“And I thought Outlaws were such admirable folk,” Nortah commented.

“Brother,” Barkus said, nudging Vaelin and pointing to where Scratch was busily sniffing the grass on the bank. After a moment the slave-hound raised his head and bounded off, following the line of the river as they ran in pursuit. He paused again a few hundred paces short of the city walls, circling around some deep parallel tracks ploughed into the earth.

“Cart wheels,” Caenis said. “They hid him in cart to get him through the gate.”

Scratch was already off again, making for the north gate. The city guards waved them through with puzzled expressions but no words. The Order was never to be questioned. It was no surprise to Vaelin when Scratch soon led them to the southern quarter.

The streets were mostly deserted save for the usual assortment of drunks and whores, most of whom found somewhere else to be when they saw five brothers from the Sixth Order running behind a very large dog. Eventually Scratch stopped, standing tensed and still as he did when he was pointing out a trail when they hunted together. His nose pointed directly at a tavern nestled in a shadowed alley way. The sign hanging over the door marked it as the Black Boar. Lamplight glowed dimly through the windows and they could hear the raucous babble of liquor induced merriment.

Scratch began to growl, a soft but chilling rumble.

Vaelin knelt down, patting him gently on the head. “Stay,” he commanded.

The hound gave a plaintive whine as they moved towards the inn but did as he was told.

“What’s the plan?” Dentos asked as they paused at the doorway.

“I thought I’d ask them where Frentis is,” Vaelin replied. “After that I expect we’ll find out if we’re as well taught as we think we are.”

The vocal good humour of the inn’s patrons died instantly at the sight of them. A room of mostly unwashed and prematurely aged faces stared at them with a mixture of fear or palpable hatred. The man behind the bar was large, bald and clearly less than happy to see them.

“Good evening sir!” Nortah greeted him, striding towards the bar. “A fine establishment you have here.”

“Order ain’t welcome ‘ere,” the barman said. Vaelin noted the thin sheen of sweat on his top lip. “Ain’t right you comin’ in ‘ere. ‘Snot your place.”

“Oh don’t fret my fine fellow.” Nortah clapped the man on the shoulder. “We want no trouble. All we want is our brother. The one who stuck a knife in your master’s eye a few years ago. Be a good fellow and tell us where he is and we won’t kill you or any of your customers.”

A rumble of anger ran through the crowd and the barman licked his lips, his bald head now shining with sweat. For the briefest second his eyes flicked to his right before snapping back to Nortah. “No brothers here,” he said.

Nortah gave one of his best smiles. “Oh I beg to differ. Tell me, did you know a man can live for several hours, in agonising pain of course, after his stomach has been slit open?”

Vaelin followed the line of the barman’s brief glance, seeing little but the shuffling feet of nervous patrons and a dusty floor, except for a clean patch near the fireplace, a patch about a yard square. As he moved forward to take a closer look a man rose from a table, a muscular man with the broad knuckles and indented nose common to prize fighters.

“Where’re d’you think you’re go-”

Vaelin punched him in the throat without breaking stride, leaving him choking on the dusty floorboards. There was a cacophony of scraping chairs as other patrons rose, a murmur of anger building in the crowd. Vaelin crouched to inspect the patch of dust free floorboards which quickly revealed itself as a trap door. Well made, he judged, his fingers tracing the joins.

“Got no right here!” the barman was shouting as he straightened. “Comin’ in here hitting customers, making threats. Ain’t right.”

There was a loud growl of assent from the inn’s patrons, most now on their feet, many holding a variety of knives and cudgels.

“Order bastards,” one of them spat, brandishing a broad bladed knife. “Ventured where you shouldn’t. Need cutting down to size.”

Nortah’s sword came free of its scabbard in a blur, the man with the knife staring at his severed fingers as the blade clattered to the floor.

“No need for that kind of language, sir,” Nortah cautioned him sternly.

The rest of the crowd drew back a little and silence stretched, broken only by the knife man’s keening over his mutilated hand and the rasping chokes of the prize fighter Vaelin had punched. They’re afraid, Vaelin decided, scanning the faces in the crowd. But not scared enough to run. Numbers give them strength.

