Back in the hideout to fetch his things, Sedrik glared in fury at the empty bowl of milk. An old thieves’ custom: the Twins wander the shadows in the shapes of cats, and if you leave them a treat, they grant you luck. Master Vyncent did it constantly. Now the mere sight of that bowl set his teeth on edge, irritation bordering on rage—and not for that alone. Old partners, the botched “Black Sapphire” job, the loss of the loot—everything swirled in his head in a murky whirlpool. The Duke and his bastard had been at the estate that very night; the traitors Guy and Roche had slashed clean through every plan.

  But worst of all was the knowledge of his own guilt. Sed felt like a child who’d yielded to his temper. How necessary had it been to raise the alarm? To press a knife to an old man’s throat like some common bandit—an old man who, under ordinary turns of fortune, should never even have known he existed! The goal is worth any risk. But there had been no goal from the start. A miscalculation, a lack of information—and the fault was his. Which meant all the risks had been for nothing.

  Then what had been the point of running? Why had his hand reached for the smoke bomb? He could have stayed where he was, slit his own throat with the knife—and not be sitting here now, remembering that shameful flight. And only so recently words had been spoken of a new king of the city…

  Kneeling in utter darkness, Sedrik spent the remainder of the night in brooding. Instead of the hideout in Sharto, he had stopped in another place—more distant, more low and plain—knowing he would have to spend several days here, until matters cleared.

  It was nothing new to him. A thief’s whole life is one long lying low.

  The chief advantage of the “Lower Refuge” was the well close by. Before morning came, he filled two clay jugs from it, each holding a bucket’s worth. Sed set them in a dark corner on cool stone. With moderate use, it would last a week.

  Separately, in a small tarred cask, there stood weak ale. Drunkenness is a thief’s ruin; so he drank rarely, only so the water would not grow tiresome.

  The food had been prepared in advance and portioned out. Nothing extra that could rot, mildew, or smell.

  On a shelf lay two stale loaves of kvass-black bread, wrapped in rough canvas—dense and heavy as stones. In the days to follow, the bread was grated into a bowl, soaked with water, and turned into a thick, filling mash. For taste, honey was added, but seldom, so as not to stir thirst.

  Beside it lay a wheel of cheese—yellow, hard, in a cracked rind of wax. With time it did not spoil; it only grew sharper.

  For meat there was salt beef—dark red flesh stitched through with white veins of salt, wrapped in oil-smeared parchment. It dulled hunger well, but like honey it brought on thirst.

  From time to time he took sauerkraut mixed with cranberries from an oak tub with a crude stopper—not so much for variety as to ward off scurvy.

  For bites between: rusks, nuts, and dried apples.

  Even driven into a corner, Sedrik did not sink to a rat’s level. As a child—weak and destitute—he ate anything to survive. But after his training he became another sort of man.

  “Our stomach is like an alchemist’s laboratory,” the master used to say. “It is full of mixtures and energies; they affect both body and mind. Proper eating is the guarantee of their work. So when you hear reproaches aimed at knights and mages—that they allow themselves needless luxury—know this: only envious fools reproach them.”

  Most of the days that followed, Sedrik gave over to exercises.

  At dawn he loosened his joints—slow circles of the shoulders, deep squats. Then came work on the hooks driven into a beam: hanging, pull-ups, static holds. Such hooks were in almost every refuge. In the guild they trained the grip that way. Replaying the failed night again and again, Sed pushed past his usual count, heeding neither the pain in his muscles nor the salt of sweat that stung his eyes.

  By day he drilled slow, catlike lunges, knuckle push-ups, stretching—everything soundless, with focus on each muscle. He sat on the floor and reached for his toes, drawing out the tendons.

  In the evening—balance. He stood on a narrow board, imitating a cornice, until the world narrowed to the point of support beneath his feet. Then a series of explosive jumps from a standstill, landing softly on the pads of his feet, again and again, until his legs burned with a stabbing ache.

  The nights passed in meditation. Little time was given to sleep. Sed slept sitting, in a corner, and very lightly.

  Seven days of inner storm in a quiet refuge ended with three knocks at the door.

  — I’ve thought over your offer. It sounds interesting, and perhaps I’ll take part.

  — Gyuste fairly bloomed before his eyes.

  — Oh, praise be to Adelaide! I knew it! I knew you would understand me—believe me, it will be something incredible, we’re just working on a new play…

  With a motion of his hand, Dwain stopped him.

