The body hit the floor with a loud thud, the third mistake Royce Melborn had made in less than an hour. The first two were minor; this one wasn’t, and he didn’t like the direction of increased ineptitude that his errors were taking. He waited in the dark, barely breathing and listening for the telltale sounds of footfalls coming in his direction. All he heard was the distant snap of the fire in the downstairs hearth, the wind against the house, and the rattle of carriage wheels on the street outside.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Sloppy as I am tonight, I can’t believe that Luck is with me.

This possibility didn’t provide Royce with a sense of security. He knew all too well how fickle Luck could be, and it had never truly been Royce’s friend. More than a year ago, he and it had had a nasty breakup. Since then, the two hadn’t been on speaking, or any other kind of, terms. Royce might even go so far as to say that Luck was his enemy—not a huge leap given he had quite a few. But tonight’s good fortune made him wonder why Luck had suddenly decided to tag along.

Royce glanced down at the awkwardly twisted body; a surprisingly small puddle of blood had pooled on the floor. When the pump stopped, so had the flow. Most of the initial spray decorated the bedspread. Not a drop landed on Royce. He’d learned how to avoid the gush through repeated blunders back in the days when he and Luck were at the height of their war.

Royce knew who the man was, by name at least: Jedidiah Thornton was one of the five royal magistrates of Rhenydd. He had a wife, two mistresses, and eight children—two of which were legitimate. Other than that, Royce didn’t know anything about the guy, and they had never met. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, which accounted for the two mistresses and the large number of children. The dead man wasn’t nearly as old as Royce had expected. Magistrates always seemed ancient, but maybe that impression came from their powdered wigs. Jedidiah wasn’t wearing his hairpiece, nor his shoes, just a nightshirt. His eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling. Thornton appeared surprised, but he shouldn’t have been. An older, wiser man certainly would have known the danger of threatening a thieves guild that lived next door.

When he was certain that the house, and the city directly outside it, remained oblivious to the murder, Royce left the bedroom. The whole place remained quiet. No doubt everyone was still tucked snugly in their beds, so he went down the stairs and out the front door.

The home of the recently deceased magistrate was located on Lord’s Row, not more than a block from Central Square. Being after hours but not too late, the streets of Ratibor were depleted of pedestrians, though not completely empty. No one would find Royce’s presence the least bit odd as long as he walked like a person innocent of any wrongdoing.

The city couldn’t afford lanterns to illuminate the streets, so it got by with just torches, and precious few of those. This left nothing but moonlight during most of his trip back, which was fine by Royce—good even.

Realizing he should have worn his cloak after all, Royce pulled the collar of his shirt up around his neck. The night was chilly—not quite so cold as it was damp. Spring always seemed to arrive late in Ratibor. The season promised warmth, beauty, flowers, and rebirth, but it could be as vindictive as winter had always proven to be. If it weren’t for summer pushing for its chance to punish humanity with drought and suffocating heat, spring would continue its torturous tease.

As raw as the night was, it wasn’t bad enough to force Royce to seek shelter in an alley to escape the harsh wind. He didn’t stop until he reached Herald Street. From Lord’s Row he looked down the length of the road and could just make out the green roof of the old building at the end. Royce wasn’t in this part of town often, hadn’t been in years, but he remembered that roof and those walls. They enveloped his first home—at least the only one he had ever known. He stared at it, inviting the memories. He wanted to feel the sense of helplessness, the hurt, and the pain again. Then he held up a hand, presenting it to the night—the same hand that had just slit the throat of Ratibor’s East End royal magistrate, Jedidiah Thornton. “Not so helpless anymore.”

He wondered if Taft and Remy still worked there. And what about Ada Cross? Probably not. They were old even back then. But if they still lived, Royce thought he might stop by and do something about that—if only for old times’ sake. After all, a person who could assassinate a leading magistrate and casually walk out the front door ought to be able to butcher two orderlies and a headmistress.

I should burn the whole thing down, he thought.

Reaching into his purse, Royce felt for and found the little card. It was still there, the string long gone. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Now he pulled it out and studied the words written in faded ink. He’d been forced to wear it, punished each time he took it off. Royce removed the thing for good the night he escaped, but he’d kept it ever since—didn’t know why. It meant nothing to him because Royce couldn’t read.

