Just one more street. Then, you can rest.

At every intersection, Rigel made the same empty promise. At the end of every block, he broke it. The lies kept him going. If Rigel stopped moving, he would die.

One more block.

Rigel was too exhausted to run. All he could manage was a squelching slog, head lowered against the relentless rain. The storm had overflowed every cistern in the city. Sheets of water cascaded over eaves, alleys flooded waist-deep, and avenues churned into a gray soup of dead rats and dung.

It was a perfect night to disappear. The downpour erased the footprints Rigel left in the muck and swirled away the blood that trailed from his shoulder. The highborn homes he passed were locked up tight with doors barred and shutters drawn. Their watchmen had retired. There was no one left to question why a bloody urchin lurched along with a dagger stuck in his arm.

It was the darkest part of the night. Rigel wound the stolen orb in a rag and stuffed it in his pocket to hide the arcane light. It was all going according to plan, if only he weren’t about to die.

Rigel was in terrible shape. Blood dyed his sleeve pink. His collar was singed, and the skin beneath was burned black. Every step sent a shriek through his arm, but the dagger was too deep. He didn’t dare pull it out. All he could do was put one foot in front of the other, fear before pain. Rigel shivered and ran on until he stumbled into a familiar stench. Not even a hurricane could blow away the stench of Tinkerton. He’d staggered across half of Lhaz.

Rigel fought for focus. He’d lost so much blood. Teams of cutthroats lurked at the fringe and picked off fools who blundered into the slums alone. Not tonight. Even the rats had the sense to stay inside.

Tinkerton was the last leg of Rigel’s escape. No semblance of planning informed the slum’s sprawl. Rickety bridges spanned fetid canals choked with refuse. The so-called streets were unpaved ruts of sucking sludge.

Alleys ran at crazy angles and dead-ended where filth piled too high to ford. Tents and stalls clustered against every structure like barnacles. It was a wretched place, for awful people.

Eyes were all around, more on every block. People lined the streets; they had nowhere to go. Squalls flattened the shantytown semi-annually and scattered the tent-people like a kicked anthill.

In a few days, it would all spring back up, a recurring rash. Tonight, paupers perched under every awning. Entire families were huddled beneath scraps of tarp and sailcloth. Rigel shied away from the clusters of unfortunates.

The safest path was through Nestor’s Tangle, a cluster of side-streets that wove between the most dangerous blocks. Rigel turned the corner and found a group of hooded men in dripping red robes.

Cultists!

A dozen reds fanned before the Mission of the True Star and admired their bloody handiwork. Hadriate’s crimson adherents hated the yellow glaubensfeind of the One True Star. Every night, they profaned the mission’s gaudy façade.

The penny priests refused to budge. Each morning, a host of yellow acolytes issued from the golden gate and scrubbed off the night’s accumulation of dung and graffiti.

Tonight, the cultists raised the stakes. A woman’s face defaced the temple wall in lines of dripping red. It wasn’t paint. A pale priest in saffron robes dangled from the gable post. Hadriate’s adherents had strung him up, slit his throat, and drained him. Rigel snuck away in a hurry. The cultists would gladly snatch him up and add him to the mural. No shortcuts now. He’d have to cross Dead Dog Ditch.

Even in daylight, the dumping ground was a dangerous place. Refugees and rag-pickers lined the periphery. Across the way, a watchtower rose from the blackened bones of a burned-out bakery. Rigel cheated closer to the rabble to stay out of arrow range.

Sometimes, the bowmen shot stragglers for sport. The shortest path back to the Halfking Tavern was up Tick Street, but it was too close to the tower. Rigel couldn’t tell if anyone was inside the watchtower. He edged closer and squinted against the rain.

“AH!”

A flash of light blinded him. Rigel ran for it, tripped, and pitched into the mud.

“AAAAH!”

Rigel screamed and writhed in immediate agony. His ears rang, and everything hurt. He was sure he’d been struck by lightning. He couldn’t move. He rocked back and forth in the muck and tucked into a tight ball of suffering. Across the square, the watchtower burned. The pieces came together. He’d tripped, and the fall had dislodged the dagger.

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Steps splashed toward him. Shadows approached.

No!

Rigel groped in the mud until his fingers found the dagger. He rose on jellied legs, shaking and covered in slime. The scavengers shrank back from his bloody blade. Rigel wheeled, afraid they might flank him. He saw what he’d tripped over. A body lay face down in the mud.

Tinkerton.

Across the square, the lightning-struck watchtower blazed like a torch. Any bowmen inside were dead. Rigel lurched toward the mouth of Tick Street. He checked his back. No shades followed. Two more blocks brought him to the sagging porch of the Halfking Tavern. With the very last of his strength, Rigel crashed through the front door and collapsed.

The tavern was dim and dark. Candles cost, and Herkimer Halfking was ferociously cheap.

“Herk! Help!” Rigel gulped. He couldn’t shout, no breath left.

