he afford to stay? True, there were many magicians here, and any could be
bought, but they all had their petty loyalties. If they could reconstruct the
shard’s inscription, they certainly could not be trusted to keep quiet about it.
If Illyra did not provide the answers at midnight, Walegrin resolved to take his
men somewhere far from this accursed town.
He would have continued his litany of dislike had he not been brought to
alertness by the distress call of a mountain hawk: a bird never seen or heard
within the walls of Sanctuary. The call was the alarm signal amongst his men. He
left a few coins on the table and departed the Unicorn without undue notice.
A second call led him down a passageway too narrow to be called an alley, much
less a street. Moving with stealth and caution, Walegrin eased around forgotten
doorways suspecting ambush with every step. Only a third call and the appearance
of a familiar face in the shadows quickened his pace.
‘Malm, what is it?’ he asked, stepping over some soft, stinking mass without
looking down.
‘See for yourself.’
A weak shaft of light made its way through the jutting roofs of a half-dozen
buildings to illuminate a pair of corpses. One was the information broker who
had just left Walegrin’s company, a makeshift knife still protruding from his
neck. The other was the beggar to whom he’d given the silver coin. The latter
bore the cleaner mark of the accomplished killer.
‘I see,’ Walegrin replied dully.
‘The ragged one, he followed the other away from the Unicorn. I’d been following