Alchemical symbol: nickel [https://i.imgur.com/SX7htXR.png]

Near midnight, the full moon’s silver light filled the street with shadows. The tenement block entrance was a black slot in a dark-grey cliff. Lamps illuminated a few of the windows facing the street, but not many.

In the distance, a wolf howled.

Nevin shivered. Not with fear, obviously. He wasn’t afraid, only cold, damp, and bored. He stamped his feet and paced round the half-demolished walls, pausing now and then to glance into the street.

From the ruined building next door to where the body had been found, he had a clear view of anyone coming or going from the block, without (he hoped) himself being too noticeable. So far, he’d spent the best part of the day and night lurking in piss-scented rubble. He’d been harassed by beggars and slum-rats, and seen nothing whatsoever to justify his patience, which was wearing thin.

Right now, he’d welcome a quick fight with a dire-wolf, if only to warm himself up.

Right now, if he’d made other plans for the evening, he could be sitting in a snug theatre, drinking sothron wine and listening to music instead of howling wolves.

Another hour, he thought. He peered up at the moon, half-hidden by clouds. An hour, and then he’d call it a night — he might still catch the late show at the Golden Orchid.

Something moved on the street: a tall, broad-shouldered man striding with the confidence of a prize-fighter. Definitely no beggar. No bright-coloured tokens of gang affiliation either, only a loose brown coat and trousers, short dark hair.

Nevin tensed and eased back into the shadows. Though he’d exchanged his armour and red cloak for a plain black jacket, no one who saw him clearly would mistake him for a slum-dweller.

The man approached the tenement block. Light from a window above caught a broken-nosed, flattened face and as he pushed the door open, a green snake head showed on his wrist.

As soon as he’d disappeared inside, Nevin crossed the street to the entrance. He stopped at the closed door, listening. No noise. Only seconds had passed. The Snake would be climbing the stairs, if he was heading for the top floor.

He pushed the door open slowly, crept in, and softly closed the door behind him. In the darkness above, the stairs creaked, complaining about the man’s weight.

To follow or not to follow…

Whatever business the Snake had with the alchemist, it wasn’t Nevin’s concern. He didn’t have to interfere. Logically, it made more sense to stay outside and let matters take their course. On the other hand, after hours of waiting, any action was attractive.

The stairway creaked again, and Nevin suddenly thought of the girl — the thin little girl clutching the flask, the fear in that cramped room — and he stepped to the foot of the stairs.

He did have a duty to protect common citizens. And he’d seen the spark in her eyes when he mentioned the clawed woman. Perhaps gratitude would loosen her tongue.

Besides, a dead Snake would earn him a fifty forint bounty. Fifty forints went a long way in wine and theatre tickets.

He drew his sword and set foot on the bottom step. Scraps of light escaping from doorways revealed the outline of the stairway, but most of the doors were closed. From behind them came snores, the creak of floorboards, the mutter of conversations, quiet noises of people living quiet lives. Lives strange to Nevin, lived by people he would never know, as they would never know him — and an odd feeling shivered through him, standing there in the dark, as if he were the unwanted intruder.

He climbed the stairs step by careful step, timing his tread by the creaks coming from above. At the first landing, he paused to listen. The man was still ascending. Nevin’s sword hand sweated.

A dramatic creak came from above, followed by a soft curse. The Snake had reached the rickety portion of the final flight of stairs. He was near the top floor.

Nevin dashed to the next landing and turned onto the final flight. No one in sight on the top floor, only the sway of white laundry recently disturbed. Sticking to the sturdier left side of the stairs, Nevin crept upward, sword in hand. He adjusted his grip.

Wood gave and creaked under Nevin’s boot. He froze.

Footsteps on the landing. ‘Who’s there?’

Nevin was a few steps down, not a good position for a fight. The stairs flexed under his weight. He took another step up. ‘I had the same question.’

A dark shape ducked under the hanging laundry, and stopped. ‘Prig bastard.’ Metal gleamed in his hand. He’d drawn a knife. ‘You’re alone.’

Nevin stepped onto the landing. The floorboards sloped downward to the left, though not as drastically as the stairs. He raised his sword. ‘So are you.’

‘Where’s my brother? What have you done to him?’

The dead Snake had been a tall man too. This must be the older brother. ‘Dead. You want to join him?’

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The Snake loomed just beyond sword reach, two hundred pounds of solid muscle and rage with a face like a clenched fist. ‘Did you kill him?’

Nevin smiled. ‘I could give you a demonstration, if you like.’

The man gripped the knife like he knew how to use it, and he was a Snake — but even a quick knife-fighter thought twice before taking on a swordsman. Would the Snake’s superior speed beat Nevin’s superior reach? The Snake was thinking twice.

‘Since we’re chatting.’ Nevin eyed the knife, anticipating the attack, muscles tensed to respond. There would be no warning. ‘What do you want with the alchemist?’

The blade lunged. Nevin sliced across the body, hard and fast — hitting nothing, because the man was gone. The lunge had been a feint. He jinked past Nevin and hurdled the bannister.

The bannister snapped under his weight. He plummeted into the dark stairwell and landed in a crash of rotten timber, followed by a pained grunt.

