NO REST FOR THE WICKED
JAMES WALLIS

THE KONIGPIATZ IN Altdorf was full of the bustle and hubbub of its morning market. Carts, barrows and stalls blocked the streets and people crammed together, jostling and shoving to move between the sellers, their arms burdened down with purchases. The air was full of the smell of fresh vegetables, roasting meat, fresh-baked bread, lavender and beer. The stallholder's shouts echoed from the tall buildings surrounding the square: ''Who'll buy my schnitzel?''; ''Estalian wines, strong and cheap''; ''Pound of black bread, only sixpence''; ''Horsemeat, fresh slaughtered''; and ''You hooligan - stop!''.
A small man with dark hair and the eyes and long moustache of a Kislevite had leaped onto the shouter's table of pastries. He stood there for a second, looking round in panic, then jumped down into the crowd, pushing his way through. Twenty yards behind him two men were giving chase, one short, slim and blond, one tall and dark, both wearing leather jerkins. The dark one had his sword drawn.
'Imperial officers! Clear the way!' the blond man roared in a voice that seemed to come from a man twice his bulk. His tall partner vaulted the table in a leap and landed beside the stallholder. 'Which way did he go?' he demanded. The man pointed. Dark looked at blond.
'North.'
'The city gate.'
'Let's go!'
They sprinted through the market and down the street, darting through gaps in the crowd, trying to keep their quarry in sight. It wasn't easy; the streets were crowded with early-morning traffic, pedestrians, people on their way to work or heading home after a long night. Carts and horses moved slowly through the throng, blocking the way. There was no sign of the short man. The taller of the pursuers stopped, staring across the packed bodies, trying to see movement.
'This way, Johansen,' the blond man said, pointing to a side street. 'Short cut.'
'Thanks, Grenner.' Johansen followed his partner. The road twisted, then widened, and ahead he could see the stonework of Altdorf's great city walls and the flags flying high above the north gate. Someone shouted in the crowd, people moved aside, and he caught a glimpse of a short man with dark hair and a long black moustache. The Kislevite. Johansen sprinted after him.
Something was happening at the gate. Mounted members of the city watch were moving people out of the way, clearing a path through the crowd as a column of soldiers in Middenland colours rode into the city, two abreast. Behind them was an older man in rich fur-trimmed clothes on a magnificent chestnut stallion, followed by a train of carriages.
As the crowd was parting to let the procession through, the Kislevite dodged through the milling bodies and ducked away, running through the throng towards the gate. Johansen, a few yards behind, found his way blocked by a halberd. The guards were dismounting, using their weapons to keep the watchers back.
'Imperial officers! Let us through!' shouted Grenner, a few yards behind.
The guard's face was stony. 'Can't do that, sir. Not while the elector count's passing.'
'Sigmar's beard…' Johansen put a hand on the halberd. It didn't move. The guard looked past him curiously.
'Sergeant Grenner?' he said. 'Is that you? I haven't seen you in years.'
'Promotion,' Grenner said. 'Let us pass.'
'Orders, sir. We're protecting the elector.'
Grenner swore and started to argue. Johansen watched the procession, knowing it wouldn't make any difference now. The Kislevite had escaped, the operation was blown, three weeks of work was down the cistern, and Hoffmann was going to be very unhappy.
He looked at the man on the horse. Grand Duke Leopold von Bildhofen, Elector Count of Middenland, one of the twelve most powerful men in the Empire. He didn't look powerful; he looked bored and tired, and his horse looked the same. They'd probably been on the road since dawn.
Then the Kislevite broke from the crowd and cut across the open space in front of the soldiers, towards the procession, he darted in front of the elector's horse and it shied, stepping sideways. Then it shuddered for an instant, and Johansen knew something was wrong. He grabbed Grenner, who turned as the great chestnut horse bolted, scattering the soldiers, heading down the street that led to the Konigplatz, its rider thrown forwards onto its neck.
Johansen pushed the guard away from his horse, grabbing its reins, putting a foot in the stirrup.
'Hey, you can't—' one of the guards shouted.
'Someone's got to,' Grenner said, already astride the other horse. They dug their heels in and galloped after the runaway.
The chestnut stallion was at full gallop and the crowds parted like a ripped sheet to get out of its way The north end of the street was clear but the Konigplatz ahead was filled with the carts and stalls of the morning market; if the panicked horse tried to jump one, or slipped on the cobbles, then its rider was a dead man.
They were gaining on the runaway, but not fast enough. The chestnut would be tired from its journey and not used to city streets, while their horses were fresh and properly shod for running on cobbles, but something had panicked the stallion and that gave it the edge for speed. Johansen could see the Grand Duke pulling frantically at the reins, trying to bring his mount under control and failing.
'Can we head him off?' he shouted to Grenner, a few yards away.
'Not enough room!'
'Go either side, then.' The sound of horses coming up from behind would push the chestnut to run faster, but it was the only chance they had.
Grenner went left, Johansen right, each urging their horses to more speed. The gap between them and the elector narrowed. A drop of something wet landed on Johansen's hand and he glanced at it. Blood, but from where? He looked ahead at the stallion, only a couple of lengths away. There was a wet patch of sweat on its neck. No, not sweat; something thicker and darker.
