She came running down the street, clinging to the side that held the magelights, as if light were somehow important-a street instinct. She almost pa.s.sed Jewel, her flight was headlong and unseeing; Jewel reached out to grab her arm.

The girl shrieked and started to lash out with fists that were far too small-and awkward, and wrong, thumbs on the inside of curved knuckles-and Jewel pulled her close, shouting one word over and over into her ear: Her name. Finch. Finch.

"Finch!"

But the name didn't do it, and without another thought, Jewel grabbed the girl by the shoulder and slapped her, hard. That, in Jewel's experience, could seldom be ignored. Jewel had never been able to ignore it.

The girl stiffened, and then she said, "You have to let me go-he's after me-"

And looking over Finch's shoulders, which were a good six inches or more shorter than her own, Jewel saw a man jogging around the same corner that had given Finch, whole, into her keeping.

Their eyes met, Jewel's and this stranger's, and Jewel almost froze in place. Something about this man was wrong in a way that was so utterly foreign, so completely dark, Jewel wasn't certain what it was. But she could taste screaming in the silence, as if it were her own.

"My thanks," he said, in a soft purr of a voice.

All of her hair stood on end. Goose b.u.mps that had nothing to do with the cold, nubbled her skin. He seemed to her, in that instant, to be a leisurely and unerring bolt of lightning, but darker, and more dangerous.

He had slowed to a walk, and his lips were turned up in a thin smile that didn't expose his teeth. She couldn't have said what he was wearing, because for the first time since she'd made the streets her home, it didn't matter. Rich, poor, or something in the middle-it would tell her nothing she needed to know.

Finch was utterly silent. Wide-eyed. Hair clinging to her forehead, flat and mousy. Thin as Lefty. Completely alone.

Or she would have been, in the moonlight, on these streets. But she had Jewel, and Jewel had just enough strength to tear her gaze away from the stranger's-tear was about the right word, it was so d.a.m.n hard-and drag Finch down the stairwell. It was clumsy, but it was fast, and the stranger hadn't been expecting it.

He was fast.

Had the door been hinged in a different way, had it been locked, had it required more than a shoulder to shove it on its inward trajectory, it would have been over then.

Finch didn't speak at all; she was white, her cheeks flushed in a way that made them look garish. She stumbled forward, and Jewel let her shoulder go and grabbed her by the hand instead. She began to drag her through the crowd, and any direction that was away was the right direction to pull her.

But the crowd was thick, and Jewel had none of the authority of Marla, Taverson's intimidating wife. The men swore at her, or shoved back, or worse, failed to notice her at all. She moved so d.a.m.n slowly, all the waiting and planning, all the nightmare in the world, wasn't going to mean a d.a.m.n thing to anyone outside of the Halls of Mandaros.

Because if the stranger caught them, they were both dead. And not a quick death either. Jewel knew it, and as strongly as she had known almost anything in her life.

"Taverson!" she screamed, her hand crushing Finch's delicate fingers so tight they ceased to tremble. "Trouble!"

She couldn't even see the tavernkeeper. She could see the back of the tavern, the kitchen wall, the swinging doors; she could see the crowded tables around which standing men pressed because there wasn't enough room for more chairs. She could see smoke, and dead things in pots, and-she could see the stranger's shadow, even in this light.

As if it lay across her, as if he had already cut his way through the crowd that she couldn't part.

What she couldn't see was Carver. The table, two full bowls untouched-or as close as made no difference-was empty. She reached for her dagger with her left hand, and turning, shoved Finch behind her.

The stranger was close. Men did move when he walked by; she would have run, but they were older and less easily frightened. Or they were stupid. Or they weren't his intended victims.

His eyes were dark, and they caught the light in the tavern and held it, glittering like jewels without the benefit of facets. Surface, there. She could hardly see the whites of his eyes. Couldn't, in fact.

He approached; she backed up. Finch backed as well, as Jewel at last let her go and shifted the dagger to her right hand. She knew it was stupid. Useless. Didn't know how or why, and didn't care, because it was all she had.

He pa.s.sed the last man, and then there was a small s.p.a.ce in which they stood, two girls and a tall man in clothing that Jewel still couldn't see clearly, it meant so little. Long arms. Long fingers. He stretched out, slowly, reached for her face. Her dagger flashed in reply, and he laughed.

But he didn't laugh as much when a bar stool struck him full in the face from below.

