A lined face, pale against the deep shadow of the archway, looked out into the street. The ground before him was empty of people, but movement was everywhere as the deluge that was worsening by the minute turned the packed earth to spattering mud. The old man had a heavy woollen scarf wrapped over his head and tied tight under his chin so the now-sodden material framed his face. Anxiety filled Ins eyes as he saw only the plummeting rain churning the ground, running in rivers off the rooftops and overflowing the gutters in the middle of the street. The black feather tattoos that marked the right side of his face looked crumpled; over the decades the once-crisp lines had faded. The tumult of the rain slashing down filled the air as the old monk trembled in the darkness. He felt it crowding him, driving him back into the shadows.

'Where are you, Mayel?' His voice was nothing more than a shiver¬ing whisper, yet almost as he spoke a figure turned the corner and headed towards him, arms held uselessly over his head against the storm.

Mayel made straight for the archway, head hunched low, and splashed into the dark recesses of the monument that sheltered the old man. He shook himself violently, like a dog, scattering water like a fountain. 'Abbot Doren,' he said urgently, 'I found him. He's waiting for us at an inn, just a few streets east of here.' There was a flicker of triumph in his eyes that saddened the abbot. Mayel was young enough to think this was a grand adventure; that a murderer was pursuing them seemed not to have filtered through into the novice's mind.

'I have warned you,' the old man said, 'this is not a game: even a hint of my name could mean our deaths.'

'But there's no one out here!' he protested, eyes wide in dismay. The abbot could see Mayel had not been expecting another scolding;