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  Suddenly, Genevieve lashed out with her right hand, dragging Vukotich's arm away from his body. Her hand sank into Xhou's form, and she dipped her arm into the spirit to the elbow.

  Xhou flew to pieces, and was gone.

  Vukotich was astonished. Genevieve smiled, a little smugly. "Vampires aren't the only things that don't like silver."

  "Of course."

  "There'll be other attacks. The Celestial won't stop at sending messengers."

  Vukotich knew she was right.

  "If we change our direction, we might appease him. If we went to the Black Mountains that would show we have no intention of interfering in his business."

  The vampire looked shocked. "You'd let them get away with it?"

  Vukotich shrugged. "Why not? I don't give a lashworm's tooth for Glinka."

  "But what of the Old World?"

  "It's not my Master. I have no Master. If I'm paid, I'll fight.

  If not, then the Emperor and the Chaos Cultists can tear each other to scraps for all I care."

  The vampire was quiet for a moment. Vukotich pulled the reins, and halted the ox.

  "Do we turn around?" he asked.

  Genevieve's face was unreadable. She had scraped off her whore's paint, and looked very much like a child.

  "Well?"

  "No," she said. "We'll go to Zhufbar and save that damned killjoy. We have no choice."

  "You may not, but I do."

  Genevieve smiled, teeth gleaming. She rattled the chain. "Vukotich, where I go, you go. Remember that."

  "We should part soon. You can be about your business, and I shall follow my own course."

  The vampire was exasperated. "You really are an Iron Man, aren't you? You've nothing but your calling."

  Vukotich almost remembered something, but it was from his long-vanished, never-again-thought-of past. It passed.

  "Pay me, and I'll fight."

  "Very well, I'll become your Mistress. You may not like it."

  Vukotich looked at her. "You have nothing, bloodsucker. You have no gold to buy me."

  Genevieve laughed bitterly. "No, but I have a little silver."

  By nightfall, they were in Chloesti, a medium-sized town. They arrived during some ceremony. There was a huge bonfire in the town square, and the familiar robed figures were approaching in a procession, throwing fuel into the blaze. It was a solemn occasion, without any music or dancing. Genevieve supposed it might be some kind of funeral rite. The old practices died hard in the outlying settlements of the Empire. Once, hundreds of years ago, she'd been thrown into a fire just like this in a Black Mountain village. It had taken ten years to grow all her skin back. She was surprised that the Moral Crusade had established itself even out here in the wilds. It lent an added urgency to her sense of mission. Blasko must be stopped.

  Since they made their bargain, Vukotich had been quiet. Genevieve wasn't certain how they could get past whatever barriers the Celestial was erecting to stop them, but she knew if she could get to Temple Master Wulfric, she could do something. If they were lucky, this affair would discredit Glinka as well as Blasko, and the Empire could get back to its comfortable mix of vice and virtue. It was strange how fate came around. Here she was, pretending to be a heroine again. When this was over, she would go back to being a barmaid, or perhaps seek out the Convent of the Order of Eternal Night and Solace and retreat from the messes of humankind. She was tired of Great Deeds, of songs and chap-books.

  They found the path of the cart blocked by townsfolk, standing in silence as the Moral Crusaders marched up to the fire.

  "What's going on?" Genevieve asked.

  A dejected-looking young man cursed and spat. "Glinka's Goodbodies just took over the Burgomeister's Offices."

  "What's in the fire?"

  A respectable-looking woman shushed them. She had a noticeable moustache. The young man, who had obviously been drinking something not coffee, ignored her.

  "Immoral books, they say, the meddling morons. They can't read and they can't write, but they know which books aren't good for you."

  Genevieve was intrigued. What could Chloesti harbour capable of outraging the Crusade? Was there perhaps a secret cache in the area, containing the Proscribed Grimoires of Slaanesh, as famously illustrated by the perverse woodcutter Khuff, or Berthe Manneheim's long-forbidden Arts of a Courtesan?

