Chris Wooding: The Fade

Caydus is heavily armoured, ruddy-faced and blond: he looks perpetually furious. Jyirt is bald-headed, grey-skinned and sunken-eyed, and wears a scornful expression which makes people instinctively mistrust him. He's clad in light blue leathers, designed for mobility. Ashka is a little more flamboyant by nature, long hair scraped back into a ponytail that dissolves into colourful extensions. His face is a symmetrical tapestry of skinmarks. He wears a tight black bodysuit beneath plates of light alloy, his arms folded across his chest.

There's a popular misconception that chthonomancers have the natural ability to sense things beyond the power of normal mortals, but I know their powers only work when they're trancing, and that drains them fast. Chthonomancers rely on meditation and focus to tap their inner power. They can get into it pretty fast, but it doesn't just turn on and off. Catch a chthonomancer in the street with a knife, and he's as helpless as anyone.

Nevertheless, I decide to kill him first. Because if he gets time to do what he does, then I don't stand a chance.

Below me, Ledo and Belek are leaning over something on the desk. A document. Ledo signs with a flourish, and then hands the pen to the Gurta, who does the same. I adjust my face mask carefully, scrutinising their body language. What kind of deal have they made? I'm thirsty to know the details of the betrayal. I want to understand everything about why my master has done what he's done.

Then they're clasping hands, Eskaran-style. Smiling. Like old comrades. It's a horrible sight, a mockery. Eskaran and Gurta together, wide grins on their faces, congratulating each other on the murder of their kinfolk. Then Belek turns away, motions to his bodyguards, and the three of them head for the door.

Voids, it's over already? I was only just in time. Once they're gone, they're gone for good.

No time to revise my plan. No time for second thoughts. It's now or not at all.

Goodbye Jai. Goodbye Rynn. Goodbye Mama, Papa, Chada. Goodbye Veya. Goodbye Orna.

Now!

I go to ground in the dweoming-haunted slums of Grasp Hook, in the run-down neathways quarter of Veya. It's a far cry from the Tangles, or the elegant districts that line the river. Grasp Hook is a dark and dirty warren of narrow streets, its buildings tall and leaning drunkenly. The glow of the shinehouses is blocked by the clutter, plunging the district into shadow. Nobody comes to light the lanterns in Grasp Hook. The perfect place when you don't want to be found.

My chambers at the Caracassa Mansions are far too dangerous now. I can't take the risk that Ledo will try again. He won't fail twice. So I've let it be known that I'm travelling to the subsurface to take the vacation that Ledo suggested, to recuperate from my ordeal. It'll buy me a little time, and my absence won't seem suspicious.

Only Keren knows I'm here. He needs to be able to find me, in case he has information. But it's Nereith that I'm going to meet now. Several turns ago I gave him the name of a barge. I've come to hear whether Silverfish is satisfied. Whether he'll fulfil his part of the deal.

The streets of Grasp Hook are busy. Clusters of kneeling men throw dice at the foot of some steps. Hawkers sell food from their stalls, treats of meat and mycora pastry that smell so good because they're so bad for you. Dealers and tough guys lurk in gangs, sizing up passers-by. A dweoming stumbles past, blind on fireclaw, prophesying incoherently as he goes.

The air is dank and chill, redolent with grease and sweat and the washing that criss-crosses the street on lines overhead. I head towards our appointed meeting-place, my mind calm. Things are making sense to me now. I don't like the answers I've got, but it's better than having none at all. I feel like I've got a handle on matters. I feel like I'm in control, if only a little.

This is the way it goes. Ledo, through covert means, establishes a channel to the enemy: Belek Aspa, a powerful Gurta Minister. As a prominent member of the Turnward Claw Alliance, the pro-war faction of the Merchant Council of Plutarchs, he's privy to the highest information. The Turnward Claw Alliance works closely with the Eskaran Army, and they collaborate often on military matters. After all, the Eskaran Army is composed of forces provided by the Clans.

Clan Caracassa, as a manufacturer of battlefield medicines, has a vested interest in the continuation of the war. In fact, they're desperate that it does continue, as they're being beaten out of the market by other competitors and only a healthy turnover of wounded can prevent them from losing money and influence. So Ledo feeds his contact information about certain military events, like the one at Korok. Perhaps his contact returns the favour. It's not much, just enough to ensure that nobody ever gains the upper hand in the Borderlands. Enough to ensure the war keeps going.

What kind of profit are you making, Belek Aspa? I remember you now. You didn't like my music. You thought Eskarans were animals. What's your angle?

Then there's the impeding marriage of Liss to Jerima Dew, son of Jerima Vem and scion of Clan Jerima. Clan Jerima are textile manufacturers, peacetime profiteers who would benefit from the end of the war, because demand for their luxury goods would then increase. Marrying into that Clan provides Ledo with a back-up, the possibility of a merger if, despite his efforts, the war does come to a premature end.

But until the marriage is finalised he's not ready. If the military push succeeds, the war will be over. Clan Caracassa's position will be much less favourable; Clan Jerima might renegotiate the terms of the wedding or call it off altogether, leaving Caracassa high and dry in a world that doesn't want their medicines any more.

Ledo can't allow that. The push has to fail. The war can't be over until he's ready for it to be over, until he's set up the framework for a smooth shift into peacetime industry. He knows it's inevitable. Public opinion is growing against the war, and the time will come when the people are out of patience. Ledo is preparing for that moment. Casta thinks that by dividing himself he's showing a lack of dedication, but I think he's being canny. He senses the changing wind and tacks to meet it.

But the preparations aren't done yet. So he will betray us once again, like he did at Korok. He will meet with Belek Aspa and give him the plans for the great operation that our Army hopes will end the war. It will make him a huge profit, increase his influence, and buy him the time he needs to set up a solid exit strategy for when the conflict against the Gurta is no longer sustainable.

You were smart, Ledo. You made sure your own forces were involved in that little trick at Korok. You made sure you were wounded as badly as the other Clans, so suspicion would never fall on you. But you cost me my husband and you nearly took my life, and now there's a chance that you'll take my son's, too.

So I'll stop this. Somehow, I'll stop this. I'll kill you, and Casta will be Magnate then, and she'll use her influence to get Jai back, and maybe Operation Deadfall will still go ahead or maybe it will be aborted. All I know is, you have to die, Belek Aspa has to die, and nobody can know it was me who did it.

But I know where to find you, Ledo. I know where and when you're meeting up with the enemy. And I'll be coming for you then.

Nereith is waiting at a table, one of a dozen laid around the front of a rickety slop-house. The other tables are busy with garrulous men and the occasional couple. An untouched bowl of stew steams in front of him.

'Not hungry?' I ask as I sit, mustering a little humour for old times' sake.

He gazes at it distastefully. 'They made me buy something so I could sit here. How you barbarians eat the chopped-up and burnt corpses of dead creatures is beyond me. If you've never tasted the hot spurt of newly spilt blood as you tear out the throat of your meal, you've never lived.'