows. He shrugged and turned away. Sure it was haunted. To his mind, the entire Empire was haunted, one way or another.