The three horses began to draw level, the chestnut between the two Palisades agents. The Grand Duke's gaze was fixed ahead, on the market square, now frighteningly close. He didn't seem aware of them.
'Lift him!' Johansen shouted and stood in the stirrups. With one hand holding the reins he leaned across and gripped the duke's right arm. The nobleman jerked, his eyes darting to Johansen. Then, as Grenner grabbed his left arm, the two men lifted him clear of his saddle. Without the weight of its mount the chestnut surged ahead. Its muscles moving like wild poetry, it charged into the Konigplatz and tried to leap a cart. Its rear legs skidded on the cobbles, slick with mud and rubbish. It fell. There was a noise of shattering wood, screams, an awful sound of pain. A thrashing that suddenly stopped.
Johansen and Grenner reined in their horses and lowered the Grand Duke to the ground. His face and clothes were spattered with blood. A crowd was staring at the three of them. The Middenland soldiers were cantering up, their swords drawn.
Johansen dismounted and bowed. 'Karl Johansen and Dirk Grenner of the Palisades, your grace. I apologise for any rough-handling you received.'
The Grand Duke looked down at him. 'Good work,' he said, and his voice reminded Johansen of a man speaking to the servant who empties his chamber pot. Then he noticed the Middenland soldiers and turned away to speak to them. Johansen straightened up, awkwardly. Grenner was looking at him.
'They never thank us,' he said.
'They never do,' Johansen said. 'Come on. I want to look at his horse.'
The two men walked into the marketplace where the great chestnut horse lay across two broken carts, surrounded by sausages, cheeses and cauliflowers. Its hind legs were twisted the wrong way. Someone had cut its throat to end its pain.
Johansen knelt and ran a hand over the blood-soaked hair on its neck. There was no sign of a slash or a cut, but his fingers found a pucker on the skin. He drew his dagger and dug into the dead flesh until he found what he knew would be there: the head of a crossbow bolt, strangely twisted, buried deep in the hot muscles of the neck. He cut around it and tugged it out. Its bloody steel barbs gleamed in the sunlight.

'NOBODY SAW THE ASSASSIN?'
'No, sir.' Hoffmann's chamber on the top floor of the Palisades building was not large, nor richly furnished. It had no great glass window with grand views, no wall-hangings, no oak panelling, no bookcases, no crossed axes, suits of armour nor pictures of the Emperor. It had Erik Hoffmann, and that was enough. His voice would have been enough. The deep Salzenmund accent, with its rolled vowels and hard consonants, made every word sound like a growled threat. A woman had once told Dirk Grenner that it was the most alluring voice she'd ever heard. That relationship hadn't lasted long.
'You're certain it wasn't the Kislevite or his comrades?' Hoffmann asked.
'Definite, sir,' Grenner said. 'If he'd known the shooting was going to happen he'd have led us away from it.'
Hoffmann stared at his two officers for a moment. Then he crossed to the window and stared out. 'This is an unholy mess,' he said. 'I've already had Lord Udo von Bildhofen, the Grand Duke's son in here, demanding that every Palisade agent drop what they're doing and guard his father, and wanting to be personally briefed about everything we're doing. The von Bildhofen family dines with the Emperor tonight. A negative report could be very bad for us.' He didn't turn round, but stood silent; a long, tense pause. Then: 'What did you make of the bolt?'
'Custom job, designed to rip open veins and organs,' Johansen said. 'I saw one like it during a Tilean campaign a few years back.'
'Quite right. I sent it down to Alchemics for analysis. The steel and wood are from the south of Tilea.'
'Why would a Tilean want to kill an elector?' Grenner asked.
'More likely a Tilean assassin,' said Johansen.
'One hired by someone who wants the job done properly, I suspect.' Hoffmann turned, walked back to stand by his desk. 'The Grand Duke's nominated successor is his brother, Baron Siegfried. His wife is Tilean.'
'Think he's hungry for power?' said Grenner.
'Find out and stop the assassin. Before anyone important dies.' He picked up a folder of parchment from the desk and leafed through it, then looked back up. 'What are you waiting for? Go. And don't make this the second operation you botch today.'

THE INTERIOR OF the tavern was dark, the ceiling low, the tables crowded, the drinkers Tilean. Curious and hostile eyes looked at the two Altdorfers as they entered, resenting their intrusion. Most of the city's natives had the sense to stay out of the Tilean quarter, and the only ones who ventured into the Villa Bianca were either dupes, foolhardy or desperate.
At the back of the room two richly clothed Tileans were talking earnestly in low tones. Grenner and Johansen found a table, sat and waited.
'Nice place,' Johansen muttered ironically.
'Proof that all men are brothers,' Grenner said. 'Empire, Tilean, Kislevite or Bretonnian - come mealtime we're all in the alehouse.'
The taller of the two ''Tileans'' stood up, kissed the other's hand, and left. The smaller looked around and took a swig from an ornate glass beside him. Another man began to approach him, but he raised a hand, and then gestured to the two Palisades agents. Grenner walked up to the table and bowed. Johansen followed.
'Thank you, Signor Argentari.'
The short Tilean smiled. 'Sit, sit, Sergeant Grenner. It has been a long time. How is your life?'
'Not a sergeant any more, signor. I left the watch some years ago.'
