The old man nodded easily. «Of course.»

«Very good,» Rake said, with something like anticipation. He pulled his leather gloves from his belt. «We'll speak then.»

Baruk had no time to think about Rake's sudden departure. It was his first mistake of the day.

A woman with a shaved head and long flowing robes ran shrieking from the gates, a shred of brown fur streaming from one hand. Adjunct Lorn stepped back to let the priestess pass. She watched as the woman plunged into the crowd behind her. The festival had spilled out beyond Darujhistan's walls, and Worrytown's main street was a streaming mob she'd spent the last half-hour pushing through on her way to the gates.

Absently she rubbed the rapier wound in her shoulder. Her journey into the barrow seemed to have slowed the healing, and an ache had settled inside the puncture, cold as the ice in the barrow's tunnel. Eyeing the two guards stationed at the gate, she approached warily.

Only one seemed to pay her any attention, and this man spared her but the briefest glance before returning his attention to the Worrytown mob.

Lorn entered the city unremarked, simply one more traveller come to attend the spring festival.

Immediately within the gates the avenue split around the base of a squat hill, on which crouched a half-ruined temple and tower. Off to her right rose another hill, evidently a garden, given the wide steps ascending to the summit, covered in trees, and the many fetishes and banners tied to branches and the gas-lamps.

Lorn's sense of those she sought was strong, unerring. Once past the hills, she could see an inner wall. Sergeant Whiskeyjack and his squad were somewhere beyond it, in the lower city. Lorn strode through the surging crowds, one hand hitched in her sword belt, the other massaging the puffed red flesh around her wound.

The guard at Worry Gate pushed himself from the wall he had been leaning against and paced a slow circle on the cobblestones. He paused to adjust his peaked helmet, loosening the strap a notch.

The other guard, an older man, bandy-legged and short, approached.

«Those fools out there making you uneasy?» he asked with a grin more gaps than teeth.

The first man glanced through the gateway. «Had a near-riot here a couple of years back,» he said.

«I was there,» the old man said, hawking on to the stones. «We had to pull the hoods off our polearms, draw some blood. That sent them packing, and I don't think the lesson's gone on them. I wouldn't worry much. This ain't your regular duty, is it?»

«No, just filling in time for a friend.»

«That's the way of it, isn't it? What's your usual round?»

«Midnight till the third bell, Despot's Barbican,» Circle Breaker replied.

He adjusted his helmet again, hoping the unseen friendly eyes had marked his signal. That woman who had passed through a few minutes ago had matched the Eel's description perfectly. Circle Breaker knew he wasn't mistaken.

She'd looked the warrior, dressed as a mercenary and trying to hide the blood-stains of a wound on her shoulder. His searching glance had been but momentary. Years of practice, however, made it sufficient. He'd caught everything the Eel's messenger had told him to look for.

«That's a hell of a watch,» the old man said beside him, turning to squint up at Despot's Park. «And you were here t» meet the dawn.» He wagged his head. «The bastards got us working too hard these days, what with the city infiltrated with Empire spies and the like.»

«It doesn't get any better,» Circle Breaker agreed.

«I'm here for another three hours, and you think they give me some time to join my wife and kids in the festival?» The old man spat again.

«No way. Old Berrute's off to stand around watching other people having fun in some bloody estate.»

Circle Breaker held his breath, then sighed. «Lady Sinital's F?te, I suppose.»

«Damn right. Bloody Councilmen chuffing around with all their stinking airs. And me with sore feet and all, standing like a statue.»

This was a bit of luck, Circle Breaker smiled to himself. His companion's next station was precisely what the Eel had wanted for Circle Breaker. Better yet, the old man was complaining about it. «They need those statues,» he said. «Keeps them secure.» He stepped close to Berrute.

«Didn't you tell the sergeant about your bad feet?»

«What's the point?» Berrute complained. «He just delivered them orders, he didn't come up with thein.»

Circle Breaker looked up the street, as if considering something, then he laid a hand on the other's shoulder and met his gaze. «Look, I don't have any family. For me, today's just another day. I'll stand in for you, Berrute. Next time I want some time off, though, I'll come calling.»

Genuine relief lit the old man's eyes. «Nerruse bless you,» he said, grinning again. «It's a deal, friend. Hey, I don't even know your name!»

Circle Breaker smiled, then told him.

With most of the revelry out in the streets, the interior of Quip's Bar was all but deserted. Adjunct Lorn paused inside the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A few desultory voices drifted out to her, mingling with the clatter of wooden cards.

She entered the low-ceilinged chamber. A dishevelled old woman watched her dully from behind the counter. Against the far wall was a table at which sat three men. Copper coins glittered in the lamplight, amid pools of spilled beer on the tabletop. The men held cards in their hands.

The man with his back against the wall, wearing a scorched leather cap, looked up to meet Lorn's eyes. He gestured to an empty chair. «Have a seat, Adjunct,» he said. «Join in the game.»

Lorn blinked, then hid her shock with a shrug. «I don't gamble,» she said, lowering herself into the rickety chair.

The man examined his cards. «Not what I meant,» he said.

The one seated on her left muttered, «Meant a different game, did Hedge.»

She turned to regard him. Skinny, short, with massive wrists. «And what's your name, soldier?» she asked quietly.

«Fiddler. The guy losing his coins is Mallet. We've been expecting you.»

«So I gather,» Lorn said drily, leaning back. «Your intelligence impresses me, gentlemen. Is the sergeant nearby?»

«Making the rounds,» Fiddler said. «Should be by in ten minutes or so. We've got the back room in this rat trap. Right up against the Tier wall.»

Hedge added, «Me and Fid dug through that damn wall, seven bloody feet thick at its base. An abandoned house on the Daru side.» He grinned.

«It's our back door.»

«So you're the saboteurs. And Mallet? A healer, correct?»

Mallet nodded, still contemplating his cards. «C'mon, Fiddler,» he said, «it's your game. Let's hear the next rule.»

Fiddler sat forward. «Knight of House Dark is the wild card,» he said.

«That's the opening suit, too. Unless you're holding the Virgin of Death. If you get her you can open with half ante and double up if you win the round.»

Mallet slapped down the Virgin of Death. He tossed a single copper coin into the centre of the table. «Let's run it through, then.»

Fiddler dealt the man another card. «We ante up now, Hedge, two coppers apiece and High Hell come the Herald of Death.»

Lorn watched the bizarre game proceed. These men were using a Deck of Dragons. Astonishing. The man Fiddler was inventing the rules as they went along, and yet she watched the cards merge into a pattern on the tabletop. Her brows knitted thoughtfully.

«You got the Hound on the run,» Fiddler said, pointing at the latest card placed on the table by Mallet. «Knight of Dark's close, I can feel it.»

«But what about this damned Virgin of Death?» groused the healer.

«She's had her teeth pulled. Take a look, the Rope's right outa the picture, ain't he?» Fiddler laid another card. «And there's the Dragon bastard himself, sword all smoking and black as a moonless night. That's what's got the Hound scampering.»