Lefty shook his head. "We were home," he told her, although he would not look at her face. "We were just home. It was night. It was raining. The mice ran away."

Rath was utterly still. Frustrated, but watchful.

Jewel was almost dancing in agitation, which was impressive, given the crouch. She took a guess.

"Whose den?" she asked. "And which holding?"

"It's the thirty-second," he answered. The words came out quickly, the syllables running together in too little breath. He suddenly pitched himself forward, feet hitting ground, chest hitting table edge.

"Whose den?" she asked again.

"Cliff's."

The name, of course, meant nothing to Jewel. She looked at Rath quickly, almost afraid to take her eyes off Lefty, although if Lefty bolted, he'd have to get through Rath. Rath nodded slowly.

"Where?"

"They tore the boards down," Lefty said, to no one. "They came in."

"How many, Lefty?"

Lefty held up his hand. Left hand. Five fingers. Jewel would have to teach him to count. Different day, she thought. On a different day. "What did they want?"

"Money. Arann."

"You don't have any money."

"Food."

"You ran?"

"Arann threw me out. I sc.r.a.ped my arm on the board. I-" His eyes widened, and Jewel could see the water that filmed them, the reddened whites around a pale brown. "I ran." He looked at her then, for the first time. "He told me to run."

"And you came here."

From his expression, it was clear that he would never be able to tell her why. And it didn't matter.

Rath stared at Jewel. Watched her face pale, her eyes widen, watched her expression slide into the peculiar absence that sometimes took it for seconds at a time. Often when it did, she didn't choose to speak, and he didn't choose to interrupt her. He had come, in such a short pa.s.sage of time, to trust the girl.

And she had dragged two strangers into the hidden heart of his life. He should have been furious. And on some level, he was.

Cliff. Cliff's den. Cliff's gang. He knew the name, and knew the boy, although to Jewel, Cliff would not be a "boy." Rath thought him eighteen, possibly nineteen. He had seen Cliff's group in action twice, and had observed them with disgust but little concern; they would be magisterial prison fodder within the six-month, if that long.

Child gangs were often tolerated if they did little damage. In the holdings, death was not uncommon, and children were allowed some leeway in their awkward attempts to survive their orphan years.

But unhindered, those children grew into something less tolerable, and less tolerated. Cliff was long past heading that way; he had almost arrived. Had there been a decent war, in either the North or the South, he would have been pressed into service-if he could be found. As it was, he was slowly creating his own war.

Rath said, "Jewel, watch the boy." He left the kitchen. Heard her low, familiar tone, and the boy's less familiar silence. This, he thought bitterly, was Amarais. Amarais all over again. His sister.

The one Rath had once admired.

The bitterness was hard. The anger was worse.

Rath knew what he should do. Knew it, as he approached the closed door that led to his personal room. Recited it, in growing fury, as he entered, kicking aside the clothing that allowed him to play at belonging to any walk of life his work demanded.

He didn't change, but he didn't need to; he had expected to work uninterrupted for most of the three days that research required. He should have left the girl by the river. Or in the emptiness of his former apartment, a squatter who could be easily and quickly removed by whoever rented the rooms after he no longer required their use.

He made his way to the bed, which was new, and then found the ground with his knees, the flat of his palms pressed against newly sanded boards. They still creaked with his weight.

He found his sword. The sword that had been his grandfather's gift when he had reached the milestone age of fourteen. It was a reminder of everything he had chosen not to be-and had he been a more sentimental man, he would have rejected the sword along with the rest of his life.

But it was a d.a.m.n fine sword; it had cost a small fortune when the commission for its creation had been pa.s.sed to the Guild of Makers. It kept its edge almost indefinitely, it was lighter-by far-than any sword its length and width had any right to be, and it was long, immune to damage caused by water. Or blood.

He grabbed its scabbard from its unceremonious resting place beneath the bed, and drew it out.

The best advice he had yet given Jewel Markess: Don't get involved. But that was the nature of advice; given, but not always followed.

He looped the belt around his hips, adjusted the fall of the sword, and retreated from the room, closing the door firmly-and a little too loudly-as he did. Then he walked back to the kitchen, and stopped just shy of the doorframe, listening.

