slowly along the moon-shadowed street.
The prince had rejected his appeal, pointing out that harassing a relatively
honest citizen was a poor use of time, particularly with the wave of killings
sweeping Sanctuary. Zalbar could not argue with the prince’s logic. Ever since
that Weaponshop had appeared, suddenly, in the Maze to dispense its deadly brand
of magic, killings were not only more frequent but of an uglier nature than
usual. Perhaps now that the shop had disappeared the madness would ease, but in
the meantime he could ill afford the time to pursue Kurd with the vigour
necessary to drive the vivisectionist from town.
For a moment Kurd’s impassioned defence of his work flashed across Zalbar’s
mind, only to be quickly repressed. New medical knowledge was worth having, but
slaves were still people. The systematic torture of another being in the name of
knowledge was…
‘Cover!’
Zalbar was prone on the ground before the cry had fully registered in his mind.
Reflexes honed by years in service to the Empire had him rolling, crawling,
scrabbling along the dirt in search of shelter without pausing to identify the
source of the warning. Twice, before he reached the shadows of an alley, he
heard the unmistakable hisss-pock of arrows striking nearby: ample proof that
the danger was not imaginary.
Finally, in the alley’s relative security, he snaked his sword from its scabbard
and breathlessly scanned the rooftops for the bowman assassin. A flicker of
movement atop a building across the street caught his eyes, but it failed to