Argantari nodded sympathetically. 'I have heard. How can I help you in your new employment?'
Grenner said, 'Signor, do the Tileans have an argument with the Empire?'
'No more than usual. Why do you ask?'
'This morning someone tried to shoot the Elector Count of Middenland with a Tilean crossbow bolt.'
The signor's expression kept the practised placid look that gamblers, politicians and liars work hard to perfect. Then he shrugged. 'It is to be expected. We are the best crossbowmen in the world.'
'We need this man,' Grenner said.
'What makes you think I know any more than you?'
'Come off it, signor. You know the names of every Tilean in this city, where they'll sleep this night and how much money is in their purses, down to the last copper.'
'That is true,' the Tilean said. 'But my Reman ancestors had a phrase: ''Quid pro quo''. It means: what would I gain from telling you?' He sat back, looking thoughtful.
Johansen leaned forward. 'I'll tell you what you gain,' he said and Grenner heard the frost on his voice. 'If the Grand Duke dies with Tilean steel in him, life goes bad for every one of your people in this city. I'm not just talking about muggings and beatings and arson. Your trade will dry up. Nobody will hire your men. Increased watch patrols. Increased surveillance. Your wives and children will be pariahs, spat at in the street. And worse. Tileans protect their own, Signor Argentari, but you know the Empire does the same. You call yourself the father of Little Tilea. Prove it.'
Argentari shrugged, but Grenner could tell his heart wasn't in it. Then he pulled a pocket-book from his jacket, flipped through it and laid it flat on the table. There was an address on the page.
Grenner looked at it, then at Johansen. 'What's the time?'
'Two bells rang a few minutes ago. Why?'
'The Grand Duke's meeting the Emperor this evening. He's a good Sigmarite, he'll want to pray first. In twenty minutes he'll be walking to the great temple for afternoon worship. Right past that house on Marianstrasse.'
They sprinted out of the Villa Bianca, towards the river-bridge, the palace district and the temple.

THE TOLLING OF the temple bells echoed the agents' footsteps as they ran into Marienstrasse.
'Which house?' Johansen panted. Grenner pointed: he knew the district.
'Half-way down. Sign of the crossed gloves.'
They burst into the glove-maker's shop, past surprised customers in elegant dress and shocked staff in consternation. 'Who lets out the rooms upstairs?' Grenner demanded.
A short, slender grey-haired woman came forward. 'I do,' she said, 'but we don't have any vacancies.'
'You're about to,' said Johansen. Grenner shot him a look.
'A Tilean. Arrived recently. Which floor?' he asked.
'The top. Hey,' she said, 'you can't go through—'
Beyond the door the light was dingy, the stairs narrow and the stale air smelled of boiled vegetables. They took the stairs two at a time, matching their footfalls to the sonorous chimes of the temple bells. The door at the top was shut.
'You get the door, I'll get the suspect,' Johansen whispered, drawing his dagger.
'We need him alive.'
'I hadn't forgotten.'
Grenner looked at the door. It was stout but old, almost certainly locked, and probably barricaded on the other side. The lock was the first problem, and its bolt would be just about… there. He kicked the spot with his heel, hard. There was a crunch as it gave inwards, but only an inch.
'Damn!'
Something moved inside the room. Grenner charged the door, hitting it with his shoulder. It flew open with a crunch, a broken chair scattering across the floor. There was a man standing by the open window, with a crossbow. It was aimed at Grenner's face.
He threw himself sideways and down. There was a twang and things hurtled past his head. Someone went ''Uh!'' and someone else went ''Ah'', and he didn't know if either of them had a Tilean accent.
He looked up. The assassin was still standing by the window. His expression was startled, because Johansen's throwing-dagger was sticking out of his stomach. He began to lift the crossbow.
Grenner scrambled to his feet, grabbing a piece of chair. Why wasn't Johansen following through?
'Drop it,' he warned.
'Grenner,' Johansen said quietly from behind him, 'that's a two-shot bow.'
The Tilean smiled. Blood was beginning to show on the clothes round his stomach-wound. He gestured with the crossbow towards a corner of the room. Grenner let his eyes flick over there, then as the Tilean's followed he hurled the chair leg at him with all his might.
The assassin tried to duck. The piece of wood glanced off his head and smashed through the windowpane. Broken glass cascaded out into the street. It didn't seem to bother him. He moved across the room but the crossbow didn't waver. Grenner watched as his hand tightened on the trigger.
Suddenly the world was too bright. It reminded Grenner of something he'd seen once before and would never forget. 'Down!' he screamed and hit the floor again, his hands over his face.
The room went to awful white and heat and sound, squeezing everything else out of existence. It lasted an eternity, then suddenly it was done. Grenner lay where he was for a second, then looked up.
The Tilean had taken the main force of the blast. His corpse was still on fire. The room around it was destroyed, the walls cracked and cratered, the windows blown out, the curtains ablaze. The crossbow was ashes and burnt metal.
Grenner stood slowly, checking himself. His hair and face were singed, his hands red raw. His clothes were ruined; even the leather was cracked.
'I bloody hate magic,' he said to no one in particular.
'Grenner?' came Johansen's voice, weakly. Grenner turned. His partner lay at the top of the stairs, thrown there by the explosion. A crossbow bolt was sticking out of his chest. His blackened clothes were soaked with his blood.