----------------------------------------

“You did what?” Garnet asked.

This was the third time the Thief Master had repeated those exact three words. No matter how many different ways Royce tried to explain, the reply was always the same, so this time he spoke slowly. “I…killed…Jedidiah…Thornton. And stop asking me the same stupid question. You sound moronic.”

Garnet stared, his face crushed in confusion. “You killed a royal magistrate?”

“Yes,” Royce replied. Turning to the rest, he added, “Really wasn’t so hard. Didn’t have a single watchman.”

Royce was back in the Rat’s Nest—the room in the sewers just below Honor’s Way and Degan Street that served as the headquarters of the Ratibor faction of the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. Few members lived there. Most found better places around the city, but this was the guild’s heart—the place loot was stored and where they congregated for stories, news, and assignments. That night the nest was host to twelve rats. Most were sweepers, but there were a couple of picks along with Peridot—the mission architect, the brains of the outfit. Royce was pleased she was there. Peridot would be able to appreciate what Garnet obviously couldn’t.

“There’s a reason he’s not guarded,” Garnet said. “’Cuz no one is stupid enough to try to…I can’t believe it.” He shook his head. “C’mon, seriously. This has to be a joke. You’re not that barmy, are you? I mean, I know you’re insane—famous for it really—but not that demented, right?”

Royce raised his hands, then let them drop. “I don’t understand. Thornton declared war on us when he executed Cinnabar. He ordered the sewers to be scoured. Just last night you said we ought to kill him before he slaughters us.”

“That was just talk. I didn’t mean it, you stupid git!” Garnet shouted.

“Well, you should have made that clear.” Royce turned his back, searching for his cloak amid the clutter.

Rat’s Nest wasn’t so much a euphemism as an accurate portrait. The whole place was filled with all manner of odds and ends that had been scavenged or pilfered. These rats didn’t merely steal; they collected. Like actual rodents, the thieves cleaned the city of any and all refuse. Doing so produced haphazard piles of randomly accumulated clutter. With just a glance, Royce spied tangled wads of string; empty bottles, some broken; and dozens of candlesticks, most without candles but still coated in wax. They had hundreds of spoons because silverware was one of the primary targets in any robbery. The ones piled here, however, were all pewter. Any silver brought back was immediately melted down. Rope was everywhere, but as it was a trade tool, the coils were neatly hung. The same was true for the various locks that lived on the practice table in the corner. Then there was the inexplicable: half of a pink parasol, a pile of pigeon feathers stuffed into a coffee tin, a doll made of knotted handkerchiefs, and the filthy, decapitated porcelain statue of an orange-painted swan that had been collected before Royce had become a member.

He found his cloak in the clothes pile that was mounded with tattered blankets and a truly remarkable assortment of hats. The rats loved stealing them, but because the decorative garments were often unique and easily recognized, they only wore them in the Rat’s Nest. When the novelty wore off, they went on the heap. Finding his wrap covered in crumbs, Royce shook it clean. He was annoyed at himself for leaving it behind, but he’d expected the murder to be more challenging than it had been and worried that it might get in the way.

Another lesson learned.

“You really did it? You ain’t just screwin’ around? You actually killed Thornton?”

Royce nodded. “Why? Is that a problem?”

“Problem?” Garnet exploded with exasperation, addressing the question to the other rats as if everyone in the room knew the answer but Royce. “For one thing, you’re not a bucketman.”

“What’s that?” Still feeling the chill, Royce pulled on the cloak.

“An assassin. All bucketmen are sanctioned by the guild, and they work out of Colnora where the Jewel keeps them on a short leash. Only he can order the death of a duke or the like. And he also keeps his ear to the ground about any deaths because too many killings draw the attention of the royals. You can knock off a merchant or two, no problem. But if not kept in check, people complain, and retribution follows. See? So you ain’t just pissing on this city, you’re spraying the whole bloody guild with your mess.”

“Good thing I didn’t kill a duke, then.”

Garnet put his face in his palm. “You done the next best thing, kiddo. All people at certain levels are off limits, and a magistrate falls squarely into that box. There will be consequences, count on it. And the mass hangings that will be imposed won’t cover a fraction of the debt you took on.”

“So what are you saying? We’ll all have to leave?”