He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, once, sharp and loud. He had expected Scratch to use the door but the slave-hound apparently saw little obstacle in the window. Shattered glass exploded across the inn, the dark bulk of snarling muscle landing in the centre of the room, snapping viciously at any patrons unfortunate enough to be close by.

The inn emptied in a few seconds save for the two injured patrons and the barman, clutching a hefty cudgel, his chest heaving with fear.

“Why’re you still here?” Dentos asked him.

“If I run without fightin’, he’ll kill me,” the bald man replied.

“One Eye’ll be dead by morning,” Vaelin assured him. “Get out of here.”

The bar man gave them a last nervous glance before dropping his cudgel and running for the back door.

“Barkus,” Vaelin said. “Help me with this.”

They jammed their hunting knives into the join between the floor and the trap door and levered it open. The hole it revealed went straight down into a dimly lit cellar. Vaelin could see fire light flickering on the stone floor about ten feet below. He stepped back, drawing his sword and preparing to jump. Scratch, however, had picked up a fresh trail and saw little reason to linger. He flashed past Vaelin and disappeared into the hole. After a second or two the mingled sound of shock, pain and Scratch’s roaring growls left them in no doubt he had found some enemies.

“Think he’ll save any for us?” Barkus asked, wincing.

Vaelin jumped into the hole, landing and rolling on the stone floor, coming to his feet with his sword levelled. His brothers followed him in quick succession. The cellar was large, at least twenty feet across with torches set into the walls and a tunnel leading off to the right. There were two bodies in the cellar, both large men with their throats torn out. Scratch was sitting atop one of them, licking a bloodied snout. Seeing Vaelin he yelped briefly and disappeared into the tunnel.

“He’s still got the scent.” Vaelin lifted a torch from the wall and chased after the slave-hound.

The tunnel seemed to go on forever, though in truth it could only have taken a few minutes of racing after Scratch before they emerged into a large vaulted chamber. It was clearly an old structure, finely pointed brickwork arching up on all sides to meet in an elegant ceiling high above. A terrace of tiled steps led down to a flat, circular area in which was placed a large oak wood dining table decorated with a mismatched variety of gold or silver ware. There were six men seated at the table, playing cards in their hands and a scattering of coins between them. They stared at Vaelin and Scratch in stark amazement.

“Who in the name of the Faith are you?” one of them demanded, a tall man with a cadaverous face. Vaelin noted the loaded crossbow resting on the chair next to him. The other five men all had swords or axes within easy reach.

“Where is my brother?” Vaelin demanded.

The man who had spoken flicked his eyes from Vaelin to Scratch, taking note of the blood on his jaws, then blanching visibly as Barkus and the others emerged from the tunnel behind Vaelin.

“You’re in the wrong place, brother,” the tall man said, Vaelin admiring the effort he put into keeping the tremble from his voice. “One Eye doesn’t take kindly to - ” his hand flashed towards the crossbow. Scratch was a blur of muscle and teeth, leaping the table and fastening his jaws on the tall man’s throat, the crossbow sending its bolt towards the ceiling. The other five men were on their feet, clutching their weapons, showing fear but no sign of fleeing. Vaelin saw little point in any further talk.

The burly man he charged attempted to feint to the left and bring his axe up under Vaelin’s guard but was far too slow, the sword point taking him in the neck before he could begin his swing. Impaled on the blade he goggled, eyes bulging, blood seeping from his mouth. Vaelin withdrew his blade, letting him collapse to the floor, twitching.

He turned finding his brothers had already dispatched the other four. Barkus, grim-faced, was wiping his sword blade on the jerkin of the man he had killed, a pool of thick blood spreading over the tiles. Dentos knelt down to pluck a throwing knife from the sternum of his enemy, Vaelin thought he may have been blinking away tears. Nortah was staring down at the man he had killed, blood dripping from his lowered sword, his face a frozen mask. Only Caenis appeared unaffected, flicking the blood from his sword and kicking the corpse at his feet to make sure he was dead. Vaelin knew Caenis had killed before but still found his brother’s coolness disconcerting. Am I not the only true killer among us after all? he wondered.