Her target nodded. ‘And what is your name?’

‘Kiska.’

The brow arched. ‘Your real name?’

‘What? Is it in there?’

He just waited, patient. Kiska could sense Hattar at her back eagerly tensed for the killing blow. ‘Kiskatia Silamon Tenesh.’

He nodded again. ‘Very well, Kiska. You may call me . . . Artan.’

‘Artan? That’s not your real name.’

‘No. It isn’t.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Kiska stopped herself from asking his real name; he wouldn’t tell her anyway.

Artan opened the scroll. He started ever so slightly, surprised, and Kiska decided that whatever was written there must be startling indeed to have broken through his iron control. He let out a breath in a long hiss while tapping the scroll against his fingertips.

‘Does she say how I saw your meeting?’ she asked.

Artan did not answer. It seemed to Kiska that his gaze stared into the distance while at the same time was turned inward in meditation.

‘Artan?’

He blinked, rubbed again at his ancient, tired-looking eyes. As if struck by a new thought, he studied her. ‘No. That is not its message.’

‘Then what does it say?’

He held it out to her, open. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’

There was no writing on the scroll. Instead, a hasty rectangle was sketched on the parchment. Within the rectangle was drawn a spare stylised figure. Kiska couldn’t quite make it out. A mounted warrior? A swimming man?

Curious, she looked closer: blue, she saw. Gleaming opalescent colours. Plates of armour shining smooth like the insides of shells. And ice, the growing skein of freezing scales. ‘I see ice,’ she breathed, awed.

‘Truly?’ Artan plucked it back. It withered into ash in his gloved hands. He brushed them together. The gesture troubled Kiska; she’d seen poor street conjurers use the same trick.

‘So. Your message?’ he asked.

Kiska stared. ‘Wasn’t that . . .’

Artan cocked a brow and Kiska saw that she was right: his mouth did little more than remain a straight slash. ‘No. That was her message. Not yours.’

‘You know her?’

‘We’ve met. A few times . . . long ago.’

‘Really? Well, my message is about Oleg.’

Both thin brows rose. ‘You know his name?’

‘He told me.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘I, ah, I followed you to your meeting with him.’

Artan sent a look over her shoulder to Hattar. Rueful? Accusatory? A growl sounded behind her.

She hurried on. ‘After you left he was killed by a man in grey robes.’

Artan’s lips almost pursed, the dark eyes narrowed. ‘Then pray, how did he tell you his name?’

‘Ah. Well. You see, I waited, then went into the garden and looked at him.’

‘And he spoke to you?’

‘Yes.’

Artan sighed. ‘The Shadow Moon. Of course. What did he say?’

Kiska frowned. ‘Well, it was strange and rambling. And the words – I don’t know what they mean. Anyway, Oleg said the message was for you.’

Artan jerked, surprised. ‘He named me?’