Given any other circumstances, it would be funny. The old man was quite mad, and clearly believed everything he was saying, despite his tales being formed from a scrambled understanding of history and an over-active imagination. Tranton had listened to Silt recount his wondrous story, equal parts amused and disturbed: this was the man he'd that day opted to ally himself with, and there he was reciting myths and fairy tales as if he'd memorised them from a religious text. As Tranton descended the steps in the inn, it occurred to him that Silt probably had got it from a religious tome - he'd mentioned that much of it had come from his parents, who must have done a sterling job convincing little Fenris of his greater destiny.

The more he considered it, the funnier it became, circumstances be damned.

The room was dark and smoke-filled, plumes rolling off the rafters, while the surface of the bar was slick with spilt beer and unidentifiable detritus. Tranton signalled to the bartender.

"You sell food?"

The bartender nodded, saying nothing but staring quizzically at Tranton's clothing and face mask, as if he were trying to gaze through the fabric.

"Get me whatever this will buy me," Tranton said, dropping a handful of coins onto the wet wood.

Frowning heavily, the bartender shrugged and retreated into a backroom to prepare whatever scraps he had left. Tranton leaned on the bar and took in his surroundings: the inn had a low bubble of conversation but was hardly busy. Most of those that were there looked of the type that came to this particular establishment every evening. They blended in with the furniture.

Fenris had weaved an elaborate and flowery legend of warring gods: Kraisa from the south, Aera from...somewhere else. Tranton had always found that belief tended to come accompanied by a certain lack of hard facts. The war had been terrible, the fighting over who would claim the valley, and only Aera's arrival and intervention had turned the tide. Parts of the story matched up with Tranton's knowledge of distant history: it was clearly referencing the real war between the Headland and the north, the lessons of which were taught to every young Headlander. It had been the war to end all wars, with the Headland eschewing weapons to find power through trade.

The war had been real and he'd even heard the name Kraisa before - but in reference to a military general of the time, rather than anything more supernatural.

That was before the old man had got to the part about the mountains rising up to destroy Kraisa's army, and Aera creating the perfect society in the valley before being banished by her own people to exile in the north. As tended to be his experience with the valley-dwellers, Fenris was filled with adoration for his country and the valley itself, without ever being able to explain why others would fight over it. Certainly the mining and processing of source was not a factor five hundred years ago.

The bartender returned with a plate of sliced meat and cheeses. It almost looked appetising. "You even cut the mold off for me," Tranton said.

Keeping his head low, the bartender leaned across. "Listen, you're the fight from the arena, aren't you? The Outsider."

That was the problem with wearing a permanent disguise: it stops being a disguise and becomes how people recognise you.

"I made a lot of coin betting the right way on you," the bartender said in hushed tones. "So have this on me. There are others here with bad intent towards you. In the alcove. Don't look until I'm gone. There's a door in the rear, it'll take you to the street."

After placing rudimentary cutlery in front of Tranton, the bartender slung a towel over his shoulder and turned around, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Tranton made a show of trying the cheese - it was surprisingly good - and then cast a glance over his shoulder towards the darker end of the room. He could see two people sat back there, though the gloom was such that it was hard to discern detail. Then his gaze drew him back to the opposite end, where another man sat, making a show of drinking enthusiastically from a tankard but clearly not fitting in with the normal clientele.

He became aware of eyes on his back.

Taking one more bite of the sliced meat, he moved slowly, calmly away from the bar and returned to the staircase, ignoring the rear door mentioned by the bartender. As soon as he was out of sight of the bar room he broke into a run, leaping three steps at a time, before barrelling down the corridor and thumping open the door to Fenris' room.

"They've found us," he said, glancing back down the corridor. Nothing yet, but they'd be coming up the stairs soon enough.

"This way," said Fenris, leading him through the winding upper floors of the inn to a tiny window.

Tranton stared with disdain at the tiny opening. One of the problems with siding with a wizened old man and two youths. He took a deep breath, scrunched his shoulders in as tightly as he could, and wedged himself through the frame.

They emerged onto the roof of the inn, which the rain had already turned into a treacherous tiled slide. "I'm spending too much time on rooftops."

He followed Fenris as they made their way swiftly and carefully across the roof. Fenris kept asking questions as they went, as if traversing a half-frozen roof in Bruckin at night was the most casual thing in the world - or, indeed, as if he'd already practised this multiple times.

Perhaps Fenris' questioning had a point, though: if they were being followed by King's Eyes, then there was a good chance they'd somehow followed him from the arena. Or perhaps they'd found something in his room that had led them here - and then, as a knot formed in his chest, he thought of the address, tucked beneath the desk. Surely they wouldn't have found it? He'd made sure to hide it well out of sight - but, then, they were hunting a missing princess; no hiding place would go unchecked.