He thought the boy might be crying; it was hard to tell. Rath had seen many damaged children in his chosen life-they became damaged adults, and often dead ones, and in truth, he had seldom mourned their pa.s.sage.

But this boy-Lefty, as Jewel had called him-was different. He had developed no scar tissue behind which to hide; he was an open walking wound, shying away from all contact. It really was a miracle that he had come here at all, given that he wouldn't even look at Jewel.

And Jewel was too young, too new, too unscarred, to free herself from that obvious pathos.

"Jay," Rath said, stepping into view. "Bring the boy. Watch him carefully. Here," he added, and tossed her a dagger. She caught it, her hand moving almost without thought, her eyes widening slightly at the unexpected weight of the sheath in her palm. "You remember what I told you about how to use it?"

She nodded.

"Good. Forget it all. Do not draw it unless you lose sight of me, or I fall. If I fall, run first."

She said nothing.

"If you do not give me your word that you will obey me in this, I will not leave this apartment. Neither will you."

She darkened. The red really was a lovely highlight to the faint auburn streaks Summer had added to her hair. He could see the decision play out in the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of her plain, dark eyes. She nodded.

It was enough.

"You, boy," he said to Lefty. "I would leave you here, but I don't know where your friend is. I have some suspicion, but it would be best if you took us to your home first."

Lefty said nothing at all.

But he looked at Jewel, this time.

And Jewel, d.a.m.n her, said, "You can trust Rath. You have to, for Arann's sake."

The boy was white, white, white. Only the bleeding gash on his forearm had any color at all.

"Lefty. Trust him. I do."

To escape her words, the unwelcome weight of them, the certain truth in the speaking, Rath leaped toward the door, slamming back the bolts. His step was light and graceful as he crossed the threshold; their steps were loud and ungainly as they followed.

He turned back to Jewel, and only Jewel. "Jay."

She nodded.

"Remember what I told you about swords?"

She nodded again, and gave him a warning glance.

He ignored it, ignored the boy. "I don't play with them. If the sword is drawn, there will be death."

They ran. Lefty's gait was awkward, and Jewel could tell, from the way he favored his leg, that it wasn't only his arm that the ragged boards had caught. Still, it wasn't broken, and if he looked strange in his bobble, he still moved. He was crying. Not weeping; that would make noise. All of his breath was visible, he was so thin.

She was angry.

It wasn't the last time she would be angry like this, but it was almost the first. She didn't know how old he was, and she had no time-or breath-to ask; she only knew that he felt young to her. A child. Someone her Oma would have curbed her tongue around, and protected simply because he needed protection.

He's not a bad boy, she could almost hear her Oma say. Smell of familiar pipe smoke, like an echo of time, was a physical memory; the rain didn't wash it away.

Instead, it washed dirt away, made exposed stone slippery. Rath was surefooted as a cat; Jewel stumbled once or twice. She righted herself with difficulty because she was holding onto Lefty's hand. His good hand. His fingers were white as they clutched her palm; had he had any strength at all, he would have crushed it. And she would have let him.

Rath was pale and wet; he was also frustrated. Jewel knew it because she'd grown to know all of his silent moods. She wondered if Lefty would notice, and decided she didn't care, which took effort. Her hand was cold. When Lefty slipped, she tightened that hand, half-dragging him to his feet.

"I won't let you fall," she told him, her lips almost pressed to his ear. Felt the words more than heard them. As if, she thought, they were distant thunder.

He looked at her.

"He'll be okay," she told him. Meaning it.

"You can see that?" he asked.

She wanted to lie. Really, really wanted to lie. But she'd never been good at it, and even for comfort's sake, she couldn't do a decent job; this time, it was Jewel who looked away. Pulled him along, moving as fast as he could, but not faster.

"Jay," Rath said.

She stopped instantly. His voice was quiet. As cold as the coming winter. If snow were a man, it would be Rath at this moment.

"Lefty," Rath added, his back toward them both, his shoulders a perfect line, his right elbow bent so that his hand could lie casually atop his sword's hilt, "this is the street?"

Lefty nodded.

