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dark corridor within. Slowly, silently, Krane eased himself inside, his long limbs pulling him through the window like some gigantic arachnid homing in on its prey.
    Once inside he turned and grabbed hold of Milo by the scruff to pull him inside. Milo huffed as he squeezed his portly girth through the window frame, landing on the floor of the corridor with a muted thump.
    Both men froze, glancing up and down the corridor to check if the sound of their entry had alerted anyone to their presence. 
    No one came.
    Mister Milo stood, dusting himself down and composing himself before they moved on. Krane could only shake his head. ‘You really should ease up on the pie and liquor, old chap,’ he whispered.
    Milo merely shot him a disconsolate look.
    Together they made their way down the corridor, with Krane occasionally stopping to snigger at one of the portraits that hung on the wall, or Milo pausing to take a closer look at one of the busts or vases that lined the hall. Eventually they came to a large set of panelled doors at the end of the corridor which stood slightly ajar, the room beyond bathed in pale moonlight.
    Krane reached out with one hand to push the door wider, while his other pulled out a long serrated blade from his coat. Behind him, Milo produced two blades of his own, one a long thin stiletto, the other fat and curved. They moved through the gap in the doors, taking care to walk on tippytoes lest they make a sound and wake their quarry.
    In the room was a large four-poster bed, covered in a single blanket. Someone was lying beneath it, an amorphous bulk under the thick wool. 
    Milo and Krane moved to each side of the bed, lurking, looming as they went, their blades raised in anticipation, hungry for the kill. Gingerly, Krane reached out to grab the edge of the blanket between finger and thumb. He glanced up at Milo, who gave him the nod, his portly face shining in the moonlight, eyes wide with excitement.
    ‘Surprise!’ Krane bellowed as he tore back the blanket… then he and Milo froze.
    Lying on the bed was a figure they hadn’t expected. They had been told Arkell was a fat man, a sedentary chap, heading fast towards old age. But the man lying on the bed was lean and hulking, his head shaved, his face looking like it had been used to hammer in nails, his body, bare-chested as it was, covered in scars and welts and tattoos. He lay with his hands behind his head, his expression unreadable as he looked up at the two phantoms who had stalked him in the night, their hands holding deadly blades, their intent only murder.
    ‘Surprise?’ he said, regarding Milo and Krane with disdain. ‘I’ll fucking bet it is.’
    Krane plunged the knife down like a striking serpent, but it hit only pillow, sending a plume of goose feathers into the air. The man was fast, impossibly fast despite his bulk, and Krane barely had time to look up before he took a fist to the jaw.
    Milo was next to strike forward, ready to defend his companion, the blades in his hands cutting the air in violent swipes as he desperately tried to lacerate the brute, but he was not fast enough. 
    The man retreated through the open doors and into the corridor, walking backwards slowly as if beckoning them after him. A trace of a smile crept across his thin lips as Milo watched, breathing in gasps of air after his exertions. Krane came to stand beside his partner, rubbing his jaw vigorously and the two of them gave one another a glance.
    ‘What to do, Mister Krane?’
    ‘I say we stripe the bastard, Mister Milo. I say we stripe him good and proper.’
    ‘Agreed,’ said Milo, a wicked grin creeping across his face. 
    ‘You lads might want to have another think before you try the rough stuff with me,’ said the brute.
    ‘And why is that?’ asked Krane.
    ‘Because I’m Thaddeus Blaklok.’
    Milo and Krane looked at another and shrugged. ‘Never heard of you,’ said Milo.
    ‘Then you lads must be from out of town, because everyone in the