The Edinburgh Dead

Masquerade

The harlequin stared back at Quire. It was a full-face mask of lacquered papier mâché, its lower half pale, almost like ivory, the upper gleaming with black and red diamonds laid out over the brow and cheeks. Two eyes stared out through neatly cut holes. There was a slit for a mouth, too, but the harlequin was not saying anything. He wore the traditional suit: luridly matching jacket and pantaloons, both a patchwork of coloured diamonds, all seamed and trimmed with gold thread; a three-horned hat of black felt, with a tiny bell jiggling at the tip of each horn.

“Well, what do you say, man?” Quire demanded, raising his voice above the music spilling through the open doors of the ballroom. “It’ll not be for long. Easiest shilling you’ll ever earn.”

“If anyone found out…” the harlequin whimpered.

He was a big man, beneath that garish costume—that was why Quire had chosen him—but not beyond intimidation once a bit of bluster and bluff was applied.

“Nobody’ll know,” Quire insisted. “It’s just for a prank on a friend of mine. No harm can come of it. Damn it, make it two shillings, then. How much are you getting paid for your night’s work? I must be doubling or trebling it at least.”

“And using my money to do it,” Wilson Dunbar observed.

Quire shot him a sharp sideways glance to discourage further interruptions, but Dunbar had always been resistant to discouragement.

“What? It’s true enough, isn’t it?” he said with an innocent shrug.

He leaned closer to the harlequin and spoke loudly into his ear.

“I’d take the money, if I was you. This one’s stubborn as all hell when he gets an idea in his head.”

The harlequin nodded. He did it hesitantly, so that the bells on his hat barely tinkled, but he did it. And that was enough for Quire to take hold of his arm and guide him firmly towards the cloakroom.

The attendant watched in faintly perturbed confusion as Quire, Dunbar and the harlequin pushed in amongst the racks of coats and cloaks, hats and canes. They got themselves to the cloakroom’s furthest corner, out of sight of the trickle of guests still flowing through the wide lobby of the Assembly Rooms. Hidden away there, amidst the garb and accessories of wealth, Quire began to strip off his jacket and trousers.

“Come along,” Dunbar said jovially to the harlequin, prodding the man in the arm. “Sooner it’s done, sooner it’s done with.”

Stiffly, no doubt burdened by second thoughts, the harlequin reached up to take the mask from his face.

Cath had come to find Quire with the message. He was lingering—had been lingering for a long time—around the stalls on the High Street.

For all his gratitude at Cath’s willingness—eagerness, in fact—to take him in, and put a roof over his head, he found the Holy Land a hard place to be. She was wont to lie late in her bed, and though he could share in that ease for a little while, he tired of it sooner than she, and would take himself off on whatever errand he could think of.

He had told her almost nothing of the reasons for his abandonment of his own lodgings, and she asked few questions. That was the training of her trade, and her life, he supposed; but also, perhaps, that she was simply glad of his arrival, and cared not what had brought it about.

“How long does it take to buy a bit of bread, then?” she asked him now.

Her hair was tousled, still disordered by sleep, and she clasped her arms about herself as if not yet ready to embrace the day. It made Quire want to hold her to him, but he merely smiled.

“A while, it seems.”

“There was a boy come looking for you at the Land. Had a message for you, and I thought you might be wanting to hear it sooner than later.”

It was telling of the narrow, insecure path Quire walked that his first thought was not of the content of the message, but of its mere arrival.

“How did he know where to look for me?” he asked, frowning.

Cath shrugged.

“Said he went to the police house first. Must not have known you’re not much seen round those parts any more. Someone there told him where to find you.”

“I’d not really wanted them to know where I was, either.”

“The Holy Land leaks secrets like a sieve, Adam. You’d maybe have better thought on that before. Anyway, are you wanting this message or not? It’s not warm enough for me to be up and out this early.”

She gave a little demonstrative shudder of her shoulders. That made Quire smile.

“Aye, all right.”

“Durand says he’ll be at the ball, and if you can get him safely out from there, he’ll come away with you. Whatever that means. The wee lad thought it was all a grand adventure; said this funny-talking man whispered it in his ear, and put a coin in his hand, all in a moment or two, outside some New Town shop. Then walked off with a couple who came out, acting like nothing had happened.”

“He’d not want to be seen sending messages off, right enough,” Quire murmured, distracted. “What ball’s he talking about, though?”

