NINE

Tom had done most of his growing up with a knife in his belt. Necessity had insisted that he gain some mastery over the weapon, but during the two days spent crossing the City Below in Kat's company, he'd grown increasingly frustrated at how limited a knife was when compared to the twin short swords the renegade nick wielded with such skill and ferocity.

Before setting out on this expedition into the unknown, he'd asked the prime master for a short sword just like Kat's, so he wouldn't have to feel inadequate if and when any fighting were needed. Now, as he stood at the back of the clearing and waited to meet whoever was trying to creep up on them, that opportunity had arrived and it dawned on him, belatedly, that he had no idea how to actually fight with a sword.

She now stood behind him and it really was too late for her to go anywhere else as armed men started to emerge from among the trees – grim-faced brigands whom Tom would have given a wide berth had he met them on Thaiburley's streets, let alone out here in the woods at night.

That still left far too many coming towards Tom. A couple were closing in, and it was obvious from their confident grins that they didn't rate a short sword in the hands of an inexperienced boy much of a deterrent. Increasingly, nor did Tom. He started to shuffle to one side and backwards, conscious of the Thaistess at his back, but the intruders simply spread out to widen their approach. Short of turning tail and actually running, there was nowhere else for him to go, and he couldn't flee for fear of leaving Mildra exposed. His heart was racing and his breathing turned ragged and fast. His gaze darted this way and that, but he couldn't think what to do. In the streets he would have run and dodged and hidden, but not here. The cold realisation that he was about to die seeped through him, and that Mildra would be left defenceless. Fear robbed him of all strength, clenching muscles and paralysing his arms; the blade in his hand was suddenly too heavy to lift. He watched in dread fascination as the nearest attacker raised his sword to strike.

The night was abruptly split by a blood-curdling roar, and what looked to be the trunk of a fair sized tree came whistling through the air to smash into the man poised to run Tom through. Kohn! The blow caught the attacker in the chest, lifting him off his feet to land in a crumpled heap several feet away.

Tom's paralysis broke and he rushed to take advantage of the distraction, darting forward to stab at an opponent still too surprised by the Kayjele's impressive intervention to do much more than gawp. Fear and shame at his own weakness lent strength to his arm, and the sword sank deep before the brigand even realised what was happening. By the time the man sank to his knees – a look of complete shock on his face – Tom had pulled the blade free again and stepped back to stand by Mildra.

Now that the paralysis had gone, Tom felt energised and was eager to convince anyone interested that he hadn't been scared at all. But there were still too many. Even as Tom stepped back he was aware of others pushing forward. A sword flashed towards him and he instinctively swayed out of the way and raised his own weapon, deflecting the blow so that it slid past. The clash of steel on steel reverberated through his arm. It was jarring enough to make him wonder how people managed to do this again and again in battle, and, more importantly, whether he was going to be able to.

Yet as this concern flashed through his thoughts, it withered in the face of blossoming horror as he heard an, "Oh," of surprise and pain and realised that by deflecting the sword thrust, he had merely diverted it behind him – to where Mildra stood.

He swivelled around, to see the Thaistess crumple to the ground, her hands clasping her left side. The brigand responsible was already turning back to face Tom, and he felt a gathering rage to think that he had allowed this piece of scum to hurt Mildra. His throat let rip a snarl of inchoate fury as he drove his sword at that ugly face, only to have the blow parried with contemptuous ease.

Before either could strike again, Kohn was there, swinging his improvised club with crushing force to swat the man away. Something or somebody barrelled into Tom's back, knocking him off his feet. He nearly fell on top of Mildra, who was lying motionless on the ground, and he lost hold of his sword in the attempt not to. He ended up with his knees one side of the Thaistess and hands the other, supporting his body which hung suspended above her.

Tom pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to rouse Mildra, with no effect. He was conscious of Kohn standing before them, and several brigands beyond, but most of his attention was reserved for the young Thaistess. His questing fingers found a pulse; she was still alive. Instinct took over, and as he sat there, cradling Mildra in his arms, he began the recite the personal litany which had served him so well throughout childhood: you can't see us, you can't see us, we're invisible, there's nobody here, nobody here at all, over and over.

