By the time he caught up with the whore, some amateur assassins already had her trapped in a courtyard. Samuel crouched behind the rampart wall and furtively peered down at them through the crenellations.

The mark was clearly exhausted. She was dressed in clothes so oversized they barely stayed on her waiflike frame. Her large eyes were round with fear, and her short hair, streaked with red dye, was lank from rain. Fatigue and panic creased the pointed features of her gawky face.

Down to Samuel's left was the mouth of an alley. It was the only way in or out of the courtyard, and an assassin guarded it. He wore a priest's cassock and a wide-brimmed hat covered his face. His body was clearly deformed beneath his dress; his arms were so spindly they barely looked strong enough to carry the silver pistol in his hand. Away from the assassin, closer to the girl, stood a short, grubby man whose clothes were scarcely better than rags. Samuel recognised him and a twinge of anger flared in his chest.

Charlie Hemlock: perhaps the most venal, untrustworthy bastard in Labrys Town. More than once this snake had crossed Samuel, but lived to tell the tale. His involvement came as no surprise.

Samuel slipped his short rifle from the holster on his back, its power stone covered for stealth.

Down in the courtyard, Hemlock made a grab for the girl, but, despite her obvious exhaustion, she clearly wasn't ready to give up the fight. She screeched, clawing at Hemlock's face, dragging her fingernails down his cheek. As she broke free of him, Hemlock clutched his face and stamped his foot, uttering a stream of curses.

'Bitch!' he shouted for a finale.

The girl backed away.

The assassin remained by the alley mouth offering no help to his friend. Motionless, almost statuesque, he seemed content to watch Hemlock struggle with his lacerations. Why were they toying with their victim?

Suspicious now, he looked back to the mark.

Samuel's employer had told him a rumour about this girl – that she was a magicker, a human born with a specific magical gift. She was a changeling, and could shift her form into that of a wolf. Samuel was sceptical of such tales – nothing like a changeling had been seen in the Labyrinth for a couple of generations at least. But that Hemlock and the assassin had not yet killed the girl got him thinking: changeling blood was a potent catalyst in the art of spell-craft, and any mundane magic-user would give his right arm to procure it, however much damage his lackey took in the process. But there weren't supposed to be any magic-users left.

Whoever had employed Hemlock obviously wanted the whore captured alive, for some reason. Even if the rumours were true about her, she was clearly too exhausted to defend herself with any metamorphosis into a wolf. Samuel guessed that the assassin's pistol was loaded with some kind of magical ammunition designed to incarcerate her, and that was what triggered his suspicion. The assassin had a clear view of the whore, the power stone on his weapon was primed and glowing, yet he hadn't taken the shot. Even a child couldn't miss from that distance. Why was he waiting?

In his long years in the Labyrinth, Samuel had witnessed many strange and terrible things, and nothing was ever as it seemed. Whatever orders Hemlock and the assassin were under, the instructions for Samuel's contract were clear: kill the whore. Destroy her remains.

Hemlock had recovered somewhat from his pain, but four deep gouges lined his cheek. He began goading his captive.

'Don't be like that, Peppercorn,' he wheedled. 'We don't want to hurt you, honest.' The lie dripped from his mouth like bile.

'Just let me go,' the girl said, in a shaky voice. 'I-I can pay you.'

Hemlock chuckled with smug satisfaction. 'Why would I want that? We're all friends here. You should be more trusting.'

The girl retreated until her back was pressed up against the wall opposite Samuel's position, thus making herself a perfect target. Samuel slid the barrel of his rifle through the crenellations. With his thumb, he primed the power stone set behind the barrel. It gave a small whine, and its violet glow struggled to shine through the thick metal gauze covering it. Old Man Sam peered down the sight at his target.

'Don't be shy,' Hemlock said. 'We could have some fun.'

