Delta was sitting awake when Apollo returned to the teahouse. She sipped from a delicate cup, and looked at Apollo. When she looked at her like that, Apollo always felt compelled to apologise. This time she determined it would be different.
“I’m sorry,” Apollo said, surprising herself.
“I see you’ve made more of a mess of my silks,” Delta said. She set the teacup down with a tiny clink that felt like a bomb going off.
“Well, these were a write off anyway,” Apollo said, shuffling her feet.
“They are now.”
Apollo licked her lips. She wasn’t going to let Delta get inside her head. She slipped off her sandals and sat down opposite Delta on a particularly ugly cushion embroidered with a scene from some ancient royal court. A knight was being dragged off to be executed.
“My god!” Delta exclaimed. “What happened to you?”
Apollo looked down at herself, and saw that a thick red stain was growing up the right sleeve of her white robe. The smaller mutant’s knife must have got to her some time during the fight, and she had been running on adrenaline for at least the last forty-five minutes so she had just blocked it out.
“I need to get a bandage, Poll,” Delta said. “Wait here.”
Poll. Delta hadn’t called her that in years. She grabbed Delta’s hand. “Wait. I have to tell you.”
“It can wait!”
“No it can’t! The Watch is part of it!” Apollo said, lowering her voice to an impassioned whisper. “One of them paid off those men with the cart!”
“To do what?” Delta asked, lowering her voice in kind. Apollo just gestured to her arm. “You fought them?” she said.
“I don’t know who paid them, a watchman. He had a snake tongue. The big one told me they work for the whole Watch!”
“That’s some accusation. What was this, a carving knife? Setting hired thugs on the public is what the Watch are here to prevent!” Delta said.
“And look at this,” Apollo said, handing Delta the inverted coinpurse. “I got a bit of blood on it, sorry.”
Delta turned the thing over in her hands. When she noticed the symbol, she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Always hidden from view,” Apollo said. “But it’s following us through this whole business.”
“Whatever it is. If what you say about the Watch is true, this could still just be an official tailor’s hallmark. Now let me get that bandage.”
Apollo nodded. “That may be best,” she said, her head wobbling back and forth. She moved her good arm slightly, and it collapsed under her. “You’re a life saver, Delta.”

When Apollo came to, Delta was carefully wrapping a fresh white bandage around her arm. When she saw Apollo’s eyes open, she smiled warmly.
“Good morning,” she said. Apollo groaned.
“I passed out,” she said. Delta nodded. “I didn’t bleed on your cushions did I?”
“A little,” Delta said. “But they weren’t very nice cushions anyway.” She brushed a strand of red hair out of Apollo’s eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been stabbed,” Apollo said.
“Well, slashed really,” Delta corrected gently. “But you should feel better soon. I’ll get you something for the pain.”
Delta rose to her feet and padded out of the living space at the back of the teahouse. Suddenly, Apollo realised she was no longer wearing the no-longer white silk robe she had worn when she passed out. In fact, she was wearing nothing but a thin nightshirt under the blanket she rested under. She tried to move, to look around for some proper clothing, but the pain in her arm flared whenever she so much as shifted.
When Delta returned, cradling a cup of something steaming, Apollo said:
“I’m naked.”
“Hardly,” Delta said. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do, let you lie in that disgusting robe all night? It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve seen you naked, Poll.”
“That was different.”
“It always is,” Delta said. “Drink this.”
“Tea?” Apollo said.
“Trust me.” Delta held the cup to her lips and tipped it up. Apollo saw leaves swirling in the hot water, along with something red and round – berries, she guessed. Well, how bad could it be? She pursed her lips and sipped a little of the reddish-brown water. It had a sharp but surprisingly sweet taste, like sour blackcurrants and sugar. At first she didn’t feel anything different, but after another couple of sips the heat of the tea crept down her arm, replacing the thumping ache of her wound with a dull throb, then nothing. She sat up.
“Good?” Delta asked. Apollo nodded, looking at her bandaged arm.
“Feels good as new,” she said.