  "Immoral, hah!" the young man spat again. "Children's picture books, and the plays of Tarradasch. Images offend the gods, they say, and words are worse. Words are the worst thing of all, because they make people think, make people want for things outside the narrow range of their experience. Things like freedom. The freedom to think, to love, to question. The freedom to breathe."

  Two Acolytes struggled by with a huge painting depicting the sister goddesses Shallya and Myrmidia at play. The technique was crude, but there was a certain naive charm to the interpretation. It was tossed into the flames and consumed in an instant.

  Acolytes on horseback dashed into the square, dragging broken statues behind them with ropes. Stone and plaster limbs and heads shattered against the cobbles. A head rolled under the ox's hooves. Painted marble, it looked unpleasantly realistic.

  The fires burned fiercely. Firefly sparks spiralled up into the air like daemon ticks.

  "It must be hard for them," the young man said, "to be confined to burning poems, when what they'd really like to do is burn poets."

  The complainer's hands, Genevieve noticed, were liberally stained with ink, and his hair was a fingerlength longer than customary in this region. There was a large, floppy blossom in the lapel of his waistcoat, and his sleeves were loose and embroidered. She deduced his profession.

  "Barbarous fools," the poet shouted, waving a fist. "You'll never silence the voice of Art!"

  The woman with the moustache was deeply offended now. She had a child with her, a plump boy who was looking up at the angry poet with obvious admiration. Anyone capable of so upsetting his mama must have something worth watching. Burning pages floated above the square, crumpling to black ash.

  The poet had attracted the Acolytes, and a few of them were converging on him. Genevieve shrank against Vukotich, trying to seem like an innocent bystander.

  "He's the trouble-maker," said the woman, pointing. "The long-haired disgrace."

  The child was pulling at her skirts. She swatted him, and dragged him away.

  The Acolytes took hold of the poet, and wrestled him out of the crowd.

  The woman was fighting her son now. "Come, come, Detlef," she said, "you don't want to be with these nasty people. Poets and playwrights and actors and harlots. You're to be a vegetable merchant, like your papa, and keep us comfy in our old age."

  Genevieve felt sorry for the little boy. She looked at him. He couldn't have been more than six or seven.

  The Acolytes had their iron bars out now, and were giving the poet a pummelling. He was still shouting about Art living forever. There was blood on his face.

  "And she's in it too," the vegetable merchant's wife screeched, pointing at Genevieve. "She's with the scribbling swine!"

  The Acolytes' hoods bobbed as they looked up at the cart. Vukotich shook his head. He must seem massive from below, and definitely presented a more threatening appearance than the reedy poet.

  "Well," said the woman, "aren't you going to chastise them as sinners?"

  Genevieve and little Detlef stared at each other. There was something about his chubby face. He seemed fascinated with her. That happened sometimes, especially with children. Vampires were supposed to have that power, and some she had known - certainly including her father-in-darkness Chandagnac - had indeed been possessed of it. With her, it was a random, unselective, rare thing. And it worked both ways.

  The Acolytes thought better of picking on Vukotich and dragged the poet away. The mercenary glowered at the vegetable merchant's wife. She was shoved forwards by the crowd, and Vukotich put out a hand to fend her off. She backhanded his arm out of the way, and
he fell in the seat, his hand flailing down by the woman's skirts. Genevieve wondered what he was doing. He righted himself. The woman forced her way away from the wagon, tugging on her son's arm. Little Detlef smiled at Genevieve, and was gone.

  The moment was over, the frisson passed.

  A wheelbarrowload of books went into the fire, and the Acolytes pitched the barrow itself after them. There were no roars of approval, just a blank silence. Someone on a raised platform was preaching a sermon against wine, sensational literature, dancing and licentiousness.

  "Her," someone shouted, pointing at a young woman standing near them, "she makes up to all the men, leads good husbands astray..."

  The woman cringed, and turned to run, her long braids falling from her headscarf.

  "And Ralphus Mariposo," shouted another voice, "he is always singing, always dancing..."