It brought back memories of when he'd hidden himself and Kat from the pursuing demon hounds, which had been the first time he'd ever attempted to hide anyone with his ability other than himself. The thought brought home just how much had happened to him of late. That had only been a dozen or so days ago, yet it seemed to belong in another life entirely. Sudden fear almost made him falter. The prime master had told him that he drew on Thaiburley's mysterious core when doing this. They were now a long way from the city; would his ability still work? How could it possibly over such a distance?

At length he realised that the sounds of fighting had ceased and opened his eyes, allowing the words to stumble to a halt. Kohn was staring at him, expression unreadable, and Tom had a feeling that the Kayjele had been able to see him all along, raising fresh concerns about whether or not his ability had worked. The bodies of attackers lay scattered around the clearing, and there was no sign of Dewar, though noises coming from somewhere beyond Kohn suggested that there might be some sort of pursuit underway.

For the first time he began to consider the unthinkable, that she might not wake up at all. There had to be something he could do. He'd been a complete waste of space during the fighting and desperately wanted to make up for that, quite apart from his determination not to lose someone he cared about.

Dewar reappeared, leading a horse and looking anything but happy. Tom felt a huge surge of relief. He wouldn't have to do anything now; there was somebody else to make the decisions, someone who hopefully would have a clearer idea of how to help the injured girl.

Mind the girl? How was he supposed to do that? Mildra was the healer, not him, and she was the one now in need of healing. He stared at the Thaistess's inert form, at the wound, at the blood that was staining her top. Panic threatened to well up, to overwhelm and incapacitate him, but he fought it down, refusing to let fear be the master here. Think, he chided. What would he have done if they were back in Thaiburley? Larl reeds. How close were they to the river? Not far, surely.

Tom thought the giant understood, hoped he did, but didn't wait to find out. He hurried in the direction the river ought to be, and almost immediately heard it; not a great roar, but a gentle lilt of sound which might almost have been a sigh. He followed that soft noise and was soon at the side of the Thair. Visibility was better here, at the edge of the trees' sheltering canopy, where moon and starlight were free to tint the world. He followed the river's course for a while, scouring her bank, working his way in and out among trees whose roots dipped thirstily into the water and the clumps of thick-stemmed sedge and reed in between.

Within minutes he stumbled on what he'd been look ing for: a clump of larl reeds, their rigid stems pointing pole-stiff towards the sky. Conscious of the passing minutes, he drew his knife and quickly harvested half a dozen, cutting them as close to the marshy ground they favoured as he could reach, then hurried back to the camp, holding his trophies inverted, so that the pointed tips trailed on the ground and none of the milky sap from their severed bases would be wasted.

Despite his anxiety over Mildra, Tom was feeling a good deal better about things. He might not have covered himself in glory during the fight, but at least he was now doing something useful. He just hoped it would prove to be enough.

He made a wad from a bandage and dipped it into the water and used it to clean Mildra's wound, then hurriedly cut a couple of the reeds into strips and loaded these into the pan, which was just starting to simmer. Next he squeezed the precious, sticky sap from one of the reeds, allowing it to fall in stringy droplets directly onto the wound. He'd seen enough knife injuries treated among the Blue Claw to know roughly what to do; the rest he was improvising. A smear of salve and then, using the tip of his knife, he manoeuvred the softened wad of fibrous larl out of the boiling water and placed it as gently as he could onto the wound, covering this with the broad section of a further reed, before wrapping the whole in a bandage. The result looked lumpy and ungainly; nothing like any of the work he'd seen performed on injuries before, but he felt certain he'd got the basics right.

Mildra hadn't stirred or uttered a sound throughout, but she was still breathing, which was infinitely better than the alternative. Kohn helped him lift her fragile form nearer the fire, where he then covered her with a blanket, after which there was nothing to do but wait; for morning, for Mildra to wake, and for Dewar to return.

