A concerted effort was being made to silence his agents as some sorcerous plot came to a climax.

This morning it had seemed like a blessing when Manfred had finally got back into contact, claiming to have found out something of vast importance. A cunning man, Manfred, and a thief well acquainted with the city’s underworld and its secret wars. He had managed to go to ground and avoid the fate of the other agents, or so it had seemed. The message had called for a meeting at their usual spot in the Maze, a tavern called the Dog’s Head.

Ambrose had gone there, but Manfred had not shown up. A terrible suspicion had been born in the monk’s mind then. Manfred might not be coming. He might have broken under torture and written the note. Ambrose had noticed a group of hard-looking men eying him and decided to make his escape. He ducked out to the privy and somehow managed to get his bulk over the back wall and the chase had begun.

He offered up a prayer to the Holy Sun and began to move again. A horde of rats, disturbed by his movement, scurried out of the middens, their small eyes glittering hungrily. The sight of them brought back certain horrific suspicions that had been preying on Ambrose’s mind.

He kicked out, scattering the rodents but one of them nipped at his leg, burying tiny sharp teeth in his calf. He brought his legs together, crushing the beast and lumbered on. Up ahead a large man emerged from an alley mouth, a crossbow held in his hand. Ambrose lashed out with his weighted bludgeon, connecting with the man’s head, sending him reeling back into a puddle of piss and rain-water.

He picked up the crossbow. He had no training with such a thing but at close range, as a last resort, it might prove useful. He was willing to try anything that might help him escape. If he could just get out of the Maze, he might find a Watch Patrol. He might yet be able to get away. He was not too far from Cheap Street now. If he could just run a few hundred more strides . . .

He heard more whistles from up ahead. His pursuers had already cut off that route. He consulted with the map of the Maze he had carried in his head since his first visits here as a novice more than twenty years ago. He could backtrack and take a right turn, that would put him on Blood Vennel; from there he might be able to make his way back to the Silver Lamprey. Or he could just lie down and wait for them to find him. Given the state of his body, that was becoming an increasingly attractive option.

No. Don’t give up. He clutched the crossbow tight and forced himself to move. Something clattered down in the muck ahead of him, roofing slates most likely, dislodged by observers on the roof.