“No.

Ocelot's thin lips curled into a humourless smile. “A war has begun on the rooftops. Someone is killing us. We lost five Roamers in less than an hour, meaning there's more than one killer out there.”

“Undoubtedly,” Rallick replied, fidgeting as the damp stones of the inn's wall reached through his cloak and touched his flesh with chill. As always, Guild affairs bored him.

Ocelot continued, “We lost that bull of a man, Talo Krafar, and a Clan Leader.” The man snapped a glance over his shoulder as if expecting a sudden dagger to come flashing at his own back.

Despite his lack of interest Rallick's eyebrows lifted at this last bit of news. “They must be good.”

“Good? All of our eye-witnesses are dead, goes the sour joke this night. They don't make mistakes, the bastards.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Rallick muttered. “Has Vorcan gone out?”

Ocelot shook his head. “Not yet. She's too busy recalling all the Clans.”

Rallick frowned, curious in spite of himself. “Could this be a challenge to her Guild mastery? Perhaps an inside thing, a faction-”

“You think we're all fools, don't you, Nom? That was Vorcan's first suspicion. No, it's not internal. Whoever's killing our people is from outside the Guild, outside the city.”

To Rallick the answer seemed obvious suddenly, and he shrugged. “An Empire Claw, then.”

Though his expression bore reluctance, Ocelot nevertheless acknowledged agreement. “Likely,” he grated. “They're supposed to be the best, aren't they? But why go after the Guild? You'd think they'd be taking out the nobles.”

“Are you asking me to guess the Empire's intentions, Ocelot?”

The Clan Leader blinked, then his scowl deepened. “I came to warn you. And that's a favour, Nom. With you wrapped up in this vendetta thing, the Guild's not obliged to spread its wing over you. A favour.”

Rallick pushed himself from the wall and turned to the alley-mouth.

“A favour, Ocelot?” He laughed softly.

“We're setting a trap,” Ocelot said, moving to block Rallick's way. He jerked his scarred chin at the Phoenix Inn. “Make yourself visible, and leave no doubt as to what you do for a living.”

Rallick's gaze on Ocelot held steady, impassive. “Bait.”

“Just do it.”

Without replying, Rallick left the alley, climbed the steps and entered the Phoenix Inn.

“There is a shaping in the night,” Crone said, after Turban Orr had left.

The air around her shimmered as she assumed her true shape.

Baruk strode to his map table, hands clasped behind his back to still the trembling that had seized them. “You felt it too, then.” He paused, then sighed. “All in all, these seem the busiest hours.”

“A convergence of power ever yields thus,” Crone said, as she rose to stretch her wings. “The black winds gather, Alchemist. Beware their flaying breath.”

Baruk grunted. “While you ride them, a harbinger of our tragic ills.”

Crone laughed. She waddled to the window. “My master comes. I've other tasks before me.”

Baruk turned. “Permit me,” he said, gesturing. The window swung clear.

Crone flapped up on to the sill. She swivelled her head round and cocked an eye at Baruk. “I see twelve ships riding a deep harbour,” she said. “Eleven stand tall in flames.”

Baruk stiffened. He had not anticipated a prophecy. Now he was afraid. “And the twelfth?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “On the wind a hailstorm of sparks fill the night sky. I see them spinning, spinning about the last vessel.” Crone paused. “Still spinning.” Then she was gone.

Baruk's shoulders slumped. He turned back to the map on the table and studied the eleven once Free Cities that now bore the Empire flag.

Only Darujhistan remained, the twelfth and last marked by a flag that was not burgundy and grey. “The passing of freedom,” he murmured.

Suddenly the walls around him groaned, and Baruk gasped as an enormous weight seemed to press down on him. The blood pounded in his head, lancing him with pain. He gripped the edge of the map table to steady himself. The incandescent globes of light suspended from the ceiling dimmed, then flickered out. In the darkness the alchemist heard cracks sweeping down the walls, as if a giant's hand had descended on the building. All at once the pressure vanished. Baruk raised a shaking hand to his sweat-slicked brow.

A soft voice spoke behind him. “Greetings, High Alchemist. I am the Lord of Moon's Spawn.”