Tom couldn't even think about trying to sleep again, so he sat watching Mildra, the looming presence of Kohn on the Thaistess's far side. Tom would have sworn that he barely took his eyes off of her swaddled form, yet found himself lulled into a semi-dreamlike state by the burning embers of the fire and taken completely by surprise when a remarkably calm and collected voice said, "Larl reeds, good thinking."

"Sorry, but the wound was a serious one and it's not easy to heal yourself. I had to turn my abilities inward, start rebuilding from the inside out, and the pain was… excruciating." She shuddered, and Tom felt a pang of guilt, remembering his own part in deflecting towards her the thrust that had done the damage, however inadvertently. "I had to sink into a healing trance in order to focus." She continued to fiddle with the bandage. "Would you help me get this off?"

Tom hesitated, abruptly embarrassed at touching the young woman's naked flesh now that she was awake, when he'd been perfectly at ease doing so when she was hurt and unconscious. He eventually made a token effort at helping but was relieved when she proved able to do most of the work herself. As she uncovered the actual wound, Tom could only stare. He'd seen healers at work before but rarely on anything as serious as Mildra's injury looked to have been, and the gaping, bloody hole that he'd seen mere hours before had now disappeared, a subtle ridge of scar the only thing to mark its position.

Mildra smiled. "It's the river, Tom. Ultimately, the city's core is a gift from the goddess, and the Thair links Thaiburley to its mother as if the river were an unsevered umbilical cord. I can sense her presence in the waters constantly, and so long as we remain close to the Thair our abilities – my healing, your hiding – will continue to work as if we were still inside the city's walls."

Tom instinctively wanted to scoff at the idea of goddesses in rivers, but then stopped, for once doubting his own scepticism. After all, whether Mildra's claim had any basis in reality or not, their abilities did seem to work out here, and he could offer no better explanation as to why.

The Tattooed Men were running out of time. Two nights of hunting and they still weren't anywhere near snagging the Soul Thief. If the bitch stayed true to form she'd haunt the under-City for a period of around six to eight nights, feeding on those who took her fancy – which everyone was now willing to admit meant those with talent – before disappearing back into the Stain for another year or two. Out of their reach. Not even Kat would be crazy enough to continue pursuit into the Stain, that poisoned, polluted wasteland at the very back of the vast cavern housing the City Below; a place people tended to avoid even talking about, let alone visiting.

The Soul Thief had already been at work for three nights that they knew of, which meant they had perhaps three or four more before she vanished again. Their night-time trawls across the under-City weren't working, that much was obvious, and Kat was increasingly convinced they were never going to. Besides, she had a better plan. The only difficult part was going to be persuading Chavver. Not that the Tattooed Men's leader was inflexible or unwilling to listen to advice, no, not as a rule. It was only when the advice in question came from her sister that Kat could foresee a problem.

So, she'd have to make sure her idea reached Chavver's ears by a less direct route. After a few moments careful consideration, she chose Rel. Although a few years older than Kat, he was among the youngest of the Tattooed Men and had always been eager to make a good impression. The fact that he and she were teamed together made her chatting to him seem all the more natural.

"The problem is," she said as if in the mood to put the world to rights, "that when we do find the Soul Thief we're too spread out. The few who actually encounter her are never going to be enough to stop her, and by the time we can concentrate our strength, she's gone."

"There are two parts to this operation: finding the target and neutralising it. One's no good without the other. We've got the first part sorted out but are failing dismally with the second. What we need to do is stop chasing around after the Soul Thief and make her come to us, at a time and place of our choosing, where we're ready and waiting for her."

some profound secret, "We know the Soul Thief feeds on those with talent, right? The healers, seers, illusionists, sages and all the other meddlers and pedlars who aren't out-and-out con artists but can actually do at least some of what they claim. So, all we have to do is round up everyone we can find with a scrap of genuine talent and put them together in one place, then sharpen our swords, load up the crossbows and get ready to nail the bitch when she turns up." Kat held her hands out. "Job done; the Thief'll never be able to resist!"

Kat wandered off feeling more than a little pleased with herself. All she had to do now was wait, though not for long as it turned out. Within the hour Chavver summoned everyone to a meeting, where the new tactic was revealed.

