“Ish not fair,” Larten complained to a man with a monocle. “I’m Qui- hic! I’m Quick- hic!” He gulped ale until the hiccups went away. “I’m Quicksilver,” he growled majestically.

“Aye?” the man said, passing Larten a pinch of snuff. “I’m in the leather trade myself.”

“Not my bizzzness,” Larten slurred. “Ish my… ish my…” He pulled a face and forgot what he was trying to say, then fell facedown on the table and knew no more until morning.

Larten awoke to savage pain. He was outside in the sun and his skin was a nasty shade of red. As he blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to raise a hand to protect his face from the rays, he found that his arms were tied behind his back and he was hanging upside down. His shirt has been ripped away, exposing his torso, which had been burned as deeply as his face.

Fear flared in his heart, but he thrust it from his thoughts. He didn’t know what was going on –

perhaps he had been caught feeding drunkenly — but that didn’t matter. He had to escape quickly or he would burn like a pig on a spit.

Larten set to work on the knots around his wrists.

He was hanging from a thick length of rope, swinging and turning in a soft breeze, but he ignored that and kept as still as possible, except for his fingers, which danced over the knots. The long, hardened nails of the vampires were invaluable when it came to picking knots and locks, but Larten would have been able to make short work of these regardless. He had learned well from Merletta all those years ago.