Garnet looked up, and his expression shifted from outraged disbelief to serious resolve. “No, just you,” he said with all the finality of a slamming door.

“What? Why?”

“Because tomorrow I’m going to the city guard and tell them you went insane and murdered the magistrate.”

Royce felt the air go out of the room, and what had been merely a chill turned frosty. His eyes shifted left and right checking everyone’s positions. He could kill a few of them but not enough.

Garnet saw Royce tense and raised his hands, palms out and fingers spread, a nonverbal hold on just a second. “I said I’m going to do that tomorrow. That’s when I’ll pretend to learn about this incredibly stupid murder and act like I just put two and two together. But tonight, I don’t know nothing about anything. If you came by here at all, it must have been to pick up your stuff before fleeing the city.” Garnet stroked the long strands of a beard that looked as ratty as anything in the nest. “Now, the way I figure it, you’d be smart to head north through the mountain pass into Warric. Not too far away but the moment you cross the border, King Urith won’t chase you no more. O’ course, I’m pretty sure you’re stupid—on account of how you murdered a ruddy magistrate and all—so you’ll most likely go south instead. Maybe head to Swanwick or Kilnar. At least that’s what I’ll tell the Rhenydd wardens tomorrow when I’m trying to save my life and the other rats are fleeing for distant woodpiles.”

Royce looked at the others. No one moved.

“Don’t take any of the petty cash,” Garnet told him. “You’re on your own now.”

Royce stared at the Thief Master for a moment more, just to intimidate him, but the act was pointless given the number of rats in the room. While not the most loyal of rodents, each was a professional survivor, and they would side with Garnet for their own good. Royce figured he would do the same if the situation were flipped. Realizing this, he also concluded that killing Thornton might not have been the smartest move.

He picked three bags from the pile. “Am I allowed food?”

Garnet nodded. “We’re rats, not monsters.” Then with a smile he added, “But if you attempt to take the good cheese, that’ll be the last thing you’ll try.”

Is that a joke? Maybe not.

“Royce,” Peridot said while handing him her own blanket—the only bit of cloth in the entire place that was folded—“don’t go alone. They’ll be looking for a lone traveler.”

“You expect the kid to make friends overnight?” Garnet asked. “He sees most people the way lions look at lambs. That’s always been his problem. He likes killing, and people can tell.”

“He doesn’t like killing,” Peridot protested. “Just doesn’t see anything wrong with it. But, Royce”—she looked at him, hard—“you can’t kill everyone.”

“No one is going to invite the likes of him,” Garnet said. “At least not anyone who can provide the sort of reputable cover he’ll need.”

“There are all sorts of people on the road,” Peridot explained. “It’s a dangerous world out there, and most people welcome company on the highway. They see safety in numbers. Try to be friendly, Royce. Smile from time to time. Be polite. Pretend to be nice.”

The advice sounded stupid. The plan he was hatching involved vanishing in the night after stealing a horse. He was going to race north and kill anyone who got in his way. But the suggestion had come from Peridot, so it was worth consideration. He liked her but not because of her looks. The woman was more than a decade older than he, and not blessed with beauty. Yet she was, by far, the smartest person he’d ever known. Giving him her blanket also spoke volumes. She loved that well-worn piece of cloth.

“If you make it out,” Garnet said, “try going to Colnora. You got a mean streak in you, boy. I swear you can make ice shiver. Might just make a good bucketman. Believe me when I say: If you were anyone else, I’d turn you over to the city guard. But honestly, I’m scared you’d escape, and I don’t want to be on your bad side.” He paused. “Although as I think about it, I’m not sure you have another side.”

“Just maintain a low profile,” Peridot told him. “And keep in mind that once you clear the mountain pass, you’ll be in Warric and out of Rhenydd’s jurisdiction.”

“What does that mean?” Royce asked.

“You’ll be safe. You’ll be free.”

----------------------------------------

By the time the sun came up, Royce was several miles north, walking the open road. He hadn’t seen another soul to join up with—or steal a horse from. He felt exposed while walking the muddy pair of tracks, which was cut through an open field of straw stubble. Patches of snow gathered in low areas, foreshadowing a future made obvious by the growing light that revealed snow-covered mountains.