Kat silently approved of the location her sister had chosen to set the trap. Iron Grove Square sat at the heart of a derelict district and was a place the Tattooed Men had often used as a training area. It was surrounded by abandoned buildings with enough vantage points to hide all of them while providing clear line of site of anything and anyone in the square itself.

Despite this being her idea, Kat was the first to acknowledge that the plan had its drawbacks, particularly for the unfortunates they were going to be using as bait. Given proper opportunity, the Tattooed Men could field enough fire power to stop a small army, and it would all be deployed here. Whether or not that would be enough to stop the Soul Thief was another matter; nobody had ever had the chance to find out.

If they couldn't stop her, they would just have provided the monster with the biggest feast she'd ever dreamed of. Even if they did bring her down, there was every chance that people would be caught in the crossfire, however unintentionally. Either way, Kat was glad that she wasn't going to be standing in that square when the shooting started.

In fact, if she dwelt on the fact that the people they were about to put on the front line were healers and apothakers and seers – folk who performed vital functions in the under-City – her conscience was likely to give her a severe beating; so she didn't. Instead she concentrated on the prospect of finally getting a real crack at the monster that had made her an orphan. That way, her conscience was reduced to resentful mutterings in the farthest corners of her thoughts.

She would have chosen somewhere different for this meeting, anywhere different, had there been an option. Not that she couldn't understand the reasoning, far from it. For a stranger, unfamiliar with the City Below, the chophouses were a safe and sensible bet – good quality food at reasonable prices.

Kat wasn't a stranger, however, and the chophouses with their fussy ways and invariably waged clientele were so far removed from her usual haunts that they might as well have existed on a different Row entirely. Give her the smoky atmosphere of a dingy tavern and its suspect sandwiches washed down with sour ale any day.

Coalman's Chophouse was built into one of the arches supporting the grand conveyor – the elevated moving roadway that carried timber and other imports all the way from the docks to the Whittleson saw mill and factories – and it was reckoned to be one of the best. In fairness, Kat supposed a newcomer to the City Below would have trouble finding any of the places she preferred in any case.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The place was bustling, proof positive that things in the under-City weren't all that bad despite recent events, since plenty of people could clearly still afford the clean cutlery and pretensions of Coalman's Chophouse. Despite her cynicism, Kat had to admit that the smells were mouth-wateringly good. On the tables around her she saw plates piled high with golden-crusted pies from which rich-gravied filling oozed, thick cutlets of griddled meat and juicy chops, plump brown sausages, hens' eggs and duck eggs with bubbled whites and bright yellow yolks, chunky slices of pink bacon and even thicker off-white slabs of tripe, all accompanied by mounds of boiled potatoes and roasted potatoes and peas and wilted greenery, from the sum of which rose wafts of steam and incredibly inviting aromas.

She did her best not to stare but it was a losing battle. Kat had never seen so much saliva-inducing food in one place before and the effect was overwhelming. She had to swallow, feeling suddenly hungry beyond all reason. Her view was abruptly blocked by a blue and white striped apron which proved to be worn by a tall man sporting a heavy moustache and even heavier scowl. "Can I help you?"

Kat had a tendency to stand out in most company, but here it was ridiculous. She'd never heard anything specific about the chophouses being male only preserves, but there certainly weren't any other women present just now, let alone of her age, or dressed in leathers, or carrying twin swords. Coalman's had abruptly gone very quiet, and Kat was acutely aware that every eye seemed to be looking in her direction.

The speaker was at a table behind the waiter. A tall man, slender and smartly dressed, with slicked-back hair and a rounded face dominated by dark eyebrows that perched above eyes which were perhaps a little too close together. Kat couldn't resist a small smile; at least she was no longer the centre of attention, as everyone had turned their gazes on him, including the waiter, who stood aside and, with a slight sniff, gestured Kat towards the stranger's table.

"Kat, I presume." he said as she slipped into the chair opposite. She nodded, but couldn't stop staring at the sumptuous looking meat pie and potatoes that sat before the man. He could only just have broken the crust, because curls of stream were still rising from the meat and gravy within.