AS THEY PASSED the landing of the second floor, heading down, Johansen said, 'Let's work through what happened.'
Grenner grunted. 'I've got a better idea. You work through what happened, I'll concentrate on getting you to a physician.'
'That works too.'
'Don't take your finger out of the wound.'
'Right.' Johansen felt light-headed, as if part of him wasn't there. Shock and blood loss, he thought. Shock and blood loss. Stay with it. He didn't take his finger out of the wound.
He wasn't doing a good job of walking. Grenner was doing most of it for him, and Johansen was leaning on his shoulder, an arm round his neck, moving his feet when the moment felt right.
Shock and blood loss. Stay with it.
'Someone chucked magic at us,' he said. 'Not the Tilean. Do this logically. We burst in. We don't take him by surprise but that's our fault. I knife him, and get hit.'
'My throw breaks the window. And—'
'Someone who's watching the building realizes their assassin has been caught, and killed him before he could talk,' Johansen said.
'So the employer is or knows a spellcaster.'
'It's not much to go on.'
'Enough for Hoffmann,' Grenner said.
'Not Hoffmann,' Johansen said. A cough shook through him, and seemed to jar a thought loose in his mind. 'The Untersuchung.'
'The what?' Grenner asked.
'The Untersuchung. They're part of the Reiksguard, an undercover group like the Palisades. They find cults and conspiracies in the army and the court.'
'Witch hunters?'
'No.' Johansen could barely speak. 'Not all cults… are Chaos cults. But the Untersuchung know about magic and they track sorcerers. They're odd, very secretive… but efficient.' He felt himself slipping. Grenner paused to hoist him back onto his shoulder. They started moving again, out onto the sunlit street.
A crowd was milling outside the building, looking up at the top storey. It was on fire. The temple bells were still sounding. They seemed a very long way away. Everything did.
'Look, Karl,' said Grenner, 'I am taking you to a doctor. I am not taking you to question some bunch of nutty army agents while you're bleeding from a hole in your front.'
'You're right,' Johansen said. The bright sky swam in front of him, and his sight was full of gaps. 'You're going to visit them alone.'

ACROSS THE COURTYARD of the Reiksguard stables, just out of sight of the main gate, an anonymous door stood in a plain brick wall. Grenner pushed it and it swung open, unfastened, as Johansen had said it would be. He thought for a second about Johansen, seeing his friend's clothes matted with blood, then stepped into the dark passage beyond.
Ten feet along was a flight of stairs, and at the top another door. He rapped on its hard wood, five knocks. There was a sound of something sliding open and a voice said, 'The sun is in the seventh house.'
'I'm a Palisades officer and this is an emergency,' Grenner said.
'That's not the password,' the voice said, 'but it'll do.' Bolts slid back and the inner door opened to reveal a long narrow room lit by slit windows and candles. Men and women in everyday clothes sat at cramped desks piled with books and documents. Shelves lined the walls. A man in his early twenties, dressed in black Sigmarite robes, stood by the door. Behind him, an older man in a leather coat looked up from his desk.
'You realise this is highly irregular, don't you?' he said. 'Any meetings between our two organisations are supposed to be approved in writing by superior officers, at least two days in advance. Some tedious quill pusher will earn a promotion by asking awkward questions if we give him a chance. So we've never met, this didn't happen, and you're not here. Agreed?'
'Agreed.'
'Good. Let's get to business.' The man stood. He was in his late thirties, greying at the temples, but he still had a soldier's build and scars. 'Lieutenant Gottfried Braubach, and the fellow who looks like he's in mourning is Andreas Reisefertig.'
'Dirk Grenner.' They shook hands.
Braubach sat down, gesturing at another chair. 'How can we help?'
Grenner sat. 'I and my partner were fire-balled a quarter-hour ago, trying to arrest a man who was about to shoot the Elector Count of Middenland,' he said 'The crossbowman was killed. I'm told you can help us identify who threw the spell.'
Braubach looked down at his desk. 'No, sorry,' he said.
'What?'
'Sorry, we can't help you.'
Grenner stared at him. 'Because you don't know anything, or because you're not going to tell me?
Braubach sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'Look,' he said, 'I realise you're in a hurry, but you should have gone through the proper channels. How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone, with a thousand unhealthy reasons for asking that question. Get your superior… who is your superior?'
'General Hoffmann.'
'Get him to approve the exchange and we'll talk. Until then it's always nice to make new friends and maybe we can have a drink some evening, but right now you're wasting your time and ours.'
Grenner took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. He restrained an urge to punch Braubach in the face. 'You don't care about a lunatic who's tried to kill an elector twice today?'
'We would, except you just told us he's dead. And why would the person who killed the assassin kill the elector too? Actually,' Braubach's brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, 'I can think of several reasons. Look, I don't want to seem unfriendly but I can't let you tread on our toes, and we have big toes. Andreas can help you with some neutral information about magic, but that's all. Now, please excuse me.'
He rose, walked to the rear of the long office and disappeared through a door. Reisefertig watched him go, then turned and leaned against the desk. Grenner half-expected him to apologise, or to say something about his superior, but the man's face was a cold mask, betraying nothing. He looked down at Grenner.