Caught off balance, Nevin scrambled down the stairs. The slanting steps betrayed him; he slipped and fell, came to an abrupt stop as he crunched into splintered wood. Pain spiked through his left arm.

Nevin wrenched his arm free and clattered down, pursuing the thunder of heavy feet. The street door slammed. He leaped the last steps, slid across the floor and hauled the door open.

The Snake was running down the street.

Nevin launched into a sprint. His quarry ran twenty yards ahead, setting a good pace. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Nevin, and dived off to the right between two burnt-out buildings.

Breath surged in Nevin’s lungs. The strong beat of his heart drove stride after stride, chasing gravity down the hill.

Hollow buildings and blackened walls loomed on either side. The Snake was heading into the Scar, the broad trail of destruction left by the Burning.

Reckless with speed, Nevin slammed round the corner into a passageway walled with charred stone. Cinders crunched under his boots. Only one way to go. Walls squeezed him down the channel, spat him into a field of broken stone.

Moonlight cast sharp shadows. Ahead, a dark figure scrambled over rubble.

Nevin vaulted a low wall. His injured arm throbbed and a sharp pain bit into his side. He gritted his teeth.

In training, he’d been one of the fastest in his year-group. Once they’d raced round the city walls in full armour. He’d led until the last half mile, would have won if he hadn’t fallen and twisted his ankle. He’d limped to the finish line in agony and stubborn pride, coming in fifth of six.

Only that was years ago, he hadn’t run seriously since, and he wasn’t quite so fit as he had been.

Holding his side, he stumbled on. Loose stones rolled underfoot. The Snake charged up a flight of steps and vanished through a gap in a wall.

Nevin snatched a breath and pounded after him. Water — or something wet — puddled in the uneven paving. He splashed though, reached the steps and leaned into the climb.

The stitch stabbed like a spear through his lung. He dragged himself to the top. Beyond the ragged gap in the wall lay the darkness of enclosed space. He stepped in and to the right, his boots striking a yielding mass — a body.

‘Shit.’ Nevin caught his breath.

The body wheezed and mumbled when he prodded it with his foot. Too small and soft to be the Snake, it breathed a thick miasma of alcohol and swamp.

Dim moonlight outlined a doorway on the far side of the building. Nevin stalked toward it. His hand found the hilt of his sword.

Something small and hard struck his boot, span away and clinked — clinked — clinked — in descending notes. He froze. Edged forward slowly.

Stone crumbled under his boots. The hole was a black void, invisible in the darkness. If he’d been running, or less cautious, he would have fallen. He drew his sword and used the blade to trace the edge. The chasm cut straight across the building — perhaps another gas line explosion — deeper than his blade but an easy jump across.

He stepped over carefully.

The moon looked in through the doorway, drawing a wedge of light on the floor. Nevin emerged cautiously, half-expecting an ambush, but found only silence and an alley winding through ruined buildings left and right.

Of the running man, there was no sign at all.

Nevin listened, trying to ignore his own harsh breathing and pounding heart. Nothing. No running footfalls, only the distant barking of a dog.

If the Snake was continuing in the same direction, he would have gone right.

Nevin jogged down the alley between shoulder-high walls. In places, rubble clogged the path. The walls shrunk to chest-height, knee-height, and ended altogether as the alley opened into what might once have been a yard or the foundations of a building.

No sign of the Snake. Three sides of the square had partial walls broken by arched doorways. In the far corner, dirty white canvas rippled in the breeze.

Nevin negotiated the rubble and approached the makeshift tent. He lifted the loose flap with the point of his sword.

From within, someone grunted. ‘Go way. I’ll kill you.’

‘Come out,’ Nevin said.

The wrinkled face of an old man peered out. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Bastards. Took my house. Took all I had. Don’t have nothing.’

‘Are you alone in there?’ Nevin lifted the canvas. There was no one else, and nowhere to hide, only a blanket and scraps of charred and broken furniture.

The old man scuttled back inside. He seized a child’s doll and hugged it to his chest, whining. ‘Nothing left. Thieving bastards.’

Nevin dug a few pennies from his coin purse and tossed them in the tent. The old man eyed him suspiciously. ‘Did someone run by here just now? A big man.’

‘Go way. Go way. Lemme alone.’

Nevin straightened and let the tent flap fall. The full moon sailed through ragged clouds. The Snake was long gone. He was fast, and he knew this place as Nevin didn’t.

He’d been a fool, chasing him like that. He didn’t even know why — the man had run, and he’d followed without a thought. Sheer stupidity. He could easily have been led into an ambush, and then what? He was one man, alone, deep in the slums, without even armour, only his sword. If he’d been set on by three or four men, he’d be dead.

And he had no real reason to be chasing Snakes in the first place; it was Andra he wanted. If he’d simply waited and watched, instead of charging after the Snake like an idiot, perhaps she’d have shown herself. Now he was a mile from the tenement block, the Snake was gone, and Andra might be anywhere.

His arm throbbed. His sleeve was wet, he noticed, puzzled — and only then realised he was bleeding. A four-inch spike of broken timber had stabbed straight through jacket, shirt, and skin.