“Well it isn’t. I’ve only masked the pain, so don’t go throwing yourself into any more knife fights for at least a week.”
“A week?”
“I know, I know, that seems impossible for you. But I think you’ll find you enjoy it.”
“Del, I don’t know how I can thank you.”
Delta stood up. “Then don’t. Just stay safe. That’ll be thanks enough,” she said. Apollo sighed. “The town will take care of itself,” Delta continued. “That’s what towns do. You don’t need to come storming to the rescue every time an authority figure is corrupt. You’d never get a moment to sleep.” She laughed at her own joke, and slipped through the curtain into the teahouse.
Apollo sat quietly with the tea for a few minutes, finishing it down to the dregs. Then she stood up, taking care not to put too much weight on her injured arm, opened the closet and began searching. It didn’t take long to find it: the toughened leather breastplate and brown woolen cloak she’d been wearing when she arrived. She slipped the nightgown off and slipped into her travelling clothes. With her bare arms, the bandages stuck out like a sore thumb, but she would have to make do. She reached for her sword, to clasp the belt around her waist and finally feel dressed after all this time in Mutetown, but then thought better of it. She wasn’t supposed to be getting into fights out there, not in her condition.
It was a fairly simple business to slip out of the teahouse via a window – she was sure Delta wouldn’t appreciate her strutting out the front door, dressed like she was about to go straight out into the wilds and get herself killed. She pulled the cloak tight about herself and lowered her head, letting the shadows of the hood fall heavy on her face.
The sun was bright and cold today, the sky ice blue. Apollo was glad of the cloak giving her some shelter from the frosty air. She would go to the Watch, not to report last night’s events but to ask them if they had made any progress with their investigation. At least that would be what she would tell them. Really, she would be investigating them of course. She had to try and determine if there had been any truth to the big mutant’s words, that the whole Watch were involved in this in some way.
The route to the Watchhouse through the market was a winding one, and had Apollo not known the paths and side streets of the market as intimately as she did, she would surely have become lost immediately. She did know them, though, so it was trivial to navigate the twisting mega-maze that the market had become. It often seemed incredible that the square, the town even, could possibly support such a large market. It was like a town unto itself. Traders, merchants, rogues and holy men all plied their trade here. Some even lived inside the market, like Delta did. To many, the market was Mutetown.
As Delta passed a stall run by a very intense woman selling amphorae of mudberry wine – disgusting, but very strong – the hairs on the back of her neck began to stand on end. The fumes from the wine? No, something was wrong. Under the stench of mouldering mudberries, another scent. Familiar. Toxic.
Apollo ducked as a black dart sliced through the air where she had been standing, shattering a clay jar of wine and embedding itself in the wooden counter by an inch and a half. The intense woman screamed with both her mouths and Apollo spun to face the assassin, her cloak flying off her body and settling on the countertop, hooked on the crossbow bolt. The lithe figure was already turning to spring away, when Apollo threw out her arm and, with a flick of her wrist, sent something spinning after the assassin.
The barbed metal bolas expanded in the air and wrapped itself around the assassin’s legs, high-tensile wire binding them together. The assassin twisted in mid-air, clutching, trying to free them, but it was too late. He crashed into the roof of the next stall over, bounced off, and fell with a wet slap into the muddy alley.
Apollo ran to grab the assassin, but when she arrived the dark-clothed figure had already pulled a switchblade from his boot and sliced the wire binding his feet. He planted his hands on the ground and pushed, and to Apollo’s surprise sprung upright as if it were nothing at all.
“Nice trick,” Apollo said. The assassin said nothing, holding the knife close to himself, his free hand extended to guard against Apollo’s attacks. An expert’s stance. “Of course, you’ve seen all my tricks. The wire was my only good one.”
Apollo was blustering. A knife fight. She wasn’t equipped for this. Both literally and in the sense that her body was barely recovered from last night. Those clowns had nearly had her. There was no way she could beat a trained killer one-on-one.