“Oh, do you not know anything, Adam?” Cath scoffed. “The Fancy Ball, at the Assembly Rooms. Best of the season, they say. They’ll all be there, with their noses in the air and their snouts in the trough.”

So Quire found himself pulling on the camouflage of a harlequin’s clothes in a cloakroom, while the sounds of exuberant merriment roared out from the ballroom.

The Assembly Rooms were the heart of the New Town, in as much as it could be said to possess such a thing. Placed midway along its most noble boulevard, George Street, they were the hub about which the pleasant life of the inhabitants turned. Coming in through the busy lobby, Quire had seen posters advertising a host of diversions for those with the time and money to spare: a performance of The Tempest, down at the East End Theatre; a phrenological lecture here at the Assembly Rooms; and this very Fancy Ball, from which none who thought themselves members of elevated society would dare to be absent.

There was only one of that society Quire had any interest in tonight. If Durand was indeed here, he was leaving with Quire. That was the plan, in any case. Whether the rudimentary scheme Quire had thrown together in such haste truly merited the title of plan was debatable, but he had done what he could in the time available.

His guilt at dragging Wilson Dunbar into this was heavy, but he had not been sure he could manage it on his own. Dunbar, to his credit, had been all too willing to lend a hand. That, of course, might be because Quire had not told him everything. Had not troubled him with the details of Cold Burn Farm, or of Major Weir’s house.

Nor had he told James Robinson why he needed two tickets for the Fancy Ball. He knew no one other than the former superintendent who might be able to provide such things, and as it turned out, Robinson had no need of those he and his wife already possessed.

They were settled in a modest house on the south side of the Old Town, which seemed comfortable enough, but Quire was saddened to see how reduced Robinson already appeared, after so short a time. His eyes had lost a little of their life, his voice had softened. Perhaps, Quire hoped, it was just the burden of the gout, a visitation of which was the cause of their lack of interest in the Fancy Ball.

Robinson had asked not a single question, beyond his first: “You’re not going to do anything foolish, are you?”

“I hope not,” was the best Quire had been able to do by way of answer.

The harlequin: that was improvisation. Seeing all the serving staff hurrying to and fro, every one of them clad in this same festive disguise, Quire had been suddenly taken by the wisdom of donning a mask. It had required a degree of patience, waiting for one of the waiters going in and out of the ballroom to display a build to match Quire’s bulky frame, and now that he was dressed in the pantomime outfit, Quire was not so sure of the idea.

He could already feel sweat forming over his face. The mask was unpleasantly confining and close-fitting. The harlequin costume itself was a little looser, but heavier than it had looked. It would not be long, though. He told himself that and hoped it was true. If this did not happen quickly, it would likely not happen at all.

“Right, you wait here and I’ll check the lie of the land,” he said to Dunbar, who held his hand to his ear with an exaggerated flourish.

“Speak up, man, you’ve something covering your mouth there.”

“Wait here, and I’ll have a look inside,” Quire growled.

Dunbar swapped the heavy cape he carried folded over his right arm to his left, so that he could flick a mock salute at Quire.

“You look like a fool,” he said, “but then so did most of the folk I’ve taken orders off, so I’ll not hold it against you.”

Quire grunted, and made his way down the lobby of the Assembly Rooms. Wide wooden staircases rose on either side, towards the many meeting rooms and exhibition spaces on the upper floor, but there was only one place to be this evening, and that was the grand ballroom at the far end of the hall. Its doors stood open, held back on brass hooks, and through that portal, Quire saw a tumultuous sea of colour.

The cream of Edinburgh society swirled about the dance floor, or thronged its edges, in a great, flamboyant crowd. There were pirates and princesses, soldiers and highwaymen; tartans and silks and jewels and feathers. A fanciful world of ebullient dreams.

A small orchestra played on a dais at the back of the hall, and the dancers spun about in graceful circles, a hundred bright eddies in a many-hued pool. Masked harlequins worked their way through the lively throng, distributing drinks and candies and sweetmeats. It was a bewildering maelstrom, for a man in search of a singular and particular quarry.

Quire looked up, not to the glittering chandelier with its dozen gas-jet pinpricks of white light, but to the wide balconies that ran around the hall. They were filled with seating, for the ballroom served as lecture hall too. He found his way up there easily, and it seemed a safe enough vantage point. He could look down upon the whole delirious scene, and saw not a single face, masked or otherwise, lifted up towards him; the entire population of the ballroom was entirely absorbed in the festival they had fashioned for themselves.

