She almost snorted. "How? What would I have to offer?"

It was the right answer, sort of. "Then who are you trying to save?"

"Some girl," she said at last. "Named Finch."

"Finch?"

"Like the bird."

"Friend of yours?"

"Hope so."

His single visible eye narrowed, as if he thought she was making fun of him. But because she was a lousy liar, and because everything-as Rath constantly pointed out-showed on her face, the narrowing didn't turn into a glare. "You're trying to save someone you don't know?"

"Something like that."

"So you're stupid."

"That, too." Not that she didn't want to slap him for saying so, but the moon-the d.a.m.n moon-wasn't staying still. "Look," she added, balling her hands into fists and lowering them to her sides, "if you're going to try something, can you do it now? Because I don't have a lot of time."

He stared at her. "Maybe you're crazy," he said at last. "My name's Carver." To make his point, he twisted his knife in the air. She wondered when he acquired it, but only briefly. "You said something about food?"

"Food? Oh. Right. I'm going to Taverson's. You know it?"

He shrugged, which could have meant anything.

"But I have to get there soon."

"Meeting someone there?"

"Hope so." She paused, glanced out into the street. "Can you use that thing?"

He shrugged again.

"Well, don't use it on me. If you want, you can follow. I can feed you there; I have to eat something anyway." And two people were safer than one. Not that, at this age, two people amounted to much. "Where do you live, anyway?"

"Somewhere around here."

Which was fair enough. She had no intention of telling him where she lived. But she winced when she saw his feet.

"The old ones fell apart," he told her. "It ain't cold yet. I'll find better."

She was just hoping that they let him in.

Rath retraced his wide steps as the city streets darkened. The sound at his back made it clear that his pursuers were never far enough behind that he could take advantage of the terrain and his superior knowledge of the holding. If, indeed, it was superior.

The reflective surface of gla.s.s, blended with light, had given him his only glimpse of the men that followed him, and if he strayed farther from the circular road, he would lose that. The holdings were not known for the quality of their windows; not the ones he knew well. And the ones that he'd have to cross featured gates and fences as the roadside attraction. He couldn't climb them quickly enough to make use of them either.

All this, on the run. To stop was death.

Living was incentive.

Taverson's was crowded. That much, they could hear from three buildings away. It made Jewel stop dead in her tracks, but Carver was careful enough that he didn't collide with her back. Instead, he waited. She took a deep breath, and the wind brought the scent of smoke and sweat to where she waited. Apparently, the crowd at night was either larger or a whole lot louder.

She wasn't certain which she wanted, but she approached the swinging door, trying to straighten up. She needed to look taller.

Carver actually snickered.

With a pointed glare at his bare feet, she shoved the door open and stepped in. The light was bright enough that she had to blink, and if it hadn't been, the smoke was thick enough to cause the same reaction. The noise was almost overwhelming; so much for her plan to sit still and listen hard. Not that it was the plan, but she'd had hopes.

She looked for the familiar barmaid, and saw no one. Given her height, it wasn't much of a surprise. But there was a clear path-of a sort-from the door to the back where most of the tables were, and she began to make her way toward them, looking at people's feet.

"Hey, you!" She jumped. The voice was familiar. It was, in fact, Taverson's voice. But louder and a lot less friendly. Not that it was friendly to start with.

"No, not you," he added, and she realized that shouting was his only available method of being heard. "The one behind you. You!"

Carver. She turned; he was standing there, chin tilted up in awkward defiance. She reached out and grabbed his shirtfront, her fingers closing around cold b.u.t.tons and a handful of heavy cotton. He was surprised enough to lose the growing expression, and off-balance enough that he stumbled. "Put the d.a.m.n knife away," she shouted in his ear.

He looked at it in surprise, and then flushed. Made him seem younger, which made her more comfortable.

"He's with me," she said, in the same shout, as she turned to face the tavern's owner, keeping Carver behind her back by the simple expedient of the shirt leash. From where Taverson stood, he probably couldn't see Carver's feet. She hoped.

This good news did not diminish the tavernkeeper's annoyance. "With you? Rath know about this?"

She nodded vigorously, hoping that the smoke was as thick as it looked.

He snorted, and she could swear there were eddies in the air that followed the sound, traveling through the room.

"Take a seat at the back," he shouted. "Both of you. Stay out of trouble. You!" He shouted, at Carver again. "I see anything shiny that isn't round and copper, you're picking up your own teeth before I throw you out. Got it?"

She tugged on the shirt, hard.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now scram."

Jewel dragged Carver toward a table that looked sort of empty; it was crammed up against a wilting, yellow potted plant. She was surprised it wasn't dead because, if she'd had to live here, she would be. Only one man attempted to get in their way, more out of amused malice than any real threat, and Marla, swinging her way out of the back kitchen, kicked his knee. "This isn't the right time of day, Jay," she said, in a loud, loud voice that didn't quite sound like shouting.

"I'm sorry."

"Can't hear you, love. But don't worry. We'll take care of you." She waded past, and people got out of her way.

