'But I could kill him now.' The speaker's deeply-set eyes, hooded by thick brows, glittered avariciously. He ignored the rain soaking

his thick black hair and running down over the tattooed feathers on his cheek andl neck as he glared down the street, but the abbot had

arleady turned (he corner.

His god would not let you,' said his companion. 'Renouncing any God as you have is not done lightly, and Vellern would stop you from

harming one who is first among his worshippers. Perhaps the Lord of the Birds would take the opportunity to extract a measure of revenge

too ' the second man wore a green minstrel's hat and tunic and hugged a flute close under his left arm He looked only a little damp,

as though the rain were reluctant to touch him. His soft brown hair was not wet enough to have darkened and his cheeks, as smooth as a young man's, despite the air of age about him, remained dry. A slight smile, both knowing and scornful, curled the edges of his mouth.

'We have others who could,' growled the dark-haired man. Once known as Prior Corci, now he was Jackdaw, reviled as a traitor and murderer. His new master had called him that the first time they met, no more than six months past, in one of the monastery's dank, unused cellars. He had thought it a joke, but steadily he'd found the name had spread, even amongst Brothers who knew nothing of his intended treachery. Prior Corci was being steadily erased from history, as every week that passed, another man had forgotten about him. Jackdaw knew there was no going back, no escape from the choices he'd made, and only the thought of what else Azaer's power could achieve stopped him sinking into glum desperation at the loss of his former life.

Now Jackdaw blinked the rain from his eyes and squinted through the gloom at the empty street. 'The old man might be strong with the Skull, but an arrow would go right through that withered neck, whether or not he was holding magic. The Hounds would be glad to tear him apart.'