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easily the biggest creature in the bar, and his arms and legs were knotted muscle-columns, his only clothing a thin blue silk rag wound round his waist. His back was covered by the round, highly polished plates of his oval shell, like a tortoise shell. A crack across it had been badly riveted together, and the bronze studs were turning green with verdigris. Wires crusted with dried lymph, and bound into a bundle with yellow and red tape, ran from under it and disappeared into his spine at the small of his back.
    His eyes were pale blue, no differentiation between pupil, iris and sclera. They were fixed on us, as with a deep, ursine voice he grunted, “More tourists.”
    “Let’s go,” I said.
    “I’m not a tourist,” Dunlin answered, his blood heated by the interruption. I pulled at his sleeve. First thing to learn in the Shift, Tine are dangerous.
    “What the fuck’re you then?” He squinted down, eyes like azure pebbles. Awia will mean as much to a Tine as the Cult of the Perforated Lung does to us.
    “The Sovereign of Awia.”
    “Yeah. A tourist. Get lost before I spill your guts.”
    No one in the bar had made a sound since the Tine appeared. Silence deepened as every creature surreptitiously listened in on our show. The Tine snarled, showing myriad, laniary teeth.
    “Dunlin,” I put in quickly, raizing a hand as the Tine reached out. “Know when to back down or you won’t last two minutes. Tine,” I addressed him. “I’m an immortal. Deathless . And I’m protecting him. So just fucking try it, beast.”
    The creature lumbered down onto talons and knees. His bulk pushed the table aside as he gravely licked my boot toe with a tattooed tongue. “Lord. Am Pierce. Am Tine. Drink basilic vein blood, eat spleen, have your testicles for breakfast, tourist. Not that y’have any, hur hur.”
    “How did you do that?” said the Sovereign of Awia.
    “Immortals don’t fit into their creed. So I usually get worshiped—or attacked. Beliefs are stronger here than in the Fourlands, but don’t ask what the Tine believe in; you don’t want to know. What are you doing here?” I asked the brute.
    “Got thrown out of the Aureate,” he rasped. “The Cult of the Clotted Artery’s a heretical sect. No good slaying here; can’t make enough for a cut of meat.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dunlin said calmly.
    “Do you know you smell of streaky bacon?” said Pierce.
    Now that trouble had passed, Felicitia reappeared and started dealing out drinks. I think Dunlin started to relax, although that may have been a bit much to ask. How could I help him further, now he was stranded here with a lizard, a Tine and a gay Awian? I decided to give him my palace, which I had built over many, many Shifts, a long and painful project.
    “The least I can do is give you Sliverkey,” I said. I unpinned my chart from the wall behind the bar and laid it over the table. My outline flickered. I began to feel the pull. With careful timing I said, “You can have this as well. It took me decades, it’s a map of Epsilon. It’s the only map of Epsilon.” My outline began to flicker rapidly and started to dissolve. “Dunlin!” I shouted. “Goodbye!” We rushed to shake hands, but mine were like smoke and Dunlin reached straight through them.
    I looked up with a half-smile and faded out halfway through a bow. Dunlin’s last connection with the Fourlands, severed.

CHAPTER THREE
    I figured that if I could move my little finger I would eventually be able to move my arm, then my whole body and thus be able to stand up. I sent frantic mental messages down my outstretched arm, but the hand—curled up, skeletal and bluish—refused to move. The syringe was still hanging in the crook of my arm, rooted in my bloodstream. I felt as if it had poured another soul into me, an unreal one, leaching out my quick colors, leaving me chemical.
    The thought of this angered me so much that I twitched my fucking little finger, then the rest of my