He frequently glanced back, not that he feared pursuit—not yet at least. Thornton’s body was most likely undiscovered and would remain that way until some servant entered the magistrate’s suite with morning tea and breakfast. On his latest look, Royce noted how far he’d come. Ratibor, the city of his birth where he’d spent the totality of his life, appeared ridiculously small, nothing but a miserable cluster of wooden shacks, an ugly scar on the surrounding valley. He’d never been this far outside the city, and that realization came as a shock. His whole existence had been trapped in what he now saw as a disgusting, muddy pit.

The sun was barely a few inches above the horizon, and Royce had just lost sight of the only world he’d ever known. Returning his attention to the road ahead, he spotted a pair of women standing beside a horse and wagon—one of its wheels stuck in the mud. They were old, one more so than the other. And while they didn’t seem feeble, the two were far from stalwart. The thin one had gray in her hair, but the other’s head was as white as the mountains that rose behind them. Mud caked the hems of their plain skirts, and their heavy coats were threadbare, the sort gravediggers wore in winter.

The moment they spotted him, the two became animated. Running in his direction, they waved their arms and called out. Apparently, they wanted him to come closer and were too stupid to realize that would have happened even without their gesticulations.

Doesn’t get any easier than this, he thought. Luck had apparently decided to let bygones be bygones and delivered him a horse as a peace offering. Killing the women would be as easy as slicing soft bread. He let his hands reach for the handle of his curve-bladed kharolls. That’s when he noticed the contents of the wagon.

Children. At least half a dozen.

They were lying in the wagon bed, wrapped in blankets. Ranging in age from toddlers to ten or so, most of them were asleep, their heads lying one on another, mouths open, drool leaving wet marks on their companions’ backs and shoulders.

A gruesome comedy flashed through Royce’s mind’s eye where he chased a bunch of screaming children hither and yon with his blood-covered blades. He imagined the event spawning a cautionary bedtime story, and because such notoriety wasn’t a future he wanted to invite, he let his hands fall back to his sides.

“Oh, thank the Lord Novron for you, young man!” declared the white-haired lady while clapping her hands together in a single note of applause even before he’d reached them. “I’m Hildreth Denton, and this is my daughter Shawna. We’ve gotten ourselves in a bit of a hi-de-ho here and could use your help.”

“A what?” Royce asked.

“A pickle, a fix, a quandary if you will.”

Royce looked at the wagon. “Your wheel is stuck.”

“Exactly.” She placed her hands to either side of her face as if to emphasize the precarious nature of her situation. A fate that she obviously thought was tantamount to the worst kind of disaster—like, running over the king or getting caught for murdering a magistrate. “We can’t seem to free it.”

In the back of the wagon, heavy heads lifted slowly and groggily as the children looked over. Cheeks were red from the cold wind, eyes teary, noses running.

Don’t go alone…most people welcome company on the highway. They see safety in numbers.

“Let me take a look,” he said.

Royce had never sat on a horse, but he had ridden in a wagon on occasion. He’d studied the drivers, and while he didn’t think he could properly tack a wagon, he was confident he could direct the animal if he could get the wheel free. The problem wasn’t the mud. The wheel in question hadn’t sunk too low.

“What’s going on?” one child called out.

“Who’s that?” another asked.

“Everything will be fine,” Hildreth soothed. “Go back to sleep if you can. Everything will be roses and sunshine soon.”

Royce crawled under the wagon on the drier side and found the axle wedged against a good-sized rock.

“Can’t go forward,” he reported, crawling back out and wiping some brittle straw from his cloak. “Need to go back first, then pull it around.”

“We figured that out for ourselves.” Shawna spoke this time. Her tone was crisp and a tad irritated. “Problem is we haven’t been able to do so.”

“We simply aren’t that handy,” Hildreth explained. “Never been around horses, you see. This is the first time we’ve ever driven a wagon. Well, not we so much as Shawna. I personally wouldn’t have a clue, but Shawna heroically took the reins and did swimmingly in the city, though the trip was harrowing in the narrow streets. Still, Shawna navigated them like a sea captain. But out here—”

“These really aren’t roads at all,” Shawna interrupted while sporting a disgusted expression. “Just muddy bogs. How’s a person supposed to drive a wagon through so many sinkholes. I tried going around—”

“And that’s when you hit the rock,” Royce speculated.

“Yeah.”

Royce moved to the front of the wagon and pointed to the bench seat. “May I?”