Wielded by Carver, and dropped by him as he turned to meet Jewel's eyes. "Don't stand there," he shouted, "Run!" The exit was blocked; the stranger had teetered, but he hadn't fallen.

Carver looked around, and then his gaze caught the kitchen door, and he nodded toward it. He'd looked the place over, of course. Just in case they needed to get out fast, and not by the front door.

It was enough. Jewel turned, caught Finch by the hand again, and made her way past the dining room's last tables, past the inner wall of the kitchen.

They ran together. Carver was longer of leg, and he drew his dagger. She didn't bother to tell him it would do no good-what was the point if it made him feel safer? But she led him away from the swinging door, pressing a finger to his lips before he could shout incredulity into a single word or ten.

He hesitated, but only briefly, and then he, too, followed. They all ran.

And at their back, she heard Taverson's loud exclamation, wordless in the rumble of too many voices, and she knew that he'd noticed that someone had started a fight.

Hoped that she hadn't killed too many people before it ended, and prayed that one of them wasn't Taverson.

Chapter Twelve.

JEWEL REACHED FOR the storeroom door. She'd seen Rath do it a dozen times, but her hands still shook. The storeroom was open, which was good. At this time of night, it was also likely to be used, which was bad. She pushed Finch through the door, waved Carver in, and stepped in herself, shutting the door as quickly as possible. At this time of night, quiet counted for nothing.

It was dark; she could hear Finch and Carver breathing, but neither spoke. The door m.u.f.fled the sounds of shouting, but didn't quell them entirely, and she leaned against the rough wood, fumbling in her pocket for the only thing of value she owned: the magelight.

Its weight in her palm, she spoke a single word, and light gradually illuminated the sacks, the walls, and the faces of two strangers.

Carver whistled.

Finch, still pale, only stared. She lifted a slender hand almost without thought-and dropped it to her side again when thought caught up with her.

"I'm Jay," Jewel told her softly. "And we can't stay here."

"There's not much way out," Carver began grimly, but she lifted her left hand, palm out, the universal "shut up."

She led them to the second storeroom's door, moving as quickly as the light allowed. "Here," she told Carver. Can you open that?"

He frowned, approached the door, and knelt. She snorted. "It's not locked," she said. "Just-open it, will you?"

Gaining his feet again, he pushed the door, and it gave. "Go in. You, too, Finch." She followed them. "Close it," she added, as she stepped through.

Carver snapped a salute.

She might have hit him, but not yet; not when Taverson's was still so close. Death receding, they listened. She wondered how much they would fail to hear once she had them in the tunnels. Worrying about what Rath would say when he saw Carver was so far down the list- "Jay?"

She had listed to one side, seeing light, window, shadow, a dark blue dress at an odd angle. Shaking her head, she flinched.

"Jay?" Carver said again.

She said something very, very rude in Torra.

And Finch, silent until then, said sharply, "What is it? What's wrong?"

Jay looked at the pale girl then. "You speak Torra?" she asked, almost surprised. And in Torra. The girl nodded quietly. Jewel's use of the language seemed to comfort her-probably because she'd never met Jewel's Oma.

"Follow me now," she told them. Trying not to see windows, and the odd slant of night sky; the tilting of moon, round and full. Seeing some of it anyway, imposed across the orb in her hand, as if moon and magelight were, for a moment, one.

She led them to the heavy boards. "This is sort of a trapdoor," she said, and it sounded lame, even to her ears. "I can go first, but someone has to hold the light." It wasn't what she'd meant to say; she didn't want to be parted from the stone. Not only was it Rath's gift, but it was life: they wouldn't make it through the tunnels without it.

Carver stepped up and held out a hand. Carver, the strange boy with a dagger-a dagger he hadn't even tried to use. Bar stool was better, though, she had to give him that. The stone? She hesitated for just a minute; he ignored the hesitation, waiting.

"Where are you taking us?" he asked, as she pushed the board out of the way. It would have made more sense to give the d.a.m.n thing to Finch, who was smaller, and less likely to be of help. But she hadn't, and, as was so often the case, made do.

"Does it matter?" she countered, sliding the wood across the floor and listening to the labored sound of her breath. Of metal against metal. Of something that might have been laughter, had it not been so cold.

Rath.