It took him a little while to find them. The cacophony of sight and sound down there on the floor was distracting, making it difficult to pick out the details he needed. But there they were: Ruthven and Isabel, his wife, dancing with the rest, close to the musicians. He a turbaned corsair, complete with a great sabre at his belt that Quire could tell even from this distance was a fabrication; she an Ottoman princess, or harem girl perhaps, radiant in pink silks, flowing skirt bedecked with glimmering glass beads.

Durand stood alone, right back against the wall near the doors. Exactly what character he was meant to portray, Quire was unsure, for the Frenchman looked little different from his usual dapper style, save for the addition of a powdered wig of the most old-fashioned sort. He was sipping from a tall fluted glass, but did not give the impression of a man greatly enjoying the experience.

Quire went quickly down and slipped out once more to find Dunbar, who was leaning on the counter of the cloakroom, keeping a discreet watch to ensure that the servant Quire had deprived of his costume did not change his mind and raise a hue and cry.

Quire pushed the suffocating mask up on to the top of his head, and savoured the release from its confinement.

“You look like a bit of roast meat,” Dunbar observed.

“Never mind that,” Quire said, wiping the sweat from his face with his chaotically coloured sleeve. “I’ve seen the man I need. I’ll send him out to you. You’ll know him when you see him: small man, about fifty or so, wearing a stupid little wig.”

“What about you?” Dunbar asked.

“I’ll hang back, just for a minute, to make sure we’re not followed. We need to spirit him away, if we can, and leave them not knowing we’ve got him, let alone where we’ve taken him. You just get rid of the silly wig he’s wearing off his head, and wrap him up in the cape. If you can sneak a hat out of the cloakroom, maybe put that on him, too. I’d have brought one if I’d thought of it. Anything that’ll make him harder to spot or recognise. I don’t need anyone even remembering the sight of him, so they can’t say where he’s gone if they’re asked.”

“Aye, and I don’t want to know myself. Whatever it is you’re up to, I’m about at my limit for getting involved.”

“Quite right. Don’t worry about that.”

Quire hurried back to the door of the ballroom, eager to ensure the dance did not finish, and the Ruthvens abandon the dance floor, before he had done what he came to do. Everything was, thus far, playing out more easily than he could have hoped, and he did not mean to mock his good fortune by pushing it any further than it wanted to go.

He plunged into the gorgeous assembly, and made his way directly towards Durand. He went through the crowd a little more roughly and urgently than was fitting for a servant, but that seemed a risk worth the taking. A jester he bumped against turned sharply and made some complaint, but Quire was already beyond him, closing on Durand. He was no judge of the sort of music to which these grand folk danced, but there seemed to be a rising, speeding vigour to the orchestra’s playing that suggested the end might be drawing near. Time was short.

He knocked Durand’s glass firmly against his chest, spilling its contents down the front of the Frenchman’s waistcoat.

Durand stared down at the spreading stain in surprise.

“Listen,” Quire said as clearly as he could. “You need to clean yourself up. Go out into the lobby as if that’s what you mean to do. There’s a man waiting there, by the cloakroom. He has clothes to make you a bit less obvious.”

Durand stared in disbelief into the variegated mask confronting him.

“Sergeant Quire?” he said.

“Yes, of course. Get out there, man. You’re coming away from here with me tonight.”

“I think it unlikely.” Durand shook his head dolefully, a little of the excessive powder that had been applied to his wig drifting on to his shoulders. “They are suspicious of me, and…”

Quire seized him roughly by the arm, squeezing the flesh of it above the elbow. He put every fierce sentiment he had cultivated over the last weeks into his voice.

“I need to know everything you know, Durand. Everything, not hints and games. So you’re coming away with me now, or so help me I’ll add you to the list of folk I’ve got a quarrel with.”

The Frenchman stared into Quire’s eyes.

“You misunderstand me. I am not unwilling, but I fear perhaps they are forewarned. Blegg accompanied us tonight, a thing he never does. He is outside somewhere, on the street.”

Quire ground his teeth in exasperation. But he steeled himself.

“You’ll not likely have another chance, Durand. You’ve got two men here, tonight, willing to do all we can to help you. We’ll not be coming again.”