"What do you want to eat?" Jewel shouted, in Carver's ear.

"What?"

And gave up. She couldn't see the street from here; she couldn't see the moon. She'd expected the door to be open, and it wasn't. The streets might as well have been in a different holding. And the moon in a different sky.

Getting home wasn't going to be the problem she'd been terrified about. It was getting to Finch in time, and that one was infinitely worse.

She turned to look at the stranger she'd dragged into the tavern, trying to think of some excuse for leaving him here. Trying to think at all.

Carver's feet hurt. It was warmer in the tavern than he'd been in two days. Smokier, but he'd trade smoke for rain, about now. Or heat. He would have ma.s.saged his toes, but he didn't want to look weak or pathetic. That had costs.

Jay? Jay. Was staring at him. He tried to meet that odd look with a glare, with what might pa.s.s for a glare, if she could see both his eyes. She kept pushing her hair off her face, and it kept springing back; he wondered what it must be like to have hair that stupid. Might have asked, but truth was, he was starving, and he wanted food. Whatever food she'd buy. He could save the rest of the words for later.

His stomach had stopped aching sometime yesterday. He'd had water-water was easy-but although he'd come up with an unexpected bonus in the form of an unconscious drunk man, food was just d.a.m.n scarce. It was the feet, really. By the time he'd managed to roll the man over and unb.u.t.ton his tunic, strip off his pants, he was already beginning to groan-and the shoes, way too big, couldn't be had in safety. He cursed himself as he ran; he should have started with the d.a.m.n shoes first.

Bare feet could be seen by the market guards a mile off. They weren't harsh, but they didn't budge; he was entirely unwanted in the Common. Fair enough, because he had no coin to spend but charm and sleight of hand; it was a game that they both understood, and even if it ended in death, it had its rules.

Finding this weird girl had been an accident.

He couldn't decide if it was Kalliaris smiling or frowning. G.o.ds were perverse, and what they gave with one hand, they could take with another, and backhand you in the process. Carver didn't trust the G.o.ds.

Carver didn't trust anyone.

But was he going to feel threatened by a girl? She was, what, nine? Ten? Hard to tell, and hard to ask. She had a dagger; he'd seen that right away. Wasn't completely certain if she knew how to use it, but was completely certain he knew how to use his better. Things would have been different, had his brother survived the den fight.

Bitter memory. Hungry memory. All the "what ifs" in the world. Jay was frightened. He knew she was scared when he saw her crouching in the alley, but that made sense; he wasn't hiding in it himself for no reason. Not that the Harricks were hunting him, at least not tonight, but they took what they could when they had the chance.

There, surrounded by old brick and warped stairs, fear was normal. He wondered if it was normal in a tavern, because he hadn't really spent much time inside one. Hunger didn't deprive him of senses: What he smelled, what he could see-the dying plant, the wide, tall men, the golden gla.s.ses and dull tin mugs-and what he could touch, he would remember. Beneath his hand, he could feel runnels in the flat, hard surface of the table. Someone had started to carve something here.

Someone had had something to carve. A dagger would have done the job-but Carver had nothing he wanted to leave behind in something as dead as wood. It didn't bleed, and it didn't scream.

Then again, it didn't cause bleeding or screaming either, and maybe that was the point.

The big woman with the dark hair and the slightly saggy cheeks came round a wall made of men in different textures; bearded, red-haired, gold-haired, bald and dark; tall, short, fat, thin, things in between; wool, leather, cotton shirt darkened at armpits and chest; smoke everywhere, like tendrils of mist. Heavy, smelly mist.

But big and old, this woman seemed to part that mist; it didn't swallow her, and the men wavered, falling a step to one side or the other as she almost pushed her way past them, carrying a full tray. There was leftover food on some of those plates, and Carver, had he been a different boy, would have wept in outrage at the waste.

But not here. Not here, where everyone would notice, and he would draw attention of the unwanted variety. If there was any other kind of attention.

The woman disappeared into the swinging door in the far wall, and when she emerged again, the tray she carried was less unwieldy, less a ma.s.s of teetering dishes and waste. She elbowed someone out of the way, and Carver heard the man's bark of annoyance, but not the actual words he used. From her look, they didn't bother her.

Then again, from her look, nothing did.

His stomach woke and growled; he would have been fatally embarra.s.sed had it not been so d.a.m.n noisy. Jay's lips were moving. He couldn't hear a word she said. It didn't matter; the large woman was making her way toward their table; whatever she carried, it was meant for them.

Two days, and the food he'd had before had been cold and almost moldy. Bread. A shriveled apple that had rolled off the back of a wagon and into the street, bruised and unnoticed by anything but mice. They had taken small bites, but he didn't care.

If he'd been able to catch them, he'd have eaten the mice as well.

She placed big bowls on the table; they were steaming. She put a spoon and fork to either side of the bowls, and offered them large cloth squares. Between the bowls, she dumped a basket of cut bread-and as much bread as he'd had in weeks-and then she was off again, shouting something into the suddenly unimportant distance.