Samuel's weapon was a police issue rifle. Ordinarily its power stone held such a high-grade thaumaturgic charge that it could spit out a thumb-sized metal slug with enough force to take off a man's arm. But Samuel had loaded his weapon with ammunition that packed a little extra something, certainly not police issue: fire-bullets. One round would incinerate the mark entirely. Proof of kill would be a box of ashes.

'Leave me alone!' the girl sobbed.

The magazine only held four rounds, and that allowed Samuel one miss. Four shots, three kills: the girl, the assassin, and Charlie Hemlock he would save until last. The fire magic would destroy all evidence.

With steadying breaths, Samuel began squeezing the trigger.

'I haven't done you any harm!' the whore pleaded.

Hemlock laughed.

Samuel's finger relaxed.

Strange: the inclination to honour his contract was dulling like the passion of an argument regretted in the cold light of day. All he had to do was pull the trigger, release a burst of thaumaturgy, and the bounty was his. But when he tried again, he still could not summon the will to shoot the girl, and he grew angry with himself.

Nothing was ever as it seemed ...

Then, as smooth as spider silk, a voice whispered inside Samuel's head: Leave the girl alone, Old Man.

Marney!

Samuel recognised her voice as easily as his own. Alive and well, the empath was somewhere close, tampering with his emotive reactions.

Her tones, clear and strong, filled his mind once again: There's more to this situation than you want to acknowledge.

Samuel whispered a curse.

Down in the courtyard, Marney appeared from the alley mouth. Dressed in simple black jersey and trousers, she crept up behind the assassin, silently. Around her torso was her baldric of throwing daggers – one was already in her hand. She threw it at the assassin. It stabbed into the base of his skull. The man gave no cry of pain or alarm, but instead made a hissing noise as he began to jerk spasmodically. There came a series of dull pops, and to Samuel's astonishment, the assassin collapsed with a stony sound as if he had broken apart. His cassock lay heaped on the floor as though his body had fallen through a trapdoor.

Stay where you are, Old Man, Marney's voice said. Whatever happens, whatever you see, do not show yourself.

Samuel did as he was told. Not that he had a choice; Marney had his emotions in the palm of her hand.

All this time, Hemlock had not reacted. He was apparently unsurprised by Marney's arrival, and amused. He smiled at the crumpled ruins of his companion, and then at the empath. The girl had hunkered down on the floor, trembling against the wall. Samuel did nothing but watch them all.

'Hello, Marney,' Hemlock said. 'For a moment there I thought we'd lost you.'

'Shut up, Charlie,' Marney snapped, coming to stand within a few feet of him. 'I know who you're working for.'

'Good for you.'

Hemlock held his ground, but Samuel could tell his easy manner was a façade. The snake was stalling for time. His shifty gaze darted around the courtyard, as if looking for something that should be there.

'You know, I'm sure you want some explanations,' he said to Marney. He touched a hand to his cheek wounds and looked at the blood on his palm. 'Make it worth my while, and maybe I'll help.'

'I already have what I need.' Samuel detected a touch of desperation in Marney's voice. 'You have no idea who you're involved with, Charlie. This is low, even by your standards.'

'You think so?' Hemlock shrugged. 'I've been lower. Besides—'

He never finished the sentence. Marney sprang forwards and rammed the palm of her hand into his face. There was a spark of empathic energy, and Hemlock fell flat on his back, his senses scrambled.

The girl had risen from the floor by this time. She looked confused and scared, but she did not shy away as Marney approached her. In voices too low for Samuel to pick up, they spoke.

The old bounty hunter suddenly remembered the rifle in his hands. The grip was coarse and familiar against his skin, the black metal cold, the power stone glowing beneath its cover. Whether Marney's influence over him still lingered, he could not say, but he remained hidden up on the rampart, just as she commanded.

What had she discovered?

After a few moments, Marney stepped forwards and, to Samuel's surprise, pulled the whore into a kiss. There was another, softer, flash of energy, and the girl gasped, staggering backwards. Several heartbeats passed, and then Marney let the girl flee the courtyard. The slaps of her bare feet on slick cobbles disappeared into the gloom – along with Samuel's bounty.