“Absolutely!” Hildreth declared.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Why not,” Shawna grumbled.

He climbed up. The black horse out front looked back at him.

Try to be friendly, Royce. Smile from time to time. Be polite. Pretend to be nice.

Royce wasn’t good at being friendly or polite, and he had next to no experience with children, horses, or wagons. But he knew how to pretend. It was a ploy often used by the rats to distract a potential target. He decided to try some small talk. “So when you’re not exploring the backcountry with a wagonload of children, what do you do?”

The silence that followed surprised him, and he looked over to make sure they were still there. Shawna and Hildreth hadn’t moved, but each looked uncomfortable.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” He tried to look embarrassed, but that wasn’t an expression he had much experience with.

An exchange of looks preceded Hildreth clearing her throat. “No, it’s all right. It’s just that…well…it’s difficult to explain. We work at the Herald Street Orphanage. Or did until last night. I doubt we’ll ever be able to return.”

Despite the wagonload of children—none of whom appeared to be siblings—Royce hadn’t expected that. Perhaps Luck had taken a vacation so that Irony could tag along instead. “Are you saying you’ve abducted them? Why?”

Royce didn’t care about the safety of the children; he had contemplated slaughtering them just moments ago. His curiosity came from the fact that he couldn’t determine any way to profit from taking a bunch of kids. Profit, potential threat elimination, and revenge were his only motivations for doing anything. And of the three, profit was the only logical choice. If he was going to continue his being-friendly charade, maybe he could get some coin for his trouble.

“I can assure you our intentions are pure,” Hildreth said, and waved a frail hand at him. “Times have been hard, and there has been a flood of knocks at our door. The orphanage is overcrowded, and those in charge are behaving reprehensively. Life is a gift from Novron, and it should be treated as such. Our superiors feel differently, so we are taking these poor darlings to Aquesta in the hope of providing them with a better future.”

Royce was dumbfounded. He knew how to read people, another trait learned from years of practice, and this woman was telling the truth. Still, she made absolutely no sense. What’s in it for them? Why upend your life for urchins that you’ve only recently met? The enormity of the stupidity was too vast to comprehend, so he decided to continue with his nice-guy persona.

“Well then, we’d best see what we can do, so you can continue on your way.” Royce spotted the reins tied to a metal lever and knew how to use them at least. He loosed the pair of leather straps, and thought about asking whether the brake was on or off. Since the inquiry probably wouldn’t have instilled much confidence, he kept silent. Part of his pretense was to appear handy and, as such, useful. He was pretty sure that the current placement of the metal lever, which was in the forward position, meant that the brake was off. That made sense given their problem was an inability to move, so it would have been unlikely for Shawna to engage it.

As it so happened, the guy he’d ridden with that one time had backed up his wagon into a warehouse. He made it look easy, too, even in the crowded stockyard. Royce suspected the maneuver required a fair amount of skill that wasn’t immediately obvious, but he planned to do his best to mimic the man’s actions and hope that would work. Just like the wagoneer had done, Royce pulled back on the reins, but nothing happened. He tried again with a similar result. Then Royce wrapped the reins around his hands and pulled until the leather was taut. He kept pulling, leaning against the seat rest as he did. The reins that passed through the harness rings pulled down on the horse’s head, and to Royce’s amazement, the animal took a step back. He kept applying pressure, and the horse moved farther. The pole-shaft pushed against the girth and shoved the wagon backward. Shawna was quick to help, putting her hands on the corner of the wagon and pushing till her shoes disappeared into the mud. The effort wasn’t needed, as the wagon wasn’t truly stuck—not in the reverse direction, at least.

Royce continued until the horse had pushed the cart clear of both the rock and the mud, then he got down. “Shawna, go up and drive forward,” he said as he moved out in front. There he took hold of the horse by the bit and forcibly turned the animal’s head. As hoped, the animal went where he pointed her, and the wheels missed the rock.

“Thank you so much, young man!” Hildreth applauded him again, this time with several claps. “What do we say, children?”

“Thank you, sir,” came the discordant reply of gratitude.

Looking out toward the mountains, Royce said, “As it seems that we’re going the same way, can I impose upon you for a ride? My feet would surely appreciate the rest.”