What was it? Why now? Since she'd met Rath, Jewel would swear everything about the cursed gift that marked her had gotten so much worse. She shoved her hair out of her eyes, and then shoved the board as far back as she could. There was just enough room.

"No," Carver said at last, and she remembered that she'd asked him a question. Didn't remember what it was.

She looked into the darkness. "Here," she told Carver, pointing at exactly where she wanted him to stand. "Hold it here."

He nodded, and kneeling beside the hole in the floor, he held out his palm, just as she had done. "There's floor there," he said at last, but he sounded doubtful.

"We either go there," she told him grimly, "or there." And pointed to the door. To what lay beyond it.

He didn't even try to tell her that their pursuer was just one man. Nodding, he sidled over, keeping his hand steady. She caught the edge of the floor in her hands, and swung herself down.

"Okay," she said. "Drop the stone."

He did. Just like that. Just as she had, when Rath had first taken her into the maze of tunnels that lay beneath the city streets. She moved to one side. "Finch next," she told him.

Finch didn't hesitate. Possibly because she was worried that Carver would push her if she did. Hard to say-what did Jewel know of the girl, after all? That she would die if no one tried to help her. Not a lot to risk a life on, really.

But she had. Finch landed awkwardly, but she weighed so little, it probably didn't matter. She fell, stepped on the hem of her shift, and stumbled again. Even with the light, it was awkward here. Carver landed perfectly on his feet. His bare feet.

"There's rope there," she told him. "Beyond the hole. It's in the pack-can you carry it?"

He nodded. "You planned this?"

"Well, it didn't get here by itself." She wouldn't need it. She knew the way. But she couldn't quite bring herself to leave it behind. "Can you drag the boards across the hole?"

He was taller than she was, but not as tall as either Rath or Arann; he had to struggle, and it took a long time. But he managed. And the tunnels? They were quiet. The tavern suddenly seemed like it was in a different holding.

She held the stone she'd retrieved with care. "Follow me," she told them quietly. "It's safe here."

"Where is here?"

"Tunnels. More dirt than stone, but still there. I think-I think there's stone there as well."

Carver touched the rough earth that formed the wall here. "How far do they go?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Good surprise or bad?"

"Good. I hope."

And Finch turned to Carver. "I'm Finch," she told him gravely.

"I'm Carver," he replied, raising a brow. Maybe both; Jewel could only see one. "Jay came here tonight to save your life."

"You didn't come with her?"

"I came with her," he said, and his stomach growled. He failed to notice, and Finch failed to notice; Jewel didn't ask him why he hadn't eaten. "But I-"

"We met each other in an alley," she told Finch, "Just outside of the thirty-second holding."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

The is she sane look crossed the younger girl's face, but it didn't linger. It would probably be followed in quick succession by how did she know and was she involved in this. Not that Jewel cared. She started to walk and they followed.

She knew the way home. She had done this run a half dozen times. But she had never done it so quickly; she was so far ahead of Finch and Carver that she heard one of them hit the ground with a thud, and realized that the light went where she did. When she turned back, she saw Carver rubbing a knee; he looked at her and said nothing. Not even loudly.

"Jay," he said, as she waited for them with dwindling patience, "where are we going?"

And she meant to tell them home. But what came out instead, and that in a rush of syllables-was, "The Common." The minute those words left her lips, she knew. And knew, in a different way, that she had never made the run-if there was one-to the Common from any part of the tunnels.

There had been wonder, for her, when she had first ventured after Rath into these mysterious byways. There had been more, and quieter, on her second journey. She had thought-when she could think of anything other than the possibility of failure-that she would have the time and the opportunity to offer some glimpse of that same wonder to Finch. Well, and Carver, too, now that he was here.

But a darker understanding was working its way through her now, as she stood, the stone granting light in her shaking hand. What the tunnels meant to her, what they might mean, was lost to urgency. There was no magic here, no otherness, no sense of wonder-there was fear, and it overshadowed everything less primal.

"This way," she told them both. "Hurry."

She led them over broken stones, fallen walls; she led them between four pillars that had been sheared off at the height, and rested in darkness above. She led them down open roads, across which lay the crumbling ruin of what might have been a walkway, the light in her hand shifting too softly to give her any hint of what type of stone it might be. Gray was everywhere, and if it was broken by the occasional glint of something brighter and more colorful, it didn't matter. She heard Finch's brief Torra, more prayer than curse, and there was wonder in it.