  The accusations flew. Townsfolk turned on each other, branding their neighbours as degenerates, lechers, drunkards, gluttons, slackworkers, weirdroot-chewers, inverts, Chaos Cultists, adulterers, rumour-mongers, body-snatchers, abusers of the livestock, lycanthropes, changelings, subversive elements, free-thinkers, hobgoblins-in-disguise, traitors to the Empire. Some were hauled out by the Acolytes and beaten. Others fled, or were turned upon by the crowds.

  Genevieve nudged Vukotich and tried to get him to back the cart out of the crowd, but it was impossible. The people were packed in too tight, and the animal couldn't move. It strained in its harness.

  There was a near-riot now. Cobblestones had been pulled up and were flying through the air. One struck Genevieve in the head, doing no harm. The ox was down on its knees now, people fighting around it.

  "... perverter of children... imbiber of foul liquors... oblater at unclean altars... strangler of young goats... sourer of cream... giver of short measures..."

  "We have to get out of this," she told Vukotich.

  The ox's hide was bloody now. Someone had stabbed the animal. Two men were fighting with knives, each accusing the other of molesting a girl called Hilde Goetz. Someone was pushed into the fire, and ran screaming through the crowd. It was an immensely fat dwarf, and his oiled hair was burning like a lantern.

  Vukotich put his arm around her, wrapping the chain about her back, and got a good grip. He stepped down from the cart, helping her as if she were an invalid.

  "Out of my way," he said. "My wife is going to have a baby."

  The brawlers separated, and they were able to make their way out of the crowd. She was surprised at his presence of mind in coming up with a reasonable excuse for their behaviour.

  "You," he said to one of the knifemen. "Where's the nearest hostelry?"

  Vukotich towered over the man. His opponent stood off while he answered the mercenary.

  "Th-the Easeful Rest," he said. "It's on the Karak-Varn road, to the North."

  "Thank you, friend. My regards to Hilde Goetz."

  They walked away from the crowd, Vukotich supporting her as if her time were near. She moaned and groaned.

  The brawlers got back to their fight, knives flashing in the firelight.

  "We'll take refuge for the night," he said, "and be on our way early tomorrow."

  "We've no money, Vukotich."

  He grinned and produced a pouch of coins.

  "The goodwife with the moustache won't miss it."

  The Easeful Rest was the type of hostelry where all the previous customers appear to have been couples named either Schmidt or Braun. The Night Man was snoring, balanced against the wall in his chair, when Vukotich and Genevieve arrived, their blanket around their shoulders as if it were raining outside. With his left hand, which he was getting used to favouring, Vukotich rang the bell, and the Night Man fell out of his chair.

  "A room for the night," Vukotich said.

  The Night Man ambled over, and pulled out the great, leatherbound ledger and a quill. He opened its pages as if handling a sacred grimoire containing the secret whereabouts of Sigmar Heldenhammer, and wrote in the date.

  "Your name?" he asked.

  "Schmidt," Vukotich said. "Johann and Maria Schmidt."

  The Night Man's throat apple bobbed up and down.

  "We've stayed here before," Vukotich insisted.

  "Yes," the Night Man agreed, "before... before was, I'm afraid, a different matter. The Moral Crusade, you understand..."

  Vukotich glowered, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

  "... without a certificate of marriage, I'm sorry, but we have no rooms available..."

  With his left hand, Vukotich reached out and grasped a handful of the Night Man's shirt.

  "We're good customers. Mrs Schmidt and I have always enjoyed the hospitality of the Easeful Rest."

  "... um... er... certainly. It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr Schmidt... I hope you and your lovely wife enjoy your stay with us."

  Vukotich grunted. The Night Man held out the quill, and Vukotich reached for it.

  Genevieve grabbed his wrist and kept his right hand by his side, and took the quill herself.

  "I'll sign, shall I, dear?" she said. "Johann has hurt his hand."

  Embarrassed at having nearly made such a blunder, Vukotich kept quiet as Genevieve neatly scribbled their aliases in the register.

  The Night Man found a candle and a key, and gave them instructions to find their room. It was off the first floor landing, with a commanding view of the pigpens and, alas, the fragrance to go with it.

  "I could do with a bath," Genevieve said.