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  — I said perhaps. There are several conditions.

  — Yes! Yes! Of course!

  — First: in the next few days I want to meet the whole troupe and understand what you’re even doing. Only then will I give a final answer.

  — I swear you’ll like it!

  — We shall see. But there’s another matter—more personal…

  Dwain briefly told him of Rize, leaving out the details.

  — And so I need you to teach her speech. Can you manage?

  Gyuste’s euphoria ebbed a little, yet he looked intrigued.

  — I am flattered you hold me in such high esteem. In truth, I’ve not had occasion to take up work of such lofty sort, but what master of words would refuse to carry the light of knowledge to those in need?

  After they exchanged a handshake, the dwerg led the bard outside and spoke with him there a while longer; then he returned, drew his cloak about him, and climbed down into the cellar. A hidden passage behind a crate led to the back street; from there he made for Sedrik. Despite Morres’s seeming trust, the other members of the guild had watched the office since the reward was announced. Not every tail could be spotted, and so the visit to Sedrik had to be put off.

  Reaching the refuge, he rapped three knocks and slipped in quickly as soon as he heard the click.

  — Getting here was a task and a half, — Dwain said as he entered.

  — Was there a tail? — Sed asked, stepping away from the door.

  — Yes. Had to twist and turn.

  The dwerg sat on a barrel, scratching at his stubble.

  — Speak. — said Sedrik.

  — Let’s start with this: in the first days after your little adventure, the city watch received no orders. Accordingly, there were no searches, no interrogations.

  — Decided to hush it up?

  — Aye. Seems the Duke didn’t want foul talk on the eve of the ball, and declared there’d been no disturbance on his land. By the by, the ball was splendid. They say the queen-regent embraced Ettiere’s brother, moving all the guests, and Gaspar delivered a fiery speech about the kingdom’s future. Dukes Agreste, Valcuar, and Garnier—who were once thought his rivals—stood with him.

  — So the rams made peace.

  — If so, it means there won’t be a civil squabble, and that’s not so ill. But the most interesting came after. After the ball, the watch put a price on you—one hundred forrins.

  — And why would they?

  — I spoke with watchmen—they say they know not only your name, but every theft of the past years, even those from when you were in the guild.

  Sed said nothing. He stared thoughtfully at the floor, digesting the tidings.

  — I suspect they concealed the information about you, — the dwerg went on. — By the way, Morres came by.

  — The old rat… Did he speak of Guy or Roche?

  — No. By his words, the guild knows of our business, you and I, and that you’re their enemy now.

  — …I’ve been one to them for three years.

  — No, now it’s more serious. They said that from this day you’re not merely a deserter, but a traitor who put his own at risk. The guild has set a reward for you—one hundred and fifty forrins. Even now mercenaries, bandits, and guild thieves prowl the streets. On the left bank it’s turned into outright chaos; there was a brawl at Colette’s tavern.

  A crushing silence fell. They both held their tongues, as though waiting to see who would speak first.

  — They were stingy, — Sedrik said at last, as if to himself. — Could’ve offered more. “Deserter,” “enemy”—they’re only words until my head sits on their table.

  — What are you going to do?

  — The same as always. I’ve lived in shadows for many years. All these rewards and private grudges are only a measure of my efforts. If they want rid of me, it means they fear me. If so, then I’ve done all things right.

  Dwain expected no other answer.

  — With that same certainty you said you’d take the “Black Sapphire.”

  — And I took it. By the way—how’s the cat?

  — She’s fine. As for you, I have a proposal.

  — I’m listening.

  — Riches aren’t only in Seltrivelle. The nobility haul eastern trophies to their estates. The guild’s influence in the provinces is uneven, and the local authorities don’t know you. I’ve acquaintances in the south. I can write to them and put in a word. You’ll make contact—and you’ll be able to shear rams as much as you like.

  Sedrik fell to thinking; his gaze slid along the wall.

  — I’ll think on it.

  — Excellent. But you’ll have to wait—long. Sending the letters and getting answers will take a great deal of time.

  — Waiting, I can do.

  When Dwain left the refuge, Sedrik dropped to his knees again—alone once more, in complete silence—and turned over what he’d heard.

  “They’re trying to be rid of me—so be it. To leave the capital… Not the most promising end, but a practical one. Whatever comes, wherever I go, whoever hunts me—watch, guild, even the gods themselves—it matters not. Only what I do matters; whatever it costs, I’ll do my own, I’ll go on stealing!”