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Darkness may be obtained,’ Chalkhill repeated dutifully.
    ‘Well spoken, Wanderer!’ the Hierophant exclaimed heartily. ‘Remove the hoodwink!’
    Chalkhill blinked a little as the hood came off. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. Then the marble hall of his imagination disappeared to make way for the reality of a smallish, square, carpeted room with incense burning on a cubical altar and only two pillars in the place, one black, the other silver. Chalkhill stared in horror.
    Between them, seated on an obsidian throne, was Lord Hairstreak.

Chapter Ten

    It occurred to Chalkhill he needed a loo. It was years since he’d worked for Hairstreak, but the little shit was capable of holding a grudge for a lifetime. The painful ingenuity of his revenge was legendary.
    Hairstreak must have read something of his inner turmoil from his face, for his lip curled slightly and he said, ‘Not expecting to see me, Jasper?’
    Chalkhill opened his mouth, then closed it again, like a fish. He made a second attempt with no greater success, then finally squeaked, ‘No.’ Since it never helped to be rude to a turd of Hairstreak’s stature, he managed to swallow hard and add, ‘Your Lordship.’ What was the man doing here anyway? He’d never, ever shown the slightest interest in the Black Arts, yet here he was now, not just a member of the magical Brotherhood, but apparently leading it. The implications hardly bore thinking about.
    ‘Well,’ said Hairstreak easily, ‘I’m glad to hear my Brothers have been holding to their oaths.’ His eyes pierced Chalkhill like stilettos. ‘Will you be faithful to your oath, Jasper?’
    ‘Me? Yes. Certainly. Definitely. You know me, Your Lordship. Soul of discretion. Tact. Obedience. Faithful? Definitely. And loyal. Yes, indeed. To the Brotherhood. If
    they’ll have me. And you, sir. Personally. Definitely. My word. My oath. Whatever you want, Lord Hair - Lord Hair - Lord Hair -‘ His mouth went into an endless loop and he couldn’t seem to finish what he was saying.
    Hairstreak sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, yes, I get the message, Jasper. No trouble from you, now or hereafter. That about it, would you say?’
    ‘Definitely!’ Chalkhill confirmed. He wondered if he dared risk putting out a contract on Hairstreak. The Guild of Assassins was very reliable and everybody knew Hairstreak had fallen on hard times since the Civil War. His security might not be what it used to be.
    Hairstreak smiled chillingly. ‘Excellent,’ he said. He glanced towards a black-robed minion on his right. ‘Bring in the coffin!’
    ‘Coffin?’ Chalkhill squeaked. It was already on its way, carried by six pallbearers, rather well made in oak with polished brass handles and, worryingly, brown bloodstains splattered all across its surface. The pallbearers set it down directly in front of the altar.
    ‘Get in,’ Hairstreak ordered with obvious relish.
    The door would have been spell-bound by now, so any hope of making a run for it was out the window … except there wasn’t any window. He was doomed and there was no loo in the coffin. Chalkhill realised his thoughts were running riot, making no sense even to him, but it was so difficult to rein them back. ‘You should have warned me!’ he hissed furiously at Brimstone.
    ‘About what?’ Brimstone hissed back. He seemed completely unperturbed by Hairstreak, but then Brimstone had always been like that: skinny, ugly, wrinkled, hard as nails and tough as boots. There were stories that he’d won a fight with Beleth before Queen Blue killed the demon king. Which meant a great deal more then than it did now Hael was under Realm control.
    Chalkhill said, ‘About Hairstreak. About having to be murdered.’
    ‘It’s symbolic. I told you,’ Brimstone said impatiently. ‘Now stop making a fuss and get into your coffin.’ He hesitated. ‘Better give me the money now.’
    ‘No way!’ Chalkhill snapped. He had a feeling that the money might be the