Hildreth beamed. “But of course. It’s the least we can do, especially given how kind you’ve been. Hop in the back with the children.”

“Are you sure?” Shawna said. She sounded suspicious, but Royce thought everyone did.

“Absolutely,” her mother replied enthusiastically.

The younger woman shrugged. “Okay. It’ll be easier to avoid rocks now that the sun is up, but if we get stuck again it might be good to have him along.”

----------------------------------------

Wrapped in Peridot’s blanket, Royce was able to get some sleep, or at least rest his eyes. He never understood the self-induced coma that other people indulged in when sleeping. They lay sprawled out and oblivious, wide mouths emitting deafening snores. Such careless behavior was beyond unthinkable. He preferred to do his best to emulate birds.

For years, he’d watched all manner of feathered fauna perch on clotheslines and rooftops. He knew they were sleeping by the rhythm of their breathing and the fact that their feathers were fluffed. Some tucked their heads under their wings and pulled one leg up. But each one remained upright, and the slightest sound brought them fully awake. The ones Royce admired the most were the species that dozed with open eyes. Being like them was his goal, an aspiration he saw as an absolute necessity because sleeping unaware in a world of deadly predators was an open-door invitation for death.

As much as he hated to do so, Royce knew he had to doze a bit after having stayed up all night. Now that the old ladies were back in the driver’s seat, and the children had returned to their slumbers, he took the opportunity for a short nap. Or at least that had been his intention. When Royce woke, he found the sun well past midday. One of the kids, a soft, round-faced child who looked to have more in common with a pig than a human, stared at him. Forgetting his pretense as a polite and helpful humanitarian, Royce glared viciously. The boy cowered. His quick retreat made him stumble over his fellow urchins as if he’d discovered that the seemingly harmless ball of cloth curled near them was actually a wolf. None of the others seemed to notice.

Snow was everywhere except in the wagon, which indicated it hadn’t fallen while he slept. Shawna had made good time given the massive cliffs that now rose to either side of the road. The sheer stone was slick with ice, and icicle stalactites hundreds of feet in length hung from ledges. In many ways, the view from the rear of the wagon was both beautiful and terrifying.

Peridot’s words returned to him: And keep in mind that once you clear the mountain pass, you’ll be in Warric and out of Rhenydd’s jurisdiction…You’ll be safe. You’ll be free.

The snow on the road wasn’t deep, and the passage of previous travelers had made a well-worn path. The ease of the trip made Royce ponder whether Luck was making an honest attempt at reconciliation. He concluded it was too early to tell. While he might be on the verge of freedom, he was far from safe. He’d still have to navigate surviving in a foreign city and do so without the support of his fellow rats. But that was a concern for another time. This day was nearly over, and for all of its ominous portents, the trip had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant.

Royce had been using one of his food bags as a pillow, and he tugged open its mouth and took out a carrot. This caught the attention of the children, who nudged one another out of the way to get closer. The wagon was filled with hay, the pile of kids, and not much else. Not a single box, barrel, or sack that might contain food was anywhere to be seen. There were a fair number of tools, though: hay rakes, a hammer, a pry bar, a scythe, and a pair of sickles. Some of the children didn’t even have blankets. Almost everyone shared, which accounted for the puppy-like pile when he first came upon them.

Why bring field tools but no food?

This was a mystery without an easy answer, and one that Royce didn’t actually care about.

The children continued to stare at the food he ate. Royce didn’t care about that, either. He was a survivor who had spent his whole life with at least a little something to consume while those around him starved. That was the way of the world. It didn’t matter if you were a rat, a bird, or an orphan: If you had food, you didn’t share.

Royce’s first memory was fighting a dog for a scrap of meat. In that hazy borderline of his memory, the size of the dog remained nebulous. He didn’t remember it as overly large, although it must have been because the dog had won. Ever since then, Royce had hated dogs.

Hunger had also played a role when Royce took his first life. After unsuccessfully trying to snatch an apple from a cart vendor, he’d run down an alley and wiggled his way into a small opening. Inside, he found a small, sickly-looking boy sleeping, a half loaf of bread clutched in his hands. Royce used the boy’s pillow to smother him, then finished off the bread. He wouldn’t have been able to pilfer the loaf without waking the child, and sick or not, there was no guarantee how the battle would end. Eliminating the competition first seemed like the obvious choice.