Jay tried to grab her elbow, to touch her-her voice wasn't loud enough to do that on its own. But she missed.

Carver didn't care. He picked up the spoon in a shaking hand, and shoved it into the stew in front of him; his mouth tasted of dry salt, and his throat tightened.

For his trouble-this lifting of spoon to stubborn mouth-he burned himself. Couldn't withhold the yelp of pain, couldn't spit out the chunk of potato. His eyes watered, and he wiped them clear with his sleeve.

When he looked up, he met Jay's dark eyes, half interrupted by hair. Hers and his. He couldn't tell her he'd burned his mouth. He couldn't expose that much stupidity.

But she rolled her eyes, shaking those tight, awkward curls. The fear was still in her; her shoulders were tense, and her back was hunched slightly, as if against an expected blow. That, he knew.

He expected her to eat. He really did. Even fear couldn't stop him, and he was almost too giddy to feel it. But she rose instead, cupping her hands around her mouth, bending across the table, her sleeve trailing the sharp edge of cut bread. "I need to go outside for a minute. Wait here!"

It occurred to him that she intended to leave him here, with no means of paying for what he ate.

She saw it, too. "It's already covered," she shouted again. "Mother's blood, I swear."

The stew was too hot. Carver ate the bread instead, waiting. Watching, as he chewed, the back of the strange girl as she tried to traverse the same narrow gaps in the crowd that the big woman had made larger simply by frowning.

G.o.ds, he was hungry. The stew was hot. If it hadn't been for the bread-which was quickly disappearing, this would have been like stories of the h.e.l.ls.

The night air enveloped her like the answer to a prayer she hadn't known she was uttering; it was clear and cold, and although she reeked of smoke, it didn't. She'd always liked pipes; she had never imagined that there would be a time when she would need to escape them. But the moon- She was late, she thought, wild now. Late. After everything that had happened- Finch.

And as the hair rose on the back of her neck, as her skin suddenly went that particular cold that was part fear and part something she'd been born to, she heard at last the ragged, heaving breath of a high, light voice, and from the vantage of Taverson's door well, she saw a small figure careen around the corner three buildings down the road. In the moonlight, shift torn, shoes slapping the undersides of her feet because the soles had started to come off, came a girl that Jewel had never seen.

And knew, in an instant, as Finch.

Rath slid into a narrow alley used by servicemen; it was girded, on either side, by the finest of the shops in the Common. He turned, silent, on heel, breathing too quickly. He no longer felt the evening cold, except as a trace in his lungs. Across from the shops that served as tactical protection were similar shops, two clothiers, one gallery. Each had pretty, colorful displays, and the magelights here were fine and bright; the gallery had somehow managed to mask that light so it fell in shades of different greens, as if to suggest forest without substance. It was very contemporary, a work that was based on a subtle appreciation of the nuance of mood.

Rath's not-so-subtle appreciation was reserved for the windows. He watched them, drawing his daggers. It was tricky to be silent, here, and the light would catch the sheen of his blades' flats; he chose the throwing daggers. But here, at least, the narrow walkway was one good man wide, no more.

Not perfect for the sword he'd carried. He might draw it later, if it came to that.

He heard pursuit, but only barely. It was almost as if the men who followed, unseen, walked barefoot across the perfect cobblestones of this stretch of the Common. He listened for breathing, for the sound of exertion; the men were good. He heard none.

But in the windows across the street, all bay windows, gla.s.s facing him and facing, as well, to the sides, he caught again the vague glimpse of his pursuers. They moved quickly, traversing one angled pane, but he was certain, now, they were two.

Two shadows, and tall; one man slightly wider. He could not see the reflected gleam of a weapon in either of these pa.s.sing impressions. It should have made him feel safer, but oddly enough, it made him more wary, if that were possible. He shifted the left dagger in his hand, lifting his left arm, slowly, always slowly, as he watched. Trusting his aim to reflections across the pa.s.sing fancy of current fashion trends: a ball gown that trailed from shoulder to temple train in a deep, deep blue that spoke of money.

He waited, judging distance. Trying to see where they might stand-in mid-street, if they were confident of their illegal magical tools. They crossed the dress again; the front facing portion of the bay was at an angle to where Rath now stood, protected by a lip formed of buildings, an open, silent mouth.

He raised his right arm, as his left held steady, and counting as the shadows wavered and flickered, a mix of light and surface, he took a guess, and threw.

The trajectory of daggers in flight ended in seconds; he heard them hit. There was no response, no grunt, no sound, and the daggers hung suspended in air for just a moment before they wavered, as the reflections did, and disappeared.

He drew two more, but held them as his intended victim finally responded. With laughter.

They were close, now, and they could see him; he did not have the advantage of seeing them in turn. Listening, tense, he retreated two steps. Let them come one at a time.

Jewel bounded up the three stairs that led to the recessed door, taking them at once. The girl's eyes were dark-it was night-and wide, her mouth was open, lips obviously cracked. Too much breathing, too quickly. Her ribs could be seen through the tear in her shift, and a long, thin streak of beaded blood was her only jewelry.