A shout went up from somewhere behind them. "Must go faster," Tranton shouted, accelerating past Fenris. Every action he'd taken since arriving in Lagonia had made him increasingly guilty, despite his best efforts. Being captured now would be an ignominious end.

Fenris shouted after him. "I know the route, don't risk falling."

The old man might have wanted him for his next escapade but that didn't mean he treated Tranton with any kind of respect. "I think I know a little more about climbing than you, old man." As he spoke, Fenris drew parallel with him, leaping gracefully between gutterings. "Although you are fast, I'll give you that," Tranton conceded.

Ropes were fired from adjacent buildings, piercing the tiles and forming makeshift lines down which slid King's Eyes, swarming over the rooftop. Tranton was turned around, unsure of where they were without the usual reference points of the streets to serve as a guide. He scanned the shape of buildings in the distance, attempting to recognise landmarks and get a bearing, but in doing so missed a sudden movement in front of him.

Too late, Tranton tried to adjust his trajectory but was moving too quickly: he collided with the slight figure, who proved unexpectedly solid, bouncing off and tumbling off the roof. He fell head first, twisting as best he could in mid-air before he collided with a wooden staircase mounted on the side of the building. The wood splintered under his weight and he fell through, dust and icy water and splinters raining down around him. Smashing through another layer of rotten wood, which served at least to slow his fall, he landed heavily into a pile of decaying food and other filth. He rolled out of the muck, unsure whether to be grateful or disgusted, and forced himself to his feet despite his shoulder complaining vociferously.

There was another burst of movement and Tranton moved aside only just in time as a King's Eye rushed him. The man, clearly armoured beneath an overlay of more casual clothing, wielded two short swords as he closed in once more.

In a swift movement, Tranton unlatched his hilt from his belt and swung it up, the blade ratcheting out at the same time. It locked into place in its scimitar-like curve in time to block one of the opponent's blades, then Tranton grabbed his other arm and pulled him forwards, at the same time lifting a knee and spinning the man over it and onto the floor. A hard kick to the head knocked him unconscious.

Tranton had found himself in a dead-end alleyway. Darting for the exit at the far end, he looked up at the edge of the building three storeys above above. There was no way he was getting back up there, not after he'd destroyed the staircase on his way down. He'd been lucky to survive the fall - he'd lost his concentration earlier: it wouldn't happen again.

He let out a half-sigh, half-growl as another shape filled the end of the alleyway. It was a man, burly and tall, and he wielded a long, heavy blade. As Tranton closed the distance he was able to make out the man's face, lit dimly by source lights on the main street.

"Roldan Stryke," Tranton said, slowing his pace to a trot. "How are you?"

Stryke moved to a defensive posture, blocking the way. "Tranton," he said. "What's this all about?"

"Looks like it's about you trying to kill me."

"I don't want that," Stryke said, taking a step forward. "Nobody wants that."

Tranton came to a halt and pointed with his own blade. "You're holding a really very large sword."

"I know you had your reasons to leave," Stryke said, his voice slow and precise. He was being careful not to escalate the situation. "But I didn't expect you to be with the traitor."

"I'm as surprised as you are," Tranton said. "Traitor seems to be reading this the wrong way, though, Stryke. Are you sure you know what's really going on here?"

"Fenris Silt kidnapped the princess. You've been seen with him tonight. What more is there to understand?"

"You really think Silt would do all this if he didn't have a good reason? You know him a lot better than I do."

Stryke hesitated, his sword tip dipping slightly. "Come back with me," he said. "I respect you. I know you're an honourable man. I'll speak for you."

"I can speak for myself. And there's no way I'm going back to that hole of a capital." Tranton pulled the mask from his face. "You do know why I wear all this? Why I can't let anyone here see my face, or my hands? Why I'm covered from head to toe every day, as if I'm ashamed of who I am?"

"I'm not saying we're perfect," Stryke said, taking another step into the alley. "But there's rule of law. I'm an agent of the crown, and I have my orders."

"You're cleverer than that, Stryke. I know you are. You play at being a soldier but you've been around the valley too many times to not see how it works. So get out of my way."

"That can't happen."

Tranton had seen Roldan Stryke fight. Getting past him would not be easy.

A noise of screeching brakes pierced the tension, prompting them both to look up towards the sky. A cable car slid to a halt on a wire high above, its doors already open. Jumping from it was a squad of Bruckin city guards, heavily armed.

Looking back at Stryke, Tranton grinned. "Looks like you're out of time."

"You, too." Stryke lowered his sword and moved backwards, out of the alley.

"Stryke!" called Tranton. "Think about those orders." The other man turned the corner and was gone.

A moment later there was a rush of air and two Bruckin guards abseiled down from the rooftop, landing just outside of Tranton's blade reach. As they looked him in the eyes, they both sheathed their weapons.

"Please come with us," one of them said. "Baron Theodus Lief would hold counsel with you."