"Yes. As always. Not that you're doing the work for free."

"The wife wouldn't like it."

"She wouldn't like being used as an excuse much either, unless you've got a new wife I haven't met."

Taybor's laugh was a short burst of sound, just shy of a snort. But there was genuine affection in it. "Same old wife," he said, with the hint of a smile. "Same old shop.

"But I'll tell you, Rath, if she were here helping out, she'd tan your hide."

"I am not involved with a child."

"No. But she's here, isn't she?" And he nodded to the window beneath the bars he was erecting.

"She's here."

"Why?"

"Do I ask you about your business?"

"Frequently."

"That would be considered making polite small talk in other parts of town," Rath replied. "It's not as if I actually care."

Taybor laughed again. He was a short man, almost as wide around the chest as he was tall, with a shock of hair that would be called red in anyone's estimate. None of the girth could be called fat, although his wife, Marjorie, often did. She was, on the other hand, the only person who could without suffering for it.

"Marjorie would probably approve," Rath added.

"Oh?"

"The girl's ill. No, I don't know with what. It's not the usual Summer diseases-at least not the ones I've seen."

"You've not caught anything?"

"Not yet." He would have coughed, but he didn't trust Taybor's humor to extend that far. In the Summer, the crippling disease was not a joking matter, and many healthy men were suspicious of anything that could lead to it.

"So . . . you're being a nursemaid, now?"

"Business is slow," Rath said, with a shrug. "Good work," he added, as he made show of examining Taybor's bars.

Taybor snorted. The sound was not unlike Jewel's snort, except for the nose that emitted it. The older nose had been broken at least once that Rath personally knew of. "That slow?"

Rath shrugged. "I found her by the river. She was living under a bridge." He paused. "She'd stolen some money."

"Yours?"

"Would I care if it were anyone else's?"

"Not usually, no. Then again, you wouldn't usually bring a thief home and put her to bed either."

"I should have blackened both her eyes."

"Marjorie wouldn't have complained much, if you explained why."

"Hah. You've forgotten your wife's temper."

"She does have a bit of a soft spot for starving children. Comes from all that work in the Mother's temple, I imagine. You want me to take the kid?"

Yes. Yes, Rath wanted that. But the word that came out was No.

"You're going soft, Rath," Taybor said, as he stretched his shoulders and stepped back to examine his work. He stood on the bars; they took his weight. "Door, too?"

"Same as usual."

It was too much to hope that the conversation had ended, although Rath did try to steer it in a dozen other directions. Taybor was a good locksmith, and a pa.s.sably good blacksmith as well-but he was ferociously focused; once he'd glommed onto something, he let go when he was good and ready. Rath had seen bulldogs with less of a grip.

"If you're going soft," Taybor said, as he examined the single lock on the door, "you should be about ready for another line of work."

"That is getting dangerously close to the thin line," Rath replied.

The lock being examined was beneath Taybor's contempt. He spared it a cursory, d.a.m.ning glance, and then set about disa.s.sembling it; Rath held the magelight. There wasn't enough to work by otherwise.

"Thin or no, Rath, I mean it. If you've taken this girl in, you're changing. If you're about to tell me you're not, I'll believe you-but in that case, it's no life for a girl."

"And life under a bridge, starving slowly, is?"

Taybor's friendly face folded a moment in what pa.s.sed for a thoughtful expression. "No," he said at last. "I a.s.sume she's got no kin?"

"None that are living."

"She told you?"

"More or less."

"No siblings?"

"None that she mentioned." He paused and then added, "She is feverish, Taybor."

"Meaning you haven't asked."

"As a rule, I don't ask more than I need to. Information is-"

"I know, I know. The Mother's temple-"

Rath shook his head.

"Look, I know you don't hold much with the G.o.ds. I'm fine with that. But the people there do good work. Marjorie-"

"Let it go." Rath leaned up against a wall. "It's not as if I intend to keep her."

"You don't?"

"Do I look like an orphanage?"

"Not much." The lock disa.s.sembled-along with the doork.n.o.b-Taybor looked up. "What do you intend to do?" Friendliness had ebbed from the tone; what remained was steel. Taybor was good at working with that.

"I intend to see her healthy," Rath replied, choosing his words with care. "I want her out-but I'm not going to turn her into the streets of the thirty-fifth when she can't even walk."

Taybor's gaze was unflinching and unwavering. He stared at Rath until the silence was long past uncomfortable, and then shrugged his broad shoulders. "Be careful, Rath. Children grow on you."