She wasn't especially used to cutlery but knew the principles, and settled for eating with a silver-metal spoon, using its rounded bowl to break open the pie's crust and then pausing to savour the first release of delicious meat-rich aroma before tucking in. To her considerable delight, the food proved even tastier than it looked and at least as good as it smelled. She had wolfed down nearly half the pie before remembering why she was here and glancing up to see her benefactor studying her. Instantly she bristled; there was something sardonic and superior in the man's expression which irritated the hell out of Kat and made her palm itch for the feel of a sword hilt. Very deliberately, while still chewing a final mouthful of crisp pastry and tender meat, she sat back and pushed the plate away.

"For now." She would have loved to keep going but had suddenly lost her appetite. Besides, she was close to being outfaced, having already stuffed more food down her throat than she could ever recall eating at one meal before.

Kat forced her attention back to the man responsible for providing the feast and still didn't like what she saw, despite his generosity. "So, you're interested in the Soul Thief." She kept her voice low, reckoning a chat about the bogeyman from a kiddies' bedtime tale would only put her even lower in the estimations of the snooty soand-sos around her, if that were possible.

A tight-lipped brecker, and no mistake. Well, two could play at that game. She folded her arms and waited for him to say something. The amused twinkle in his eyes grew and a smile seemed to hover on his lips. This was all a game to him, Kat realised, and she was nothing more than a counter, there for his entertainment. Stuff that! She was no one's toy.

Despite having stopped eating some time ago, Brent now paused to pick up his fork and break off a corner of pie crust from the thin crescent of pastry which was all that remained on his plate, speared it delicately on the tines without crumbling, and lifted it to his mouth. Done for effect rather than any lingering hunger, she felt certain. She glanced around, determined not to give him the satisfaction of having her watching the whole performance. At a table behind Brent sat another lone diner, an elderly man with a kindly face, who caught her eye and winked at Kat before smiling broadly. So warm was the smile and so conspiratorial the wink, that Kat nearly reacted with a grin of her own. However, her attention switched back to her dining companion, who had now finished chewing and dabbed delicately at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. The smile he then showed her was as different to the elderly man's as chalk is to cheese. This time Kat did respond, twisting the corners of her mouth upward in an expression without any hint of humour behind it; she could do patience when called for.

"You'd be surprised." That smile again; the one that made her want to reach across the table and slap him around the face until it disappeared. "I know what the Soul Thief is, why she feeds, how to prevent her from feeding and so weaken her to the point where she can be killed."

"From my employer." A dramatic pause, but if he was expecting Kat to show any impatience, she disappointed him. "The creature you hunt is ancient, a left-over from another age, an abomination that should have returned to the dust long ago. I've been sent here to ensure that this small oversight is corrected."

"Ah, now there's a question; the answer to which you don't need to know and I'm not even certain of myself. But does that matter? We both want the same thing. With or without your help I will hunt down and kill the Soul Thief, but I could do so a lot quicker with it, whereas without my help, you'll never succeed."

The waiter reappeared, reaching to collect both their plates. Kat's hand shot out, grabbing the rim of hers. No way she was about to let that much quality food get away from her. Brent raised his eyebrows and addressed the waiter. "Could the lady perhaps be provided with a box or bag in which to take away the rest of her meal for later?"

Once the waiter had left, Kat returned to glowering at Brent. She didn't trust him, and trusted even less the fact that he worked for some unseen employer whose real agenda might be anything. But, on the other hand, if he really could help bring down the Soul Thief… for that prize she'd take any risk.

They left the chophouse together, Brent donning a brown coat with an elaborate upturned collar which might have been the height of fashion somewhere in the world but looked comically out of place here in the streets of the under-City. Kat watched him saunter off and was almost tempted to follow, when a voice spoke from behind her.

"None of my business, I know, but he smells of the East to me. Never trust a man who smells of the East." He smiled; the same warm and open expression she'd seen earlier. "Well, good night to you." He then strolled off in the opposite direction.