There were four men inside. Sters the Hook was on his feet with his gaff hook in his hand. He’d heard Rigel coming. Fish sat at the bar. He downed the dregs of his drink, slammed the glass down, and drew his rapier. Herkimer Halfking hid, grabbed his steel-capped cudgel, and peeked over the bartop. The last man was unarmed. Anything that fell into the hands of Yellowhat the Bard was swiftly pawned. There was nothing of value on him, or in him.

“Who goes there?” Sters demanded.

Rigel could not answer. Fish was the first to approach.

“It’s the boy!”

Herkimer waddled under the bar’s flip-up counter for a look.

“Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Boy! Did anyone follow you?” Halfking scurried over. “Bar the door!”

Fish slid the plank in place. All the men talked at once. Their voices grew distant as Rigel drifted toward darkness.

A jolt brought him back. Halfking slapped him again.

“Boy! Wake up!”

Rigel tried to block the next slap. The dagger was still locked in his grip. The dwarf hissed and pulled away.

“Rat-bastard tried to kill me!”

“He doesn’t even know where he is,” Fish observed.

They took away his dagger. Someone propped him up against the wall. Rigel felt as if he was watching it all happen to someone else.

“Looks bad. I need a candle, a clean rag, and some Succendo,” Fish ordered.

“I’ll get it,” Yellowhat offered.

“Not you!” Herkimer snarled. Things vanished wherever Yellowhat went. Herk hustled behind the bar and came back.

“I said clean!” Fish rebuked the dwarf. The rag was anything but.

“That’s the cleanest I’ve got.” Herk shrugged. It was probably true.

Fish shook his head and went to work. He cut the blood-soaked sleeve off completely and examined the wound in the candlelight.

“Rough one,” Fish grunted. “Dirty and too high up the arm. Can’t cut it off if it festers.”

Fish rinsed the rag in Succendo and scrubbed dirt from the wound. Then, he poured the liquor directly onto the puncture.

“Easy with that bottle! It’s dear!” Halfking griped.

The spirit burned. Rigel’s eyes jolted open.

“AUGH!”

“He’s awake!” Herk cried. He grabbed Rigel’s hair and held his head up.

Herkimer Halfking was the absolute last person Rigel wanted to open his eyes and see. The dwarf wore more jewelry than all his whores put together. His clothes were a mismatched assortment of articles rich men had forgotten and been too ashamed to reclaim from the brothel upstairs.

“Boy! Did you get the orb?” Halfking shook him.

“It hurts!” Rigel bleat.

“Never mind that! Did you get it?”

Rigel blinked. He’d nearly forgotten what this was all about. He slipped his hand into his pocket and held forth the stolen orb. Blue light glowed between his fingers. Immiscible swirls of violet and indigo billowed inside the crystal sphere.

“Oooh! Give it here!” Herk snatched at the sphere.

Rigel yanked his hand away. He clutched the orb tight against his chest.

“My mother and sister. You’ll wipe out the debt? Like you promised?”

“Yes, yes! These men are witness. Give me the magic ball, and your debt is done.” Halfking spread his palms, as if this were all a noble gesture. As if he hadn’t been pimping Rigel’s mother and sister for months.

“I need a healer,” Rigel insisted. A cold, black fog wrapped around him. He fought to keep his eyes open.

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” Herkimer flashed a shrewd smile. Those little teeth had worried plenty of bigger men to death.

“I’ll smash it!” Rigel cried. He held the orb up, ready to slam it against the floor.

“Don’t gyp him, Herk! That thing might kill us all,” Yellowhat cut in.

Herkimer scowled, about to bark something at Hat. He saw the other men’s faces and relented.

“All right. But no healer. Too many questions. Fish, still have that dust I sold you?”

Fish nodded.

“You can waste it if you want.”

“I’ll dust him,” Fish agreed.

Yellowhat and Sters gawked at the offer. Dust was ungodly expensive.

“Herk, he’s just a boy. He can’t take the dust,” Yellowhat protested.

Halfking shot him a dangerous look. The bard was too caned to remember how deep he was in Herk’s pocket.

“Are you going to pay for a healer, Hat? I didn’t know you’d come into money.”

Yellowhat shut his mouth.

Rigel couldn’t hold his arm up any longer. The orb slipped from his limp fingers and rolled across the floor. Herk scooped up the sphere and held it high in triumph.

“Mine at last!”

The pimp seemed very far away.

Fish took a knee next to Rigel. He cracked open a packet of waxed paper. The smell of burnt metal filled the air. Yellowhat and Sters recoiled. They’d been dusted before.

“Do you know what this is, boy?” Fish asked.

When Rigel didn’t answer, Fish shook him.

“Wake up. Do you know what this is?”

“Yes,” Rigel managed.

“When the pain comes, you have to take all of it. If you black out, you won’t wake up. Do you understand?”

Rigel could barely nod.

“Give him something to bite down on. Take his arms and legs.”

Sters and Yellowhat stretched Rigel flat on the floor and pinned his arms and legs. Herk twisted the filthy rag and stuffed it into Rigel’s mouth.

“Pray for strength, boy. Pray the High Ones aren’t hungry.”

Fish dusted the wound. Rigel thrashed and screamed against the rag. The reek of burning metal filled the inn.