The man on the bed awoke. He'd woken several times over the past days, but he had been feverish and confused, and his words had been a jumbled mix of memories and dreams. This time he seemed clearer, aware of where he was and who was there.

'My Lord...' his voice cracked and the words became a coughing fit. His companion sighed softly. With the attitude of one who has done this many times, he raised the sick man's head gently with one hand and with the other reached for a beaker that stood on the table by the bed. When he'd drunk, he closed his eyes and seemed to sleep again.

The thin man in black sat beside the bed, a strange expression on his face. It was the sort of expression that a wistful expression might become if it was allowed to sit on the face of someone long used to betraying no emotion. He sat, deep in thought, remembering past times, past moments shared with the old man who lay so still next to him.

Remembering the day of the accident. When he had found him lying broken on the floor. Another person might have thought at first that he was dead, but this is not a man to jump to conclusions. He'd calmly crossed the room, carefully checked the injured man's pulse, coolly lifted him and carried him to this bed, composedly called for a servant, ordered him to fetch a doctor, and only then allowed himself to feel anything. Sadness, at what had happened, and relief, that the man was alive.

Doctor Lawn had been sent for, as one of the few doctors in the city who might improve a patient's chances of survival. He shook his head when he saw the man's injuries. He tended him as well as he could, and suggested that the Watch's Igor should be brought.

He'd come, but had said that he could do nothing; the old man's body was worn out, could not be repaired. He'd left, and the thin man in black had stayed.

He'd not spent all his time there, of course. He was a busy man. The city didn't stop because one man was dying. But there were hours in the day when all he had to do was to sit and think, and he had spent them sitting here.

The sick man stirred, opened his eyes again, 'My Lord...' he coughed, but went on, 'My Lord, you've been very kind to me. Always.' His voice was thin and hoarse.

'You've always been very helpful to me.' The thin man in black replied. 'And you've been my friend.' He fell silent. There were few people he had ever allowed himself to become close to. Few people he could have. But this man had been his friend, and the world would be a different place when he was gone. A darker place, perhaps.

The white-haired head fell back upon the pillows and the clear blue eyes closed. One wrinkled hand grasped weakly at air. The thin man in black took it and held it gently in his own. The dying man opened his eyes once more and spoke again, 'My Lord, I...' his feeble voice tailed off, 'I think...' He took a few deep, laboured breaths, then tried again, 'I think I know what I did wrong.'