There was a narrow strip of light showing under the door of the duke’s bedchamber. Strange. Could there possibly be someone inside?

I set my ear to the keyhole.

“Nonsense! I am loyal to the Master!” a harsh, shrill voice exclaimed.

The duke? Why in the name of darkness was he at home and not out hunting?

“Loyal?” The second voice sent cold shivers down my spine—it was pure malice, without a single drop of life in it: a blend of baleful mockery and the chill of the grave. “Strange. If that is so, then why has the king still not abandoned his foolish plans for the Horn?”

“That’s all because of his accursed guard and Alistan Markauz. The king is watched round the clock. The captain suspects something. I’m not able to speak to His Majesty in private.”

“My Master is not accustomed to his orders not being carried out.”

“And I am not accustomed to not getting what I was promised long ago!” The man’s voice broke into a shout. “You’re all despicable, lying scum! I want nothing more to do with you.”

“Very well. Now you will receive your payment,” the dead voice said after pausing for a moment, as if its owner were listening carefully to some new instruction.

“Wait, wait, I was jok—Aaaagh!”

There was a repulsive squelching sound on the other side of the door, then something fell and the shutters slammed against the wall as they were thrown open.

I swore under my breath and peeked warily into the duke’s bedchamber.

The flame in the hearth was flickering feebly, too faint to illuminate the gigantic room and only picking a few spots out of the darkness, but I had an excellent view of Duke Patin sitting bolt upright in his armchair with his face contorted in terror and his throat ripped out. Blood was gushing from the ragged wound in jolly, rhythmical spurts.