Before Louen had a chance to answer, a sudden flare of orange flame lit the sky, just over House Willow. The two men crouched low on their haunches and watched in speechless horror. Only the brothel’s foundations and the scullery were stone. The rest – all three storeys of it, and the pavilion – was wood.

Pitched wood, against the salt-winds from the sea.

It burned with the ferocity of a furnace.

Anyone caught in it would never get out. They'd burn. It wouldn't take long. Louen bent his head and gave a choking sob. He had no particular love for any of the brothel's inhabitants - only one mattered to him, and he had no way of knowing if she was caught in that inferno or had got away even before he had - but not once of them deserved that.

That fucking bastard! I'm going to cut him to pieces, if it's the last thing I ever do!

He drew his knife and, making a small cut on the top of his hand near his thumb, let a few drops of blood soak into the earth. A revenge-pact, made with the Mother. He vowed to honour it. He would not rest until that evil cunt was a charred, bleeding mess. 

‘He used mage-fire, didn’t he?’ Bresgion breathed, still staring at the blaze over the town. He looked as though his eyes might pop out of his head any moment.

Louen looked at him in astonishment. ‘You know of the General’s abilities?’ His voice came out harsh and hoarse. He cleared his throat.

Bresgion put his hand on Louen's arm. ‘It’s wider-known than you think. But what I don’t understand is why you think he’s hunting you.’

Louen was speechless. Who else could that bastard possibly hope to find in a brothel at the arse-end of the country?

Apart, of course, the killer of three men in one night and I don’t know how many the other night.

But that’s a matter for the sheriff. The Crown wouldn’t concern itself with that. Unless a mage was involved.

Or unless one of the dead men was someone he’d been hunting.

Or someone he cared for. A son? 

Louen began to get a headache, trying to unravel the string of his thoughts, which were getting all tangled. Did it matter what the truth was? It was clear now that staying in the brothel was bad for anyone’s health and he was right to leave when he did. Those flames were proof of that. The General, whatever or whoever he was really in Wayland for, had taken offense at the brothel’s existence and burned it to the ground, obviously intending to leave no-one at all alive.

Which probably meant he hadn’t got what he wanted.

Whatever else that man was, he wasn’t a wastrel and he never wasted energy on people once he’d got what he wanted.

Unless he had got what he wanted, and the arson was punishment.

Which means that...No. Stop it. There's no point speculating, because you just don't know.

Bresgion squeezed his hand. ‘That’s obviously a message. We’d better move: before long, this moor’s going to be crawling with soldiers.’

                                                                        *******************

In another brothel, at the other side of Wayland, Haniven the Wanderer reached a shuddering, gasping climax on top of a lushly-curved whore whose name he hadn’t bothered to ask, because he didn't want to know. He never did.  They were a means to an end, a way to slake his unrequited desire for someone who didn't feel the same way. Sometimes, the ache that person set in him was beyond a quick wank in the bushes when no-one was looking. He needed flesh; he needed to hear moans in his ears, hot hands on his body, and lush hips bucking beneath him,. 

If only it was easier to pretend I'm fucking her. 

Tonight's whore was a close match for the woman he pined after, with large tits, a round, fat backside, and hair the colour of sunset. It was the right texture, if not the right colour. She giggled and stretched like a cat positively dripping with cream, which Han supposed she was, not that he’d want to dip his strawberries in it any more tonight. He didn’t have the coin, for a start. He turned away, ashamed of himself and not wanting to look at the floozy for one more second.

His cock, already softening, went completely flaccid as a sudden explosion rent the air in the street outside. He snatched his clothes on in silence, pursed his lips at the whore, and went to collect his boots and sword from the Madam.

Gael met him on the stairs, agitating. ‘Finished?’

‘Quite, thank you. What was that blowing up? Is Rhas here?’

‘That wasn’t him, and no he isn’t.’ Gael handed over the boots and sword, having got them ready from Madam, though she’d protested. He’d twisted up her tongue for her and then rendered her speechless. The spell would wear off too soon though. ‘Hurry up,’ he hissed, as Han sat leisurely lacing his boots as if all hell hadn’t just blasted through the locality. Sounds of shouting, rapid hobnails on cobbles, and a woman’s incessant screaming turned a usually-quiet back street into a chaos he didn’t want to go out in. 

‘I’d see to your needs if you asked me. No need to come to these places,’ Gael said reproachfully, once Han had got his boots laced and his sword belted, mother of mercy, but it wasn’t before time either. There was no mistaking the efficient, clipped tones barking orders outside. Queen’s men. They could not be found here. Louen had strictly forbidden them from coming to places like this. They could come on market days and glean information, news, and other people’s goods with an appropriate re-sale value, but not to brothels and taverns.

