had a short piece of twine, and worried its end with thumb and forefinger, as though flipping a coin. Suddenly the tip glowed cherry red. Less conspicuous than a naked flame and generating no heat, it was a very basic glamour; just an ember, but enough for those alert to it. Serrah quickly signalled, then pinched it out.
They waited.
The nearest guard, a shaven-headed colossus, stood gazing at the night sky. His broadsword was thrust into the ground at his feet, his palm absently caressing the hilt. Further back, a leaner companion prowled with meagre enthusiasm.
A sound cut the air. High, smooth, and abruptly stilled by a soft impact.
An arrow quivered in the big man’s chest. He looked down at it dumbly. The sound repeated and his comrade dropped. A second bolt winged into the giant. Arms outstretched, he fell heavily.
‘Move!’ Serrah barked.
Dashing out of the shadows, limbs pumping, she ran for the house. Phosian chased her, his scrawny form contrasting with her athletic build. As they arrived at the entrance, two more of her crew slipped from the darkness to join them. Like Phosian, they hefted axes.
The double doors were oak with iron bracings. At her sign, the battering commenced. Almost immediately the rest of her team began pounding at the back of the house.
Serrah scanned the street, feeling vulnerable. Imperial agents weren’t exactly popular in this quarter and she half expected to see locals rushing in to take issue.
But she was more worried by what might be waiting inside.
The doors gave.
A dimly lit passageway stretched ahead of them. There was another door at its end. A corridor was set in the right-hand wall. Serrah motioned for one of the party to keep watch, then she, Phosian and the fourth group-member carefully advanced, weapons drawn.
Something came out of the side passage. They froze.
It slinked, ebony fur bristling, a mass of fangs, claws and ill temper. Its hard, tawny eyes regarded them haughtily. It let out a wheezing snarl.
The barbcat was waist-high to Serrah. Had it stood upright it could have laid its forepaws on her shoulders while it tore her throat out.
Absolutely still, they watched as a second cat padded into the hall. It was just as big, just as irate. Its ears pricked tensely, its ample pink tongue lolled.
Serrah couldn’t be sure about the creatures. She took a chance and edged forward.
‘Chief …’ one of her team cautioned.
She paid no attention and moved in on the nearest cat.
It leapt.
Her response was instant. She fell into a half crouch, simultaneously swinging her sword up, two-handed, teeth gritted with effort, carving an arc. It crossed paths with the slavering animal, slicing cleanly through its body. But not as though it were flesh.
The bloodless halves of the cat hung in the air for a second, then dissolved into golden shards and nothingness.
Rising, Serrah expelled a breath. ‘Sentinel glamours,’ she declared, unnecessarily. And well made, she judged. Costly magic.
The other barbcat turned and loped back to its alcove den. They ignored it and readied themselves.
‘Let’s move,’ Phosian urged testily.
Serrah glared at him. She swung her boot at the door. It flew open.
At first sight, the chamber was unoccupied. Large, with a high ceiling, its windows were covered. Candles and brands gave light, and several tall braziers were scattered about. There were stacks of chests and barrels. Threadbare cushions and shabby sticks of furniture had been randomly dispersed. Chicken bones, shattered wine flasks, scraps of stale bread and general detritus littered the floor.
A crooked line of benches ran along one wall. They were laden with stone bottles, funnels, vials, jars, mortars and pestles. There were hessian bags, slit open and disgorging dried plant matter, and two or three cauldrons with rising wisps of milky vapour.
On a table at the end of the line was something Serrah knew too well; mounds of faintly crystalline, yellowish-white powder. The sight of it rippled her insides like ice.
As they took in the scene she was aware of Phosian straining at the bit. ‘Easy,’ she chided.
‘More loitering,’ he grumbled. ‘What are we, petitioners?’
‘We have to be sure.’
He spat scorn at her. ‘To hell with that.’ Then he elbowed past and bounded into the room.
‘Phosian!’ she called, dumbfounded.
He took no notice. In the centre of the chamber, brandishing his axe, he began to yell. ‘Come out, you scum! Face us!’
‘Idiot!’ Serrah mouthed. ‘Stay!’ she snapped at her comrades, and went after him.
‘Filthy, low-life trash!’ Phosian raged, puffed-up with gauche bravado. ‘Cowards! Show yourselves!’
‘Phosian!’ She approached warily, though her anger was barely restrained. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ She glanced around nervously. ‘When I give an order, you obey!’
‘My people give the orders, Ardacris. You mind that.’
‘I don’t care a damn about your kin! When it comes to my command, you’re just –’
An object soared past her, end over end, wicked edges glinting.
The hatchet struck Phosian square to the heart. He cried out and staggered back. His axe slipped from his fingers and clattered on the flagstones. Blood streaming from his wound, eyes rolling to white, he hit the floor.
Serrah gaped.
Then too much happened at once.
Figures emerged from behind barrels and boxes, and from a blind corner. A sharp grating noise rang out to the rear. She spun around. A second, inner door, heavy and metal banded, dropped like a portcullis and met the ground with a weighty reverberation, cutting off her companions on the other side. They started hammering.
She swung to face the advancing gang.
There were five of them. Wiry, tattooed, granite-miened. Scarred and broken-toothed, with eyes of flint. Men well versed in the profession of violence.
They flowed into a horseshoe pattern, aiming to take her head-on and from the flanks. But the room’s clutter meant the shoe’s nails were unevenly spread. She had two bandits on her right, with a third crowding them. A fourth was at her left. The last, directly ahead, couldn’t have been anything but their leader. He was brawnier and meaner looking than the others, and his smirking menace was even more palpable.
For a beat, nobody moved or spoke. It seemed as though the leader studied her.
At last he rumbled, ‘Butterfly’.
Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t that. She was lost for a response.
‘Shining butterfly,’ he added, staring glazedly at her. ‘Black silk butterfly.’
Serrah understood then. They’d been sampling their own wares. They were crazed, unpredictable. Ramped.
Her gaze went to the heap of white powder, and for a second she was at the void again. ‘Ramp’s forbidden. You know that.’
He was deadpan. ‘Just making a living.’
She eyed Phosian in his spreading crimson pool. ‘Some living.’
The pounding from outside increased, and now there were sounds of fighting elsewhere in the building. Enough of a distraction for Serrah to slide her free hand into the folds of her shirt unnoticed.
‘I know you,’