Durand hesitated. Then he nodded, just once, curtly.

“Go,” Quire snapped through the mask. “Tell the man waiting in the lobby I’ll need the pair of you to wait for me. We’ll all go out together.”

The music died behind him even as he watched Durand working his way rapidly towards the doors. A ripple of applause rolled around the room. Quire made his own way through the crowd, going carefully, making himself as anonymous as a big man in a harlequin costume could; it should be possible here, tonight, if nowhere else.

He was stymied, though, by a stiff arm thrust out to block his path. An angry jester brandished a belled and beribboned stick at him.

“Was it you, just barged into me?” the jester demanded. “Not so much as an apology, not so much as an excuse me?”

Quire shook his head mutely, and made to move away.

The jester tapped him on the chest with that ringing stick.

“Disgraceful, sir! Quite disgraceful. I will be making a complaint to your employer.”

“Aye, go ahead,” Quire said and moved decisively away, striding quickly enough to leave his assailant in his wake.

He got himself into the doorway, and turned back to cast his eyes over the bobbing hats and wigs and tiara-laden heads. He looked for Ruthven’s turban, or for anything that might be suggestive of pursuit, and saw nothing. The musicians were tuning their instruments, putting violins back under their chins. There would be another dance in moments.

He spun on his heel.

“Mr. Quire,” he heard behind him. “Mr. Quire, that is you, isn’t it?”

He could have kept going, perhaps, but he feared Ruthven might raise a commotion, even have him detained. That would leave Durand and Dunbar alone.

He stopped, and turned about, and faced Ruthven, who must have come up to the door along one of the walls, out of Quire’s line of sight, and must have done it quickly. He was taking the absurd turban off his head, and ran a long-fingered hand back through his hair to straighten it.

“I thought I recognised the set of those shoulders. Do take that ridiculous mask off, man.”

Quire did so, and glared at Ruthven.

Another harlequin, carrying two empty trays in his hands, came out of the ballroom. Ruthven moved out of his way, to one side of the doors.

“I really thought we had done with you, Mr. Quire,” he said, picking at the cloth of his headgear. “I really did. Blegg predicted I would learn otherwise, and so it transpires. I am very sorry to find I was mistaken. Sorry for you, as much as anything.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about me.”

The music started up, snaking out from the dais, through the open doors, rolling around Ruthven and Quire. A waltz, Quire thought.

“No,” Ruthven was saying. “I don’t intend to worry about you, I can assure you of that. I’ll be leaving the question of what to do with you entirely to others now.”

“That wouldn’t be your Mr. Blegg you’re talking about, would it?” Quire smiled. “I’ve formed the impression he maybe does a fair bit of your dirty work for you.”

“Believe me, you have no idea. None at all.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to my education, then.”

“I doubt that. Blegg tells me you have been sneaking about on my farm, and at a certain hovel in the Old Town.”

Quire said nothing, but he felt the tremor of confession in his own face.

“I see it’s true. How enterprising of you. Evidently I have misjudged you from the very beginning of our unfortunate acquaintance.”

Still Quire said nothing, hoping that Dunbar would have the sense to keep Durand out of sight. Ruthven pursed his lips.

“Look at you,” he said. “Not even on police pay any more, and still you’re nipping at my heels. Why don’t you just go home, Mr. Quire? Alone.”

“The difficulty I have with that is I’m thinking I’ll not be long above ground, now you know I’m still paying you some attention. Am I right?”

Ruthven smiled thinly.

“Do you know,” he said, “I think you might be. There, now: we all know where we stand. What have you done with Durand, by the way? I don’t see him.”

Ruthven peered over Quire’s shoulder, eyes narrow and questioning.

“I’ve not seen him, so I couldn’t say,” Quire said.

“Oh. I really did think I was paying sufficient attention to his whereabouts, but once again you have managed to surprise me. What a pity the police decided to dispense with the services of such a resourceful fellow.”

Ruthven sniffed in dry amusement at his own barbed humour. He glanced around, taking in the traffic of gaudily dressed celebrants, like a parade of exotic birds.

“There’s been about two things in my life I was any good at,” Quire said levelly. “Soldiering and policing. Maybe I can’t help but be one or the other of those, paid or not. I’m ready to try the policing line, if you are. Are you going to come along to a judge with me and tell him all that you’ve done?”

Ruthven smiled, almost pityingly.

