here, how it worked apart from Kadakithis’s law, from Molin Torchholder’s, from
any governance of Ranke. Law this side flowed from a place called Becho’s. It
flourished on the trade of vice, on things that went dear Across the Bridge,
that most men never thought to sell, or never planned to. He remembered the
smell of it, the reek that clung to clothes; the smell of Mama Becho’s brew.
Haught stopped, for the witch had, waiting in their way, a tall shadow-shape;
and a second had joined her.
‘Now you earn your pay,’ Ischade said, when they had come close. The dark
surrounded them, buildings leaned close overhead where listeners could have
heard, perhaps did hear, but Ischade seemed not to care. ‘I have a matter to
discuss. A man who certain folk want back, in whatever case. Mor-am knows. The
second Stepson. Stilcho is his name.’
‘Moruth,’ Mradhon said.
‘Oh, yes, Moruth has him. I do think this is the case. But Moruth will be
reasonable, with me.’
‘Wait,’ Mradhon said, for she had moved to drift away again. This time she did
wait, looked at him, faceless in the dark; and this time the question died
stillborn. Why?
‘Is there something?’ she asked.
‘What are we supposed to do – that you can’t?’
‘Why, to have mercy,’ Ischade said. ‘This man wants rescuing. That’s your
business.’
And she was off again, a shadow along the way.
‘Becho’s,’ Mor-am said, all hoarse, keeping a safe distance from them. ‘Follow
me.’
But they knew the streets, every route that led to that place, that centre of
this shell.
‘No luck,’ the man said, in the commander’s doorway. ‘Everything’s gone