'Let's start with the spell,' he said. 'You said it was a ball of fire?'
'Yes. I was attacked six years ago by a drunk from the College of the Bright Order so I recognise the signs.'
'Which were?'
'Sudden brightness before the explosion, and a slight smell of gunpowder.'
'And the dead assassin?'
'Burnt to a crust. Room completely destroyed.'
Reisefertig stroked his earlobe between finger and thumb. There was something in his gaze that Grenner found uncomfortable. 'Probably not a fire ball spell then, but something like it. Fire balls are too obvious for city-use: people notice the smaller ball of fire that the wizard throws in the casting. My guess would be a blasting spell, more devastating and more subtle to cast. It only works at less than a hundred paces. Does that fit?'
'The caster could have been in the building opposite. Or even in the street. Either would have line of sight.'
'Yes. Blast requires some spell mastery, so it's not some novice or student. But it's general battle-magic, and quite well known. That could mean anyone. Political insurgents, foreign agents, even those Kislevite insurrectionists we hear are running around…'
'Or an Imperial wizard who's gone renegade?'
Reisefertig said nothing.
'It's an obvious possibility,' Grenner said, 'but you left it off the list. Let's not play twenty questions. I'll tell you what I think. Someone tipped off the assassin about the elector's route, both times. That means someone in his entourage or his household is trying to get him killed.'
'Yes,' said Reisefertig. He steepled his fingers, just like Braubach had. 'An interesting scenario.'
'Can you tell me if you know of anyone in the Grand Duke's court who has links to a spellcaster?'
'No.'
'You don't know?'
'I can't tell you if we know.'
'Damn it! I'm trying to protect an elector!' Grenner exploded, on his feet, gesticulating.
'Haven't you realised we might be doing the same thing?' Braubach said quietly from behind him. 'We have our missions and agendas too, and letting electors die is not high among them. Please accept that we cannot give you the information you want. Go back to your general. He may have learned something while you were away.'
Grenner glared at him, but there was a look in Braubach's eyes that made him realise a retort would be pointless. He left without a word.

HOFFMANN SAT IN front of the bare table in his office. He held his brow with one hand and his eyes were closed in deep thought. A wide beam of mid-afternoon sun fell through the window onto the wood floor in front of him, leaving him in shadow.
There was a knock at the door and someone said, 'Message, sir.'
'Come in.' Hoffmann stood as the messenger entered, holding out his hand for the thin strip of parchment the man carried. 'What's the news on Johansen?'
'He's conscious, sir. The physician is with him now, applying leeches.'
'Let me know as soon as they're done.' Hoffmann unrolled the parchment and moved into the sunlight to read its thin, spidery writing. He grunted with dissatisfaction.
'Any answer, sir?'
'No. No, they already know the answer,' Hoffmann said. The sunlight caught the strands of white in his dark brown hair and smoothed over some of the creases on his tired face. 'When Grenner gets back, tell him I want to see him. Immediately.'
The messenger bowed and left. Hoffmann sat back down, placed the parchment on the table and read it again. He was reading it for the fifth time when Grenner knocked and entered without waiting for a reply.
'Sir, I need to talk to you about the Untersuchung.'
'That's why I need to see you.' Grenner looked worried, and Hoffmann waved a hand at him. 'Don't fret. I'm not going to give you an arse-kicking about talking to other agencies without proper authorisation. I've been thinking.'
'So have I, sir.'
'Oh yes? Any conclusions?'
'Some, no thanks to the Untersuchung. Our mystery mage knew the assassin's location this afternoon, and was watching it. I think that Tilean connection is an attempt to implicate Duke Siegfried, the Grand Duke's brother. So we're looking for someone close to the Grand Duke, who wants him and his successor removed. And the Untersuchung were acting like they had something to hide; they clammed up the moment I mentioned Middenland.'
'Hm.' Hoffmann looked amused. 'Well. Let's go and see Johansen.' They left the office and walked down the stairs to the medical wing on the second floor.
'Thanks to you,' Hoffmann said, 'the Untersuchung now know pretty much everything we do about this business. Had it occurred to you that they might be involved?'
'Involved?' Grenner looked aghast.
'Not like that, they're not behind it. But as you suspect they have been running surveillance on members of the Grand Duke's court.'
'I thought that might be why they wouldn't give me any information.'
'Of course they wouldn't. They don't know you from Sigmar. But while you were revealing our secrets, Lieutenant Braubach sent the information you requested to me on a carrier pigeon.' Hoffmann held up the piece of parchment. 'Along with conditions about how we can use it. Here we are.'
Johansen lay in the only occupied bed in the room. He was stripped to the waist, and pale bandages encased his ribs. His skin looked sallow and slack. He looked up at the sound of the opening door, and smiled weakly.
'No grapes?' he said.
'Only sour ones,' Grenner said.
'The Untersuchung been helpful?'
Grenner scowled.
'They've given us the name of the sorcerer,' Hoffmann said. He sat on the corner of the bed, studying the faces of his agents. 'Emilie Trautt, a former student at the Imperial College of Bright Magic. Failed to renew her oath of allegiance to the Emperor four years ago and disappeared. Resurfaced fifteen months ago with the name Sara Koch, working for Lord Udo, the Grand Duke's son, as an advisor. Some say they're lovers.'