"So does fungus."

Taybor chuckled and began to rea.s.semble the door with a different locking mechanism. The bolts would follow. "Never thought I'd see the day," he said.

Rath didn't deign to reply. If the only bad to come of Jewel was laughter at his expense, he could live with it.

But he heard her cry out, and tried to look casual as he leaped past Taybor and into the hall beyond his bent back.

"Jewel," he said, throwing the door wide.

She was sitting, her eyes wild.

He caught her as she struggled out of the sleeping bag and stumbled blindly toward the door, as if he were invisible. She didn't struggle; as her feet left the floor, she stilled instead. She was hot.

"What is it, what's happened? Are you in pain? Do you need to throw up?"

"They told me you were dead," she whispered, as her arms crept up around his neck.

He knew that she was delirious. But he didn't tell her that she was wrong. Instead, he cradled her, his eyes closed, his hearing attuned to her ragged breath. When she slept again, he put her down, loosening her grip.

Taybor was standing in the door's frame. He shook his head. "I tell you, Rath-"

"Shut up, Taybor. Just-shut up."

The locks finished, Rath sat by Jewel. He had taken the time to visit the well-actually, he'd taken more than enough time, because he'd had to find it first-and had come back with water of dubious quality. He fed it to her, sitting on cramped knees by her side. He needed to find a bed, but that could wait.

She woke seldom, and when she did, she was listless. The defiance and the caution that had defined her had been swallowed; she had become entirely fever. He knew that the fever would either break or consume her, and he was unwilling to leave until one or the other had happened.

Taybor came by later in the day. He had two large baskets, one in either hand, when Rath opened the door for him, and he handed them both to Rath without comment.

"I don't think she'll eat," Rath said.

"Idiot. They're for you."

Rath was momentarily nonplussed, but it didn't last. He paid Taybor for the food. Taybor took the money; long years of friendship had made clear the danger of offering Rath anything that resembled charity.

In this, Rath and Jewel had much in common.

But before he left, Taybor offered to take Jewel to the Mother's temple again.

Rath said, "You win. She is not going to the Mother's temple, now, tomorrow, or the day after. If you hear that I died in the next week, you can come and fetch her."

Taybor's smile was slight. "It's not a contest," he said, but he was grinning.

"You're keeping score."

"Happens I am. Don't tell Marjorie."

"You don't tell her I'm living in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a hovel in the thirty-fifth holding with a sick ten-year-old, and I won't tell her anything."

"Done. Rath?"

"What now?"

"If you weren't such a d.a.m.n ornery cuss, I'd tell you I was proud of you."

"But I am. Don't."

"You fix to move again, give me a bit more warning next time."

Rath's smile was genuine. Taybor was one of the few men living that he trusted.

Two days later, the fever broke. Jewel had lost pounds-how many, Rath didn't care to guess-and her skin was pale and tight over bones that were far too prominent. Her eyes were ringed black, her cheeks hollow. But she would live.

Rath left the magelight with her. Given his own lack of familiarity with the new rooms, it made navigating more hazardous; he kept his boots on to protect his toes. His wooden chest was still closed, and the creep of mess and debris that characterized home had had no chance to start; the rooms were as neat and tidy as they would ever be.

The kitchen-if it could be graced with such an elevated description-did have a vent to the outside; it was covered with new netting, and it was narrow enough that not even Jewel could fit an arm down the pipe. He didn't like it, but he didn't much like the idea of Winter without a woodstove. He busied himself, but did not cook anything; he mashed fruit, doused bread in milk, brought out soft cheese.

He carried these back to Jewel's room-and stopped himself from thinking of it as Jewel's room.

She was lying on the floor; she levered herself up on her elbows as he entered, and made to rise. He frowned, and she subsided; his frown was ferocious. Lack of sleep, and the uncommon occurrence of a gnawing worry, had conspired to rob him of any ability to project charm or friendliness.

"I feel funny," she told him, as he knelt by her side.

"You're weak," he replied.

"I know. But I-"

"I mean, you're weak from the fever. You haven't eaten much. You've barely been drinking water."

"Rath, I can't-"

"Do not start that again." He put the basket on her stomach, and helped her to sit. "Can you eat?"

She nodded. Her eyes were wide, seen as they were through unruly fringes of hair. Humidity hadn't done much to straighten the curls.

"Then eat."

"What about you?"