‘Desire and drunkenness, a man’s undoing,’ he muttered, quoting Louen, and Han clipped him around the ear, only half annoyed at the reminder.

They slipped out into the street, the Queen’s soldiers still thankfully at one end, though the remnants of the explosion were at the other. A crowd had gathered and the soldiers were trying, without much success, to organise the chaos and panic into some semblance of order.

‘Over the roofs,’ said Haniven, pointing upwards. Gael nodded. He leapt, caught hold of a downpipe, and squirreled up the wall. Han followed, and they went along the rooftops in a crouching run.

They paused over a butcher’s shop, lying flat over the roof-ridge together as a regiment of blue-coats tramped along below. ‘Why in Nol’s name are they crawling all over Wayland?’

‘Louen,’ said Han grimly. He pointed to the North. ‘At least, that's my guess. Look there.’

Gael looked. The night sky was a faint amber glow over House Willow. He swore softly.

Han squeezed his shoulder. ‘If I know Louen, he got free of that.’

‘I hope so.’

‘We might need some cover. Can you…?’ Han wiggled his fingers and his eyebrows meaningfully. ‘Get them running in one direction, and then we can go in the other.’

‘We’ll have to go East then. The closest fire’s in the West. I can’t create smoke from nothing, remember.’

‘Well, do it then.’

Gael nodded, and shimmied backwards, a little closer to the other end of the street where a fire was gaining ground, despite the efforts of the townspeople to put it out, bullied and chivvied by the soldiers. He produced a pale grey powder from his pouch, sprinkled it into the air, and with a swiftly muttered incantation, blew it over the street.

Instantly, a cloud of billowing black smoke churned into the air. He added a pinch more about halfway on his way back, ensuring that anyone in the street couldn’t see a damn thing and couldn’t shout things like ‘there they are!’ and ‘get them!’ because of all the oily smoke in their eyes and throats, and he and Han slithered down into the back alley and ran for the East gate.

They reeled back again at the sight of the silk sleeves and long, light hair on the corpse swinging gently in the night-time breeze, and Gael threw up in the gutter, choking on tears.

Haniven dragged him along to a back-alley, lifted a grille, and shoved him down. He jumped down after him and pulled the grille back into place. He snapped his fingers and conjured a faint mage-light, then grasped Gael’s shoulder once more and propelled him along, keeping West for a bit then South. No time for grief; they had to get out. If they'd caught Louen, they'd be after the rest of the crew. That included him and Gael. He hoped to all the hells they were the only two who had come to Wayland that day, and the rest had stayed in the Eerie. 

They stopped to catch their breath under the South gate, and Gael gave in to his grief completely. Haniven was less given to such outward displays of emotion, but he shook as he held his friend against him. He had no words of comfort, so he said nothing, and waited until the tears had subsided enough to shake Gael into silence.

‘We can’t stay here. We have to get out and on our way to the Forest before dawn.'

‘Tell me how we do that, with the moor crawling with Queen’s bastards,’ snapped Gael. He scrubbed his eyes with the hem of his tunic. 

‘We run as beasts,’ said Haniven. He’d hesitated before saying it, for it was difficult magic, and rendered the user more or less bedridden for several days after. And he didn’t know if he could manage two of them, or how long he’d be able to manage it for. He’d never tried. At least it was only the two of them. Rhas hadn’t accompanied Gael, as he usually did, complaining of feeling unwell that morning.

‘Tell me what to expect,’ said Gael, resigned to Haniven’s proposal.

‘There’s not a lot to it, in the actual act,’ said Han. It requires some…some closeness between us. We’ll need to mingle bodily fluids – I favour blood…’ he trailed off, not saying what he knew Gael had grasped.

They didn’t have time for that, however. He suspected it would be pleasant, but if this worked, they could use it for another night. Just for fun.

'Are you alright with that?' he prompted, when Gael said nothing. 'I can't guarantee either of us will be able to control it...'

'I'm alright with it,' said Gael. He glanced at Haniven. 'Are you, though? I know you're in love with Rosa. I don't want to...I don't want...'

'I'll be fine. You've seen how I deal with that. This won't be any different, Gael. Just bodies, and lust. Nothing more. I just don't want you to feel ashamed once it's over. But I don't want you thinking I expect anything after...it'll just be the once.'

'I understand.'

Haniven took Gael's face in his hands and looked into his eyes. Seeing nothing there that suggested Gael was lying about anything he'd said, he nodded, and let him go. 'Good. Then, I'll get started. It's not painful, just the initial cut, that's all. Roll up your sleeve, then.'