Johansen coughed weakly. 'Oh great. The son's trying to take out his father.'
'And frame his uncle for it,' Grenner added. 'Which would make him number one in the line of succession.'
'It gets worse,' Hoffmann said. He held up the parchment. 'Sara Koch is off-limits. We can't touch her.'
'You're joking,' Grenner said disbelievingly.
'I wish I was. The Untersuchung think she can lead them to a sect of renegade wizards somewhere in Middenland. We are not to contact her, harm her, arrest her, or let her discover that she is being watched.'
'Are we sure they'll try again? They've lost their assassin.' Johansen said.
'They didn't lose the assassin, they removed him themselves. They must have a back-up plan.'
'That's not the only problem,' Johansen said. He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, and winced. 'We still don't have anything solid against Lord Udo.'
'We don't even know if we've got the right man,' Grenner said. 'Sigmar's teeth! It's our job to defend these people, and they're busy trying to kill each other.'
'Defend them,' Hoffmann said. 'Yes. And the best form of defence is?'
'Attack,' the two agents said together.
'Exactly. We have to draw our suspects out; we have to make them prove their guilt - or innocence. And we have to do it fast: they meet with the Emperor in less than four bells.' Hoffmann got to his feet and looked down at Johansen. 'Karl, what did the physician say?'
'I'll be back on my feet in four days, fit for active duty in ten.'
'Mollycoddling nonsense. Be in uniform in fifteen minutes. You two have an appointment with Lord Udo.'

THE HALLWAY WAS ornate and ostentatious, decorated to impress. Thick Araby carpets covered the oak floor. Suits of armour from different eras stood along its length, with trophies from long-past battles fixed to the wall between them: an elf general's helmet; a dwarf axe encrusted with runes; the moth-eaten head of an orc war-boss, stuffed and mounted, Johansen looked at it.
'It looks as happy to be here as I am,' he whispered.
'Shut it,' said Grenner.
Johansen shut it. They'd been standing for almost five minutes and his whole chest ached like he'd been slugged by a club. The blood he had lost made him feel tired and slow. The dark serge fabric of his uniform felt coarse against his skin and tight across the shoulders, where he'd put on weight or muscle since the jacket was made, fighting in these clothes would be hard. All in all, there were many things about this situation that made him uncomfortable.
A footman appeared and ushered them into a larger room, decorated with the same opulence but more taste. In its centre a well-built man in rich robes sat at a table, the shredded carcass of a roast cormorant before him. He was slicing a pomegranate with studied attention, the red flesh of the fruit lying in moist chunks on a silver plate. Johansen and Grenner bowed. It was ten seconds before he spoke.
'I was expecting General Hoffmann to come. Why has he not?'
Grenner cleared his throat. 'My lord, he sends apologies, but he is overseeing the security for this evening's dinner.'
Lord Udo snorted. 'As excuses go, it'll do. But I'm not impressed with your work. Very unprofessional. An assassin killed before he could be arrested, someone casting magic in the streets, and one of my father's favourite hunters is dead. Who's behind it?'
'Kislevites, sir,' said Grenner.
'Kislevites?' Lord Udo looked startled. Johansen worked hard to suppress a smile. He was glad Grenner was doing most of the talking; his own abilities as a liar weren't strong at the best of times.
'Yes, sir,' said Grenner. 'The modus operandi matches a group of Kislevite agents that we've been tracking. At least one of them was in the crowd at the north gate this morning. And everyone knows about Kislevite shamans.'
'But why would Kislev attack the Elector of Middenland? We don't even border Kislev.'
Grenner's face was blank, like a good soldier. 'Exactly, sir. They aim to destabilise the political hierarchy, not settle grudges. The Grand Duke has no links to Kislev, and that makes him an ideal target.'
'Kislevites.' Lord Udo sounded thoughtful. 'The crossbowman, you're sure he was a Kislevite? His weapons too? Crossbows aren't a regular Kislevite weapon.'
'Everything was too badly burnt to be identifiable, sir, but our Alchemics people are working on it.'
Lord Udo toyed with the glass goblet on the table. 'What are you doing to stop these… Kislevites?'
'Agents are watching their known safe-houses and equipment stores. Six of them are already in interrogation,' Grenner said. Johansen was impressed by the direct quality of the lie. 'Meanwhile we believe there may have been a leak of information from inside the elector's household. Tomorrow morning we'll begin interrogating everyone in his employ.'
Lord Udo took a mouthful from his goblet. Johansen noted how his loose sleeve conveniently shielded his expression for a second. The noble replaced the glass carefully on the table and asked, 'How long will that take?'
'Not long, my lord,' Grenner said. 'We're very efficient about these things.'
There was a pause. Johansen and Grenner waited. Lord Udo chewed a pomegranate seed. He seemed to be thinking.
'Tonight,' he said. 'Getting to the palace. What are the arrangements?'
'A secret, my lord. Only the people who need to know actually know.'
The table flew across the floor, crashing down, the goblet shattering, fruit and silverware clattering across the carpet. Lord Udo was on his feet, one fist clenched, Johansen did not move. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Grenner hadn't either.
'How dare you say I should not know about my father's safety?' the nobleman said, spitting each word across the room. 'Tell me the plan, you insolent arse, or I'll have the Palisades closed down tomorrow. My father's life is at risk.'