After following the carrot with an onion, which the children also took great interest in, Royce repositioned himself with his back to the front wall and his legs stretched out over the farming tools. The sun was already dipping and the shadows growing long. When his eyes noticed movement in an otherwise still landscape, he sat up straighter. Apparently, Luck had been busy taking lessons from spring: It had raised Royce’s hopes so they could be more completely dashed from a greater height.

Riders were coming, and coming fast.

----------------------------------------

Royce considered shouting to the ladies to whip the horse, but they must have seen the pursuit for themselves. The wagon accelerated to a dangerous speed given the ice, snow, and curves. Even so, they had no chance of outrunning the horsemen.

But if we can reach the border…

He abandoned the thought the moment it surfaced.

Anyone who has followed me this far won’t honor an arbitrary line. They’ll kill me, then claim I was still on the Rhenydd side.

The wagon rounded a corner and gave Royce another view of their pursuers, who were closing fast. He counted six men—each had swords.

The precariousness of his predicament landed with the full force of a pile of bricks. Royce was caught in a narrow mountain pass. Ice on both cliffs prohibited even an attempt to escape by climbing. He was trapped in the canyon, and the surrounding snow promised to expose his every move with unavoidable footprints. His only hope lay with the ladies. If they vouched for him, he might yet escape. Who would question the word of a mother and daughter trying to help a group of orphans?

The riders caught up.

Royce forced himself to not reach for his blades. Instead, he slipped lower into the bed of the wagon, wrapping himself tighter in Peridot’s blanket.

Men came alongside, shouting. Before long, the wagon stopped. Royce remained where he was, listening to the panting of the horses, the wagon tack jangling, and the howl of the wintry wind sweeping through the pass.

“You two are in an awful hurry,” a rough voice said.

“Let go of our horse!” Hildreth shouted. “You have no right to stop us.”

The wagon rocked, and a man in a hood jumped in. “Six kids,” he shouted after scanning the interior. “And…” He spotted Royce. “Hello…what do we got here? Hey, Mr. Bradshaw, there’s an older boy back here. He’s too long in the tooth to be an orphan.”

Another man climbed up the other side and stood on the wheel of the wagon. He was stocky, with scars on his bearded face and an angry look in his eyes. Royce had seen the sort before. Usually, his kind wore a uniform.

“Who are you?” the ugly guy asked, giving Royce a shake.

“He’s just a young man who helped us when we got stuck on the road,” Hildreth declared, her voice suggesting she was still on the driver’s bench. “We’re rewarding him with a ride. He’s a kind and polite young man, so don’t hurt him.”

What a nice old lady. I almost regret my thoughts about killing her.

“Is that true?”

Royce nodded, trying to avoid eye contact.

“Then get out and be on your way,” said the man, whom Royce concluded was Mr. Bradshaw. “This wagon and everything in it is now mine,” he added while stepping down.

Be on my way? Royce thought in amazement. Peridot, you’re a genius!

“You can’t do that!” Shawna yelled.

“Of course we can. These kids don’t belong to you and neither does the wagon. You’re in a lot of trouble, Hildreth.”

“You have no right to these children. They are human beings!”

“They’re paupers, and I bought them fair and outright. Got the papers with me. They’re my property, and they’ll be working in the mines by tomorrow. As for you two, you’re kidnappers and horse thieves.” Mr. Bradshaw remounted his horse. “I’ll see that you’re hanged side by side. Won’t that be nice? A real mother-daughter day, eh, Hildreth?”

Royce climbed out of the wagon and looked hesitantly toward Bradshaw.

“Go on. I don’t give a damn about you. You’re scrawny, and yet too big to be of any use. I need little ones to go deep. Keep heading wherever it was you were going.” Bradshaw fussed with a stirrup. “Harvey, you drive the wagon. Tie your horse to the back, secure the women, and toss ’em in with the kids. Then let’s roll.”

Royce stepped away, watching as three men dismounted. They began binding Shawna’s arms behind her back. She put up a fight, and one of the men hit her across the face. She was crying, as were all the children, when they shoved her into the wagon.

“So you’re going back through the pass, then?” Royce asked as they grabbed Hildreth and began the process on her.

“Yep,” Bradshaw replied.

“Right now?”

“You got a problem with that?”