“No, Mr. Quire, I am not.”

“No. You’re not. Then maybe it’s the soldiering line for me after all.”

“I see. I see. You know, I think you have the advantage over me, for there is only really one thing I have ever been good at. I have attempted a number of roles in my life, but the truth is I found no great success in any of them: farmer, merchant, investor. Husband. I was not suited to any of them.

“But, do you know, I have done things in the last few years that men will one day wonder at. I have tapped into the well at the very root of life, and made the vital forces flow at my command.”

“And how many deaths have been caused by your miracle-working?”

“I do not suppose you could be expected to understand,” Ruthven said, almost sadly. “There is a price to be paid for revelation, Mr. Quire. For revolution. Knowledge is not always paid for solely by the sweat of the brow. A hundred years from now, the knowledge, the wonders will persist. The price paid for them will be forgotten. Forgiven.”

“You buy it with blood, I say it’s not worth the having.”

“You’re wrong. I can say nothing more than that. Well, I must return to my wife. There will be talk, you know, if I seem to be neglecting her.”

He slipped the turban back on to his head, and with a last lingering look down the length of the lobby towards the doors out on to the street, he turned back and sank into the costumed host of his kind.

Quire blew out a long breath and went slowly towards the cloakroom, casting many a backward glance to ensure Ruthven did not reappear. He found Dunbar and Durand in a secluded corner, just inside the main entrance, and dropped his now useless mask to the floor there. Durand had been stripped of his distinctive wig and enclosed in the overly capacious cape. A plain and rather shapeless soft hat was pulled down over his head.

“Can we go now?” Dunbar asked with a rather plaintive hint to his voice.

“We can, and the sooner the better,” Quire said. “I’m not sure how this is going to go, mind. There might be a problem or two.”

Dunbar rolled his eyes.

“Do you know where Blegg is?” Quire demanded of Durand.

“No,” the Frenchman said. “Outside somewhere. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“I was going to get us straight into a hackney cab outside, but it’d be too easy to follow us. We’ll get down on to Princes Street. There’ll be plenty of hackneys down there, and it’ll make Blegg show himself if he’s about. We either shake him off, or deal with him a bit more roughly.”

Durand looked downcast.

“You are a capable man, but I rather doubt you can deal with Mr. Blegg, as you put it.”

“We’ve not exactly got a whole host of choices,” Quire muttered.

There was quite a crowd on the pavement outside the Assembly Rooms. Many of them were the drivers of the hackney carriages which, as Quire had predicted, were lined up on the street awaiting the custom of departing guests. The drivers leaned against the pillars of the portico, smoking pipes, quietly trading gossip. There were quite a few casual onlookers too. Those who would never be invited to such a gathering, and were curious at the light and music drifting out on to the street, and hoping to get a look at some of the elaborate costumes.

Quire and Dunbar moved their companion briskly away from the throng, keen to get a bit more space around them. They went from one pool of gaslight to the next along the street, the gentle whine of each lamp growing louder as they approached it and fading away behind them as they passed beyond it. It was late, and the fine shops were closed, most of the great houses quiet.

They turned down on to the sharp slope of Frederick Street and Quire looked back as they moved around the corner. A single figure was separating itself from the shadows beneath the portico of the Assembly Rooms, moving smartly after them.

He pushed Durand into a trot as they descended towards Princes Street.

“Is there going to be trouble?” Dunbar asked as he jogged along at Quire’s side.

He was entirely serious now, any notion of the evening’s events as some kind of game discarded. The soldier in him came to the fore less easily than did Quire’s, but it was there nonetheless.

“Maybe,” Quire said. “I don’t know. Should’ve brought a pistol.”

“They’d hardly let you carry such a thing into the Assembly Rooms. You’d have had trouble hiding it in that clown’s outfit, anyway.”

Quire glanced down at his motley dress, and was struck by what an absurd, and obvious, figure he cut, hurrying along the New Town streets like a fugitive from some wandering theatre troupe. He had vaguely thought he would have the chance to shed the disguise before leaving, but that, in hindsight, had never been likely.

They emerged on to the broad expanse of Princes Street with the soaring dark mass of the castle before them, like a vast umbrageous thundercloud detached from the night sky and settled down to rest atop the crags. It was dotted, though, with points of light: the windows of its huge barracks, and lanterns burning here and there along its meandering walls.