So far today we've saved your fat father's life twice, and I've taken a crossbow bolt for my pains, Johansen thought, and you're the reason why. 'As you wish, my lord,' he said softly. 'At seven bells the Grand Duke and his household will enter five carriages in the courtyard here. They will be escorted from here to the palace by Middenland soldiers, as well as Palisades riders with crossbows and agents on the stree—'
He paused; his wound had shot a bolt of pain across his chest. Motes of black swam across his vision. Lord Udo was looking at him strangely. He took a breath, held it a second, and resumed.
'Etiquette states the Grand Duke should be in the first coach. That makes it the obvious target, so it will be empty. The Grand Duke will be in the second coach, along with his nominated successor Duke Siegfried, and the rest of the family will follow in the usual order. Each carriage will have its curtains drawn, so nobody will be the wiser. Not even the coachmen will know which passengers they are carrying.'
Lord Udo sat back in his chair, holding his chin in his hand. The jewels on his rings gleamed in the candlelight.
'That sounds workable,' he said. 'And your secret plan, how many people know it?'
'Only the Palisades agents involved in the operation. And now you, my lord,' said Grenner.
'Who else? My father?'
'Nobody else, my lord.'
'Good,' Lord Udo said. 'That is enough, leave me. I must get ready for the dinner.' He turned away from them. Johansen and Grenner bowed and left.
The oak front door of the townhouse closed behind them. The sun was low over the rooftops and the street outside was filled with people on their way home.
'You think he swallowed it?' Johansen asked.
'He doesn't have to digest it all,' said Grenner. 'But if he thinks we're pinning the blame on Kislev instead of Tilea then he knows his uncle isn't going to take the fall for him. He knows he's got to act tonight, and we've given him the idea of blaming it on us. Let's hope he'll bite off more than he can chew.'

THE LONG SHADOWS of evening had darkened and melted into each other, and a few evening stars shone from the clouded sky. Below, the courtyard of the Grand Duke's townhouse was filled with carriages, horses and uniformed men. The workmen and servants had gone, leaving only a corridor of dark fabric between the house's main exit and the first of the carriages. Just inside the gate, an escort guard of Middenland soldiers waited.
Something was making Grenner's horse uncomfortable, and he leaned forward to pat its neck and adjust its blinkers. By the gate he saw Hoffmann and Johansen talking, their horses still. Even in the grey light he could see Johansen's face was pale and pained. Duty like this, even on horseback, was no place for an injured man.
He rode up to the two of them and saluted. The gesture felt odd, but this was a formal occasion and all protocol had to be observed. Hoffmann was in full uniform, his campaign medals spread proudly across it.
'Grenner. Good,' he said. 'How are the preparations?'
'Done, sir. The coachmen and servants are briefed, the family are waiting inside the house. Nobody will know who's riding in which carriage, not even the people inside them.'
'Nobody except us.' Hoffmann smiled slightly. 'Seven bells is about to sound. Give the signal.'
'Yes, sir.' He paused. 'We're putting an elector's life at risk, sir.'
'I know. But better we draw our man out now than let him try to slit the elector's throat in his bed tonight. Give the command.'
Grenner turned his horse and rode to the first carriage, the painted carvings on their ornate woodwork dull in the torchlight. He nodded to the driver, dismounted and walked through the cloth-walled passageway to the house door. He knocked twice and it swung open.
They were all there, standing in the anteroom beyond, glistening with silks, gold and jewels. The Grand Duke and his wife, Baron Siegfried and his wife and son, Lord Udo, Lord Sigismund and Lady Anna, Lord Helmut and Lady Margaret, with their attendants and servants. He snapped to attention.
'Your grace, my lords and ladies, the carriages are ready,' he said.
None of them looked at him. None of them acknowledged he was there. As Grenner turned smartly and walked back out to the courtyard he asked himself, not for the first time, why he cared.

THE CARRIAGES WERE loaded, their passengers concealed behind thick velvet curtains. The Middenland guards began to move forward, out into the street that led north to the Imperial palace. Grenner waited at the gate, signalling to each of the coach-drivers when it was their turn to move into position in the line. One started too early, following the one next to it, but he waved it back in time. If they lost the right order, they lost everything.
Outside, a thin crowd lined the route to the palace, held back by bored members of the city watch. Grenner found himself riding alongside the second carriage and deliberately slowed his horse, dropping back until he was next to Johansen.
'Are you all right?' he asked.
'I feel like hell. I shouldn't be here. I'll be useless if anything kicks off. And I wish it would - better than hanging around at the palace until these fat mosquitoes are ready to come home.'
'If something happens you can bet Hoffmann will have us making reports and interviewing witnesses until three bells tomorrow,' Grenner said.
'The old man's taking a hellish risk.'
'I know. If this goes wrong it's the end of the department. They'll hang Hoffmann. I'm worried that we've based all this on the word of the Untersuchung. Is their information good? Do you trust them?'
Johansen didn't reply. Then he groaned.