She leaped forward, lifting her leg in a flying kick that spiralled through the assassin’s guard and knocked him sideways. One point Apollo. She pressed the advantage, trying to use the same trick she had used on the little mutant last night to knock the knife out of his hand. The assassin was made of stronger stuff though, and he slid his arm out of her wrist lock easily, slapping her hand away as he aimed a piercing thrust that would have plunged right into her heart had it connected. He had the upper hand now, and he pushed Apollo back, swing after thrust after swing, until her back was up against a wall. More accurately, a beam. Apollo knew instinctively that she was backed up against Gogo Arbi’s carpet stall and dodged sideways, grabbing a thick roll of heavy cloth and unrolling it over the assassin, who staggered back. She aimed a punch at about where the assassin’s head should be, and the dark-clad figure somersaulted out of the patterned prison. Blood was staining the dark cloth that covered his face, and he reached up to rip the mask free.
The black-irised eyes that glowered at Apollo were set in skin that was so pale as to be almost white. The assassin wiped blood from her mouth and slid the knife back into her black boot.
“We don’t have to fight,” Apollo said hopefully.
“I’m not going to fight you,” the assassin spat. “I’m going to kill you.”
She pulled on a metal-ridged glove with five vicious claws on the fingertips. Assassins, Apollo thought. Always love their gimmicks. The assassin charged at her, raising her claws. Apollo took a step back and reached behind her.
The steel claws met metal, flashing sparks back at her assailant. Apollo flipped the cooking pot over in her hands and swung it overhand like a hammer down at the assassin, who could just barely get out of the way in time. With the assassin on the back foot, Apollo swung again. Again she just dodged the heavy pot, but this time she was ready. Claws raked through the air, catching Apollo’s cheek, leaving four neat parallel scratches and sending her spinning, lifting from the ground for a moment before crashing sideways into a stall. Apollo reached overhead, hoping for a devastating weapon, swinging it with all her might-
The wooden duck thumped against the assassin’s leg with virtually no impact. Slowly the mechanism inside let out a mournful quack.
Apollo rolled out of the way of another clawing and kicked, knocking the assassin’s knee sideways. She scrambled away, struggling to make it upright while her attacker recovered. She had to get to the end of the alley.
A flying bowl caught her shoulder, smashing and spraying lukewarm stew across her. She had caught on to Apollo’s trick, then. Apollo kept running, ducking as a carving knife flew past her head. She reached out, her goal in sight.
A ball is made for throwing, unlike a knife, a cooking pot or a bowl of stew. This one was small, hard and heavy, and it was sitting on the counter among the wares of Myd, a small-time trader. It was made for some brutal sport they played closer to civilisation. Apollo wondered what the head injury rate was among players as she turned, hurling the ball at the assassin, who was quite close now. The ball spun, burrowing a vacuum path behind it that the air rushed to close.
The assassin’s eyes widened and she threw her head backwards, bending over to avoid the deadly spinning sphere. That was Apollo’s last ditch attack? Really?
As she straightened up, Apollo’s elbow smashed into her face coming the other way. No. That was.
Apollo stood over the bloodied assassin, watching with faint interest for her next move.
“Apollo!” came a cry, suddenly. It was Delta. Apollo turned to see the towering figure round the corner.
“For God’s sake,” she said “I specifically told you-”
“Not a knife fight,” Apollo said instinctively.
“I don’t care what kind of fight it was!” Delta said. Then suddenly pointed at the assassin. “Apollo!”
Apollo turned to see the assassin scramble up onto a rooftop and leap away nimbly.
“Well,” Apollo said. “I found the assassin.”
“Evidently.”

While the two of them were going around making their apologies and promising to make up for trashing their stalls, a small scrap of cloth caught Apollo’s eye. It was the mask that the assassin had torn from her face after Apollo had hit her. She turned it over in her hands.
“Delta! Look at this,” she said.
“Another golden pattern?” Delta sighed, wearily.
“No!” Apollo said. “Take a look at this!”
Delta took the scrap of cloth, and her eyes widened. This red symbol she knew. It was no tailor’s hallmark.