"He says yes," Jewel told Rath's back. She didn't ask why he'd asked. Instead, she gathered Lefty, as if he were something precious she could carry. The whole of his slender body was pressed against hers, back to chest, rain wet and shaking. He was shorter than she was.

His right hand was juggled loose from its mooring; she could see that it was missing fingers. Blunt stubs had been scarred-seared, she thought, to stop bleeding. She didn't cringe. She didn't ask. But she bit her lip, and the skin between her teeth broke.

Lefty wasn't talking.

Rath wasn't talking.

But in the distance, someone was. At least one person. Maybe two. Ugly voice, either way, heavy as if with drink or anger. There was a certain humor that was almost indistinguishable from fury, and it was an ugly, primal sound. Jewel's body tensed as the noise reached her ears, and Lefty's tensed as well. He backed up, as if to flee, but there wasn't any place to flee to; she had him, and intended to hold on.

Rain, more rain. Jewel hated the rain.

Her teeth chattered with it. Her vision blurred. Her hair grew weighty and dragged its curls into her eyes. One day, she was going to shear her head. Baldness had a certain appeal.

As did nervous thought, any thought, that had nothing to do with Rath.

He had a room in which he had two sticks, a carpet, and a whole lot of nothing else. He made her practice with those sticks until her arms were shaking with their weight. It was one of the few times his mouth never stopped moving, and all of the words he uttered were sharp, curt, and disapproving.

But although he had called it sword practice, those sticks and this sword were so utterly different she had never truly appreciated the connection. Didn't appreciate it now as the right hand tightened around the black hilt of the long, double-edged blade that hung from the leather strap encircling his hips.

All noise was the noise of steel against steel; the mouth of the scabbard sc.r.a.ping the edge of the blade as the two parted. Rath's stance changed; she could still see his back, but beyond it, now, the distant figures of large men. Younger than Rath. One of them wider. None of them taller.

And none of them armed with a sword.

They hadn't noticed Rath. In fact, they seemed not to notice much; they were standing in a loose circle, and they looked to be doing an ugly, visceral dance composed almost entirely of jerky leg motions.

Kicking. Stomping.

They were ruddy in color, at least from this distance; they wore old clothing, but it seemed to fit them. The clothes were dirty, and some torn. Gray, brown, a hint of green flashing-these, the poor light was still capable of revealing. Morning light, edging toward noon. No sun. Little shadow.

She couldn't see their faces; she could see the backs of their heads. Hear their voices, unrestrained now. The street was almost empty, but not quite; men and women were pulling children, or themselves, to either side of the street, toward buildings, doorways, and away from violence.

Once, she would have been one of them.

She was ashamed of it.

Because she could see, as Rath strode forward and she followed at a safe distance-at a distance that Rath would never have considered to be safe were it not for his presence-that Arann was stretched across the ground. His back was turned skyward, his arms pulled around his face in an attempt to protect his head. She could see mud across his exposed skin, where the torn edges of a too small tunic ended.

His hands were red and b.l.o.o.d.y, and red was a startling color, here, where there was no color.

What little light there was was not enough to make Rath's steel glint. His steps were quiet, and he did not speak a word. They didn't seem to notice him.

Not until Lefty did the unexpected: He screamed.

Jewel froze; the scream went through her; she could feel it almost as clearly as she could hear it, and her arms tightened. Good thing, too; Lefty suddenly erupted in a frenzy of motion, kicking and flailing, the right hand's deformity forgotten. Had he been a little larger, he would have broken free.

As it was, she could hold him. She did. She spoke soothing words, nonsense words; had she been able to free a hand, she would have slapped him just to get his attention. She'd seen that done before; seen it work.

But here? She just held on. He scratched her face, her cheek, his palm smacked her left eye, hard. She almost bit him.

Didn't. Because as she looked up, she could see that his screaming had silenced all other sound. Had stilled all motion except Rath's.

The street to either side of the road went on forever in Jewel's vision; the buildings, squat and low on the east, taller and in slightly better repair on the west, were like a broken frame. Weeds flattened by rain and heavy feet provided color, and the pocked stone of what had once been a solid road formed the base of the tableau; above it, the heights were gray.

In the center, five men turned slowly to see who had made the noise. Lefty stopped struggling now that he had the attention he didn't actually want.