'I'm getting too old for this,' he said. 'Time to find a nice young widow who owns a pub, some tall strong blonde who's not too old, settle down…'
Grenner snorted. 'You're not thinking of that northern girl who owns the Black Goat? You wouldn't get an easy life with her. She'd keep you—'
Ahead of them, the second carriage exploded in a burst of white light and a wave of heat. Its body lifted three feet off the ground and hung for a second at the centre of a fierce bright world, until the shock wave slammed it down into the ground. A crashing roar blew past them, echoing off the buildings. Wood and metal whizzed through the air, ploughing into the walls and the crowd.
Grenner reined in his horse, turning its head away from the blast so it wouldn't be panicked. People were screaming and running around him, falling, blocking the street. The other carriages were trying to turn, to get away from the scene. He saw someone fall under the wheels, crushed. Horses were screeching and rearing. The wreckage blazed. Where debris landed, new fires were starting. People were burning, flailing as they died.
'Think fast!' Johansen yelled.
'They always attack from above!' Grenner shouted back. He stared up, looking for a figure silhouetted at a window or against the dark sky, but the after-images of the explosion were blinding him. He heard the thunk of Johansen firing his crossbow, glanced to see where it was pointed, followed the line, and caught a movement on the roof.
He dropped the reins, stood on the saddle and leaped for the front of the nearest building, grabbing its exposed corner-beam with both hands and climbing, hand over hand, grabbing ledges and windows, pulling himself up the wall. He'd done this enough times in the watch, chasing thieves and cat burglars, but never in full uniform. He could feel the heat of the fires on his back through the thick fabric.
Three storeys up he heaved himself over the eaves and looked round. The weird landscape of chimneys and tiled slopes was filled with dark shadows. Would the wizard have run, or be lying in ambush?
Grenner moved forward silently, trying to block out the sounds of panic and pain below, straining to hear anything ahead. There was a scraping of stone; a tile slipping, he guessed. He moved towards it, keeping low, climbing the inclines of the roofs. Then something exploded at his feet and he jumped back with a shout of shock. A roost of pigeons scrambled into the sky in front of him on noisy wings.
Something moved. His quarry knew he was there. Running footsteps headed south, towards the city's south gate. He followed, using chimney stacks for cover at the top of each roof, keeping to places where faint starlight let him see his footing.
There: a fleeing silhouette, robed, moving across the rooftops, not looking back. It was only thirty paces away. Grenner drew his dagger from its shoulder-sheath and moved ahead. They were getting close to the city wall; soon the wizard would have nowhere to run. Keeping the figure in view, he crouched as low as he could and moved forward.
The robed figure reached the edge of the last house. Ahead, across a wide street, was the Altdorf city wall, bright with torchlight from its watch-towers. The wizard stopped and looked back, and Grenner saw her face for the first time. She was younger than he'd expected. A strong face, handsome, not beautiful. Long, dark hair in a braid. She looked frightened.
Grenner stood, his knife in his hand, ready to throw. For a moment neither of them moved or spoke. Then she lifted her hands, almost as if in supplication. She was saying something, but he couldn't make out the words. He moved toward her slowly.
She was casting a spell.
Grenner threw himself back, behind a chimney stack, away from the blast. When, after a second it had not come, he looked up. Her arms were spread like a bird and as he watched she lifted a foot into the air.
Grenner thought for an instant about the exploding carriage, the stampeding horse, Lord Udo, the Untersuchung, Johansen burnt and bleeding, and he flung his knife. It flashed through the air, missed her, struck the stone wall and fell. The wizard hung in the night for a second, then soared across the street and up, over the wall, out into the darkness beyond the city.
He walked to the edge of the roof and began to climb down, slowly, like a man who is thinking of other things.

JOHANSEN AND HOFFMANN were waiting on their horses on the street below.
'You threw a knife at her,' Hoffmann said.
'I aimed to miss,' Grenner said. It was a lie.
'The Untersuchung will be happy she got away.'
There was a pause.
'The authorities are going to need a good explanation,' said Johansen.
'Leave that to me. When the Grand Duke hears that Lord Udo was the only person who had been told he would be in the carriage that was targeted, he should understand.'
'The Grand Duke's safe?' Grenner asked.
'Yes, and his brother. They were in the last carriage, as we planned.'
'How's he going to take the news that his son was in the carriage that exploded?'
'A tragic error by the coachman,' said Hoffmann. 'Lord Udo will have a grand funeral, and there will be no trial for treason and attempted patricide to embarrass the von Bildhofen family. The wizard will not be mentioned. The Grand Duke knows how these things work.'
'What happens to the coachman?'
'He died in the explosion, of course.'
There was another pause. Grenner swung himself up into the saddle. 'It's been a long day,' he said, 'and I need a drink.'
'Have it at the Palisades. Johansen needs rest. And I've got a nice quiet job for the two of you tomorrow.'
'What is it?'
'Finding those Kislevites and making people believe they were behind this.'
Grenner groaned. 'More bloody donkey work.'
'No rest for the wicked,' said Johansen.
Hoffmann smiled. 'Except Lord Udo.'
Grenner was silent for a moment, thinking. 'With your permission, sir,' he said. 'I'd prefer to drink alone this evening.'
'Very well.' They rode north, back towards the Palisades. Grenner watched them go, noticing that their route would take them past the burning carriage. Then he turned and walked towards the river, and a quiet tavern he knew where he could be alone with a bottle of Estalian wine and his thoughts.