  "No chance in a filth-hole like this," Vukotich replied, stamping on a many-legged creature that scuttled out from under the large bed. "Besides, we'd have to cut ourselves out of our clothes."

  "You could do with a bath, too. A couple of days in that outfit hasn't perfumed you too much."

  She wandered around the room, looking in the drawers of the chests and opening the cupboards, and he, of necessity, trailed with her. Finally satisfied she had the measure of the room - a mixture of curiosity and caution, she tugged him over to the bed, sat down, and unlaced her torn and grimy slippers.

  He was ready to drop on the bed and die, but Genevieve, the night creature, was more awake than ever.

  Her clothes had stood up even less well than his to the exertions of the last few days. Flimsy in the first place, they were now indecent enough to give Claes Glinka apoplexy. She slipped the blanket off and dropped it on a floor, then stretched like a cat. Almost playfully, she pulled their chain, and raised her sharp nails to brush his cheek.

  Vukotich would never understand women, much less vampire women.

  "How old... ?" he asked.

  She pouted slightly. "Very."

  They were both on the bed now, their chain curled daintily between them. Vukotich wasn't tired any more.

  Genevieve unfastened her chemise, and exposed her slim white body to the light of two moons. Her chest rose and fell. She still breathed.

  That was important to Vukotich, to know she was not really dead, just different. He'd been with women who were different before, and never caught a trace of the warpstone.

  He rolled over, and kissed her harshly. She didn't struggle, but he could tell she thought he tasted bad. With both hands, her arm and the chain in the way, he unfastened his britches.

  She didn't fight him. She held him patiently, and responded pleasantly, but he could tell she wasn't caught up in their love-making. A lesser whore would have counterfeited a reaction, cajoled and flattered him. The chain got caught between them and left red link-marks on their bodies.

  It was over quickly.

  Exhausted, sweat-damp, Vukotich pulled himself from her, and crawled under the coverlet. A chain's-length away, he lapsed into sleep.

  Her touch came on his face, cool and pointed.

  "Satisfied?" she asked. It was a traditional whore's question.

  He breathed a "yes", hoping he would not dream of the Battle tonight.

  "Good." She kissed him gently, and slipped beside him, curvi
ng her body against his.

  She kissed him again. Half-asleep, he could not respond.

  She kissed his shoulder, and his neck.

  He felt a brief prick of pain as her mouthknives parted his skin, and then drifted into a daze.

  He was emptying, slowly, deliciously...

  The waterbowl showed a town across the Blackwater. Chloesti. Dien Ch'ing had never been there, but he knew where it was. There was a hostelry. The Easeful Rest. A most apt name. Most apt.

  Venerable Xhou had proved a disappointment, and would be bound by Tsien-Tsin in the Netherhells beneath the Pagoda for a century or so as a punishment for failure.

  The vampire and the mercenary would require a sterner lesson.

  On the flagstones, warmed by the light of the early morning sun, Ch'ing laid out scraps from his trunk. A dried piece of bamboo from the Forbidden Fields of Wu-Fan-Xu. An empty ivory vessel from Jackal Province. A phial of soil from the Eternal Gardens of the Monkey-King. A sealed bauble of water from the Great River of Cathay. A smear of eternally-burning sulphur from the Dragon's Tongue Slopes.

  Wood. Air. Earth. Water. Fire.

  Ch'ing conjured up the Five Element Masters, the chief subject daemons of Tsien-Tsin.

  The Masters would bar the interlopers' path.

  Ch'ing pulled on his robes. He must meditate for a day and a night. For tomorrow, his magic would be needed in the service of Tsien-Tsin.

  Tomorrow, Claes Glinka would die.

  Vukotich woke up to an intense awareness of his hurts. He felt every wound he had ever sustained, as if they were open and bleeding again. His limbs were anvil-heavy. The sunlight was a hammerblow.

  "Don't worry," she said. "It'll wear off."

  He sat up, and lunged for her. The sudden movement triggered a series of hitherto-unnoticed pains, and, seized up, he sank gently back onto the pillow. His rage still burned.