“Layabout would rather stay in the warmth,” Andru said, shaking his head and glancing along the street in the vain hope of some more passing trade, but it was twilight, and everyone with any sense was already abed. He stepped aside to let his customer in, then pulled the door shut. “What’ll it be first, sir?”

“Whatever you’ve got.” The rider bared his teeth in a smile half-concealed by a heavy scarf. “I’m expecting a visitor tonight or tomorrow. If you’ve got a private room and a pipe, I’ll take it.”

“Be at your ease sir, and I’ll sort it out immediately.” The innkeeper hurried off, calling: “Raya! Raya! Is the wake room fit for a king’s man?”

The inn was half-empty, dead as a doornail by virtue of the time of day and the season of year. A drunken sailor lay in one corner, snoring quietly, and a public scribe sat at one end of a table, mumbling over a mug of mulled wine and a collection of fresh quills as he cut and tied them for the next week’s business. It was definitely anything but a thriving scene. Which suited the horseman fine, because the fewer people who saw him here, the better.

A moment later, the innkeeper bustled up—“This way, this way please, kind sir!”—and herded the rider through a side door. “We’ve laid out the wake room for you, sir, and if you will sit for it a selection of cold cuts and a bottle of the southern wine: Will that be sufficient? It’s late in the season but we will be roasting a lamb tomorrow if you should be staying—”

“Yes, yes—” the inkeeper hurried out again and the rider settled himself in the armchair beside the table and stretched out his legs, snarling quietly when the kitchen girl didn’t hurry to remove his boots fast enough.

Two hours later he was nodding over his second cup of wine—the room was passably warm, and a couple of large chunks of sausage and pickled tongue had filled his belly comfortably—when there was a discreet tap on the door. He was on his feet instantly, gun at the ready. “Who is it?” he asked quietly.

“When the dragon of the north wind blows—shit, is that you, Jacob?”

“Hello, Esau.” Jacob dragged the door open one-handed. The revolver vanished.

“It’s freezing out there.” The man called Esau blew on his fingers, shook his head, then began to peel his gloves off.

Jacob kicked the door shut. “You really need to observe proper security discipline,” he said.

“Yeah well, and how many times have we done this?” Esau shrugged. “Stupid christ-cultist names from the far-side, dumb pass-phrases and secret handshakes—”

“If I was ill and sent a proxy, the dumb pass-phrases would be the only thing that could tell you who they were,” Jacob pointed out.