THE TAVERN IS almost empty. After all, this is a town at war.

He pushes back the hood of his cloak and takes a seat in the gloom amid the clatter of tankards and the soft glow of the lantern light. The Legless Mermaid smells of firewater, of fish and sweat. The stool he sits on is roughly made and encrusted with filth, and the table is no better. It is probably for the best that it is so dark inside.

An impish child in an apron scurries up to him, small and pink-skinned, with a big nose and slightly pointed ears. Daemonium Minus. A textbook specimen. There is a hunted look in the child’s eyes, but it is not scared of him. It should be.

‘What can I get you? We’ve got eels for dinner. And for grog, how about Lightly’s Finest Bowelbuster? Mr Lightly’s the landlord, you see.’ He nods towards a big aproned man behind the bar, swathed in fat, his face ruddy, his eyes small and cruel.

He smiles. Now he understands that hunted look.

‘Grog,’ he says, and the word feels foul in his mouth.

As the imp leaves, he takes in the other customers, few as they are. Mostly old, broken things, not fit to go into battle with the Fayter fleet. A dwarf so fat he can scarcely imagine it is able to walk. Daemonium Crassum. An old goblin woman, uglier than a demon’s backside. Daemonium Cinereum. A pair of elves, drunk and bleary-eyed, arguing over a game of dice. Daemonium Pulchrum.

He licks his lips, savouring the squalor of it all. He has seen many demonspawn before. But still their proximity sends a little thrill through his body. These twisted creatures, so like humans – and yet, so unlike them. Major Turnbull told him not to come tonight. Told him to stay aboard the Justice, where he’d be safe. But he couldn’t resist a little excursion in secret.

The imp hurries to his table and sets down a dull, battered old tankard. He raises it to his nose and sniffs. A strange, spicy odour, mingled with the sharp scent of strong firewater. Disgusting. He lowers it again, untouched.

The child is still waiting – for payment, he supposes. He draws out his pouch and hands it a half-ducat. As the imp takes the money, he studies its face. Its overgrown eyes, misshapen nose, too-pink skin.

‘Are you happy, imp?’ he asks.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Are you happy here in Port Fayt?’

A faraway look comes into the child’s eyes.

‘I used to work for a carpenter. Mr Boggs. But then he was … Then he died. Now I work here, for Mr Lightly.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘No. Sorry, sir.’ The imp thinks for a moment, trying to decide what to say. When it speaks, it’s in a lowered voice, so no one else can hear. ‘It’s a hard life, sir. But better here than the Old World. I’ll bring your change.’ And it hurries away with the half-ducat.

Better here indeed. But not for long.

‘Oi, mate.’

He turns and sees that one of the elves is staring at him – or at least trying to, through a haze of grog.

‘Wanna play dice?’

This place is turning his stomach. He rises, eyes fixed on the door.

‘Hey! I said, wanna play dice? You deaf?’

He pauses a moment. Inside his cloak, his fingers curl around the hilt of his sabre.

‘I said, ARE YOU DEAF? Stuck-up walrus.’

Its friends snigger.

He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath before opening them again.

‘I heard you the first time,’ he says quietly. ‘Wretched creature.’

‘What?’

Five years he spent, studying fencing at Taggart’s School of Blades. The best academy in the Old World. With his left hand, he brushes aside his cloak. With his right, he draws the sabre. It flashes in the lantern light. Four steps, he estimates. On the first he locks eyes with the elf. On the second, he draws back his sword arm. On the third, he kicks aside the stool standing between them. And on the fourth, he lunges, throwing his whole body into it. Then pulls back, fast and clean.

The elf slumps to the floor. So drunk it didn’t even have time to look surprised.

The clatter of tankards has ceased. All conversations cut short. Every degenerate human and demonspawn in the tavern stares at him.

He runs a thumb along the blade, wiping away the few drops of blood he has spilled. Then he slides it back into its scabbard and pulls his hood up over his face.

‘Goodnight, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘I’ll be seeing you all again. Very soon.’