When she spoke again it was in the thin, careful and above all brave voice of someone who has pulled themselves together despite overwhelming odds but might let go again at any moment.

An Assassin, a real Assassin had to look like one-black clothes, hood, boots, and all. If they could wear any clothes, any disguise, then what could anyone do but spend all day in a small room with a loaded crossbow pointed at the door?

And never resist a perfect moment.

Now that their long war was over, they could get on with the proper concern of all civilised nations, which is to prepare for the next one.

You can't inspire people with facts. They need a cause. They need a symbol.

It was then that Marvin got religion. Not the quiet, personal kind, that involves doing good deeds and living a better life; not even the kind that involves putting on a suit and ringing people's doorbells; but the kind that involves having your own TV network and getting people to send you money.

They obeyed, as wise men do when a woman puts her foot down . . .