Katarina smiled at him. “Not for the two of us together.”
Lord Bastion’s sewer had not changed in twenty-five years. Would not, Maxwell amended to himself, change in the next twenty-five years.
There was, as there would be later, a white-haired ruler sitting on a throne. There was, as there would be later, a middle-aged man standing at his side. There was, as there would be later, a child learning the trade at his grandfather’s feet.
Amid all the similarities, the differences stood out starkly. This Lord Bastion was a cadaver rather than a slug. He might have been carved from the same alabaster as his high seat, his skin as white as his hair, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. The manner in which he eyed his visitors brought forcibly to Maxwell’s mind the Spider’s assessment of h
