29th Mortifost, 998 NE

He was better at waiting these days, he realised. Over the decades his patience had stretched, elastic like sinew, until by now he was virtually untroubled as he sat at his desk, leafing through his ledgers. The figures all looked okay. Business wasn’t great, but it hadn’t dipped into dangerous territory either. Not yet. However, Zandrina loomed on the horizon. Nine ninety-nine was going to be a tumultuous year, he knew. His boys would be tested, and it was likely their knives would be blooded nightly for weeks.

But they would come out the other side with their territory intact, he knew. He’d attended a meeting this afternoon on neutral ground, speaking in person with the other leaders from the northern regions of Sticktown: Bucker Daine, of the Cutter Crew, and Branton Kade, of the Wallside Gang. The Knuckle-Heads hadn’t been invited, on account of their meagre presence, but Papa Roon had found out anyway and came along, surprising them with his appearance. (Papa Roon’s mole was in the Wallside Gang, a fact which Kade’s speculation and Papa Roon’s evasiveness immediately confirmed. The traitor in question would already be holidaying on the bottom of the Blackrush by now, no doubt.) The long-and-short of the palaver was that they would band together temporarily, in order to face this threat head-on, each devoting equal numbers of foot-troops to the effort. When it came to expending other resources, such as money for bribes, inkatra-heads for firepower and so forth – such things would be decided on a more short-term basis.

Zandrina has the firepower advantage, Wyre reminded himself. She has all the access, and what do we have? Our stockpiles, stored up against the day she makes her move. Does she even know we aren’t selling more than ten percent of it?

The magical herb had a shelf-life too, he knew. Its power faded the longer it spent curing. He hadn’t had enough time to find out how long it took to lose its power entirely, if that was in fact what would happen… He’d used his freshest stuff on his smartest inkatra-addicts to plan tonight, but, according to the reports, three of them had just started ranting about a Yearsend present, and those were the most coherent ones – the rest talked about bubbles you could feel without seeing them and such other idiocies.

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Droppin’ inkatra…

Either way, he’d have his answer momentarily –

Footsteps in the corridor. A rapid knocking at the door.

“Come in!” he barked, the anticipation he’d held back suddenly bursting the dam-walls, the thrill coming over him at once –

What will be the news? Do they have him?

But he could tell at once from the facial expressions worn by his underlings as they filed into the room –

“You failed,” he said bitterly.

“Boss!” Lark cried. “Boss – it’s unreal, right – you woulden believe it –“

“These walls – invisible walls!” Garet blurted.

“Yeah, right? And you can’t see ‘em but if you put out your hand –“

“It’s just like what we saw at Old Tibbey’s – well, you know, not saw, but, like something there, that ain’t even there –“

“Enough!” Wyre snapped, holding up his hand. “I heard enough. Get outta here, both of you, before I do somethin’ someone else regrets.”

They exited almost as quickly as they’d entered, Lark, the last to leave, closing the door softly behind him.

Wyre set down the ledger, put his feet up on the desk and sat back, closing his eyes.

He could still remember it. The last time he’d committed a proper murder. Oh, killing captive rivals dragged to blubber at his feet, killing wayward Bertie Boys who tattled to his opponents – that didn’t count. But a true killing – that was the Mortenns.

Is it cos they were the last ones? Or is it cos I threw Toras on the gallows in my place?

Frustration slowly faded, bubbles of consternation reducing, tempering into anger.

How did you find out it was me, boy? Invisible walls. Bubbles… Really, Feychilde? Did you know I was coming? Did you know the tables have turned against you, mighty champion, Liberator of Nothin’ and No-one?

Scenarios churned through his mind, the imagined violence that made him feel more alive than ever before, making the hairs on his arms stand up, making his spine tingle

I’ll have your heart in my hands, archmage. Like I shoulda done with my idiot brother – I’ll do it meself. I’ll have your apologies and then I’ll cut it right out of you. Cut it out and let you look at it before I let you go.

You’re mine, boy.

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