There were no buildings along the south side of Princes Street—none save the Royal Institution, a short way further east—just a long run of black, spiked railings and beyond them the sweeping gardens that plunged down and across to the base of the castle’s huge rock. Those gardens were a black, blank void, obscured by the glare of the tall gaslights lining the street.

Quire looked back. Blegg—he was almost certain it was him, though he could not make out his features at this distance—was coming down after them, walking quickly.

“We need to shake him off,” Quire muttered.

Directly ahead of them, opposite the foot of Frederick Street, a gate broke the line of the iron railings. It would be locked—the gardens were a private pleasure for the residents and shopkeepers of Princes Street—and was, like the railings themselves, head high. But it had no spikes atop it.

“Into the gardens,” Quire said promptly. “No light there. We can lose him, or spring a little trap of our own.”

“Right,” Dunbar said.

He did not sound entirely convinced, but responded without hesitation to the taut urgency in Quire’s voice.

Dunbar darted forward, set his strong hands on the top of the gate and swung his legs up and over with a great heave of his shoulders. Quire put his hands to Durand’s waist even as they drew near the gate, and lifted him from his feet. Dunbar reached over and hauled the Frenchman into the gardens. The two of them fell in a heap, crunching down on to the gravel path.

Quire did not need to look around to know what Blegg was doing. He could hear running feet, pounding closer. He flung himself at the gate, hitting it hip high, folding himself over the top of it, landing on his back on the path beyond. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, glimpsing Blegg’s dark form rushing down the last of Frederick Street’s slope, coming into the pools of light cast by the chain of streetlights. The man was fast; unnervingly so.

Quire ran after Dunbar and Durand, already disappearing into the profound darkness of the gardens. He could hear them clearly enough, though, for the gravel path was not made for silence.

“Get off the path,” he called softly, and followed them as they veered off over the manicured lawns.

They crouched into one of the big thickets of ornamental shrubs. Most of the bushes were foreigners; evergreens with thick, heavy concealing leaves. Durand was gasping for breath.

“Be quiet,” Quire whispered.

Blegg appeared, up there at the railings. Peering down into the gardens. Seeing, Quire hoped, not much more than they had: just the inky, lightless nothing. Blegg moved slightly to one side. His head was framed by the glowing lantern head of one of the gaslights, like a radiant halo.

“There’s three of us,” Dunbar murmured. “We could sort him out easy enough, couldn’t we?”

“Maybe,” said Quire. He was reluctant to trust any assumptions regarding Blegg’s capabilities. “In any case, there’s only two of us worth the counting, I’d guess.”

“Quite true,” Durand whispered. “And he would kill both of you, most likely.”

“I didn’t sign up for getting killed, any more than I did killing,” muttered Dunbar.

Blegg carefully, deliberately, set both his hands atop the gate and vaulted it in a single leap, swinging his legs up high and clear. A manoeuvre that Quire could not have matched.

“Shit,” Dunbar whispered, evidently reconsidering the advisability of confrontation.

They eased themselves further back amongst the bushes. Quire had never been inside the gardens before, and could remember precious little of any use as far as their layout was concerned, even though he had often enough looked down over the railings and thought it a pleasant view. One thing he did remember, with something approaching certainty: the only other gates were further along to the west of them, down towards St. John’s and St. Cuthbert’s, the chapel and church that dominated the far end of Princes Street.

“Right, well I’ll draw him off, and you get your little French package here away,” Dunbar said suddenly.

“No,” hissed Quire.

Dunbar was already shifting his weight, settling himself on the balls of his feet.

“Hush. It’ll be easy enough. I’ll just take him off into a corner somewhere and slip out over the railings. Once he sees it’s just me, he’ll leave off pretty sharp. It’s you two he’s after, you poor buggers.”

“No, you don’t…” Quire said desperately, but he was saying it to Dunbar’s heels.

Dunbar went crashing away, thrashing through the shrubs with abandon, and pounding his feet on the turf as he plunged into the darkness.

“Christ,” groaned Quire.

They heard Blegg ghosting past over the grass; a much lighter tread. Quire’s heart hammered away, and his legs trembled with the desire to throw himself out and after Blegg. He struggled with the instinct, and stifled it.

Dunbar was quick on his feet, and nobody’s fool. He could take care of himself if he had to. That was all Quire could hope as he dragged Durand hurriedly but quietly away in the opposite direction.