Royce shook his head. “No. I just…oh never mind.”

“What?” the big man asked, tilting his head down and glaring.

“Oh, it’s just that, well, you’re awfully brave.”

“You want to start something with me? ’Cuz that’d be a big mistake.”

“Oh no. Not at all, sir. I was just thinking about the Hawkins Company. You’ve heard about them, right? The group of migrants that were heading south and got trapped in this pass by an early snow. The group consisted of three brothers, their wives, and twelve children.”

“So?”

Royce raised his brows doing his best to imitate shock. “They all died.”

“Too bad for them,” Bradshaw said and chuckled. Turning to his men, he added, “Tie the old woman tightly. Don’t give her any slack. She don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Royce said, and he gave a glance to make sure the others were listening. They were. “When the Hawkins group got stuck in a blizzard and ran out of food, they resorted to eating one another.”

“Lucky for us it ain’t snowing,” said one of the others who had remained mounted.

Royce ignored him. “Didn’t work, though. All of them, the entire Hawkins party, died of starvation.”

“And that matters why?” Bradshaw asked.

“Well, because they’re still here.”

“So? I wouldn’t bother dragging the bodies down out of this pass, either.” Bradshaw said.

Royce shook his head. “I’m not talking about their bones. It’s their spirits I’m referring to. Their ghosts hide up in those rocks.” He pointed at a large outcropping behind them. “When travelers enter the pass at night, they come down because they’re still hungry. Rumor has it, they ate the kids first. So it’s especially dangerous when children are along. That’s why we were going so fast. We wanted to put plenty of room between them and us before it got late.”

Royce could spin a good tale when he needed to, and all of the men were listening intently. He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. “You see, whenever they hear the cries of a child, they think it’s one of their own.” He nodded toward the wagon filled with distraught orphans. “Given how you’ve treated the women, and what the kids have heard about their future, I doubt you’ll be able to quiet them down. They’re sure to awaken the Hawkins ghosts and draw them in. With night falling, traveling through the pass takes…courage.”

“That’s a whale of a tale, son. Are you a bard in training?” Bradshaw laughed. “I think we’ll just have to take our chances. It’s cold and I’d rather be home. But thanks for the entertainment.”

Royce shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just thought I should let you know. May Luck be with you, Mr. Bradshaw.”

In the tight space, the men had difficulty turning the wagon around, and by the time they had finished, it was dark. Bradshaw looked around for the creepy storytelling guy, but there was no sign of him.

----------------------------------------

The ride back was taking a long time. The wagon was slowing them down.

“Mr. Bradshaw?”

“What is it, Benjamin?” Bradshaw asked as he rode at the head of the party.

Because of the cliffs, the light of day had faded fast. With no moon out, it looked like they were traveling through a tunnel. They didn’t have lanterns or wood for torches. Bradshaw hadn’t expected to be out so long. Didn’t think two old biddies could travel so fast.

Benjamin rode up alongside. “I don’t know where Cooper is, sir.”

“What are you talking about? He’s with Stuart at the rear.”

Benjamin shook his head. “He may well be with Stuart, sir, but I can’t find him, either.”

Bradshaw looked back but could only see one horseman and the wagon that Harvey was driving. He looked half asleep with his feet up on the runner.

“Hey, Ira!” he called, getting the mounted man’s attention. “You see Cooper or Stuart?”

“No, sir. Damn dark in this pass, though. I’m sure they aren’t too far away.”

Bradshaw had ordered Stuart and Cooper to the rear. They were supposed to grab any of the little mongrels who were stupid enough to make a run for it. Bradshaw figured kids would do something dumb like that.

“Kids still in the wagon, Ira?”

Ira dropped back, then said, “Yes, sir. Not a single one missing. Although…”

“What?”

“They are crying.”

“So?” Bradshaw said, but he knew what Ira was thinking. Looking over at Benjamin, he saw the man looking up at the cliffs with concern. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

Benjamin rolled his shoulders. “It’s just…well, the wind howls, you know, and it does sound sorta like—”

“Like what? Evil spirits, maybe? You know what a cannibal ghost sounds like, do you, Ben? ’Cuz I don’t. You know why? Because there ain’t no such thing. You’re a moron!”

“It’s just eerie, sir; that’s all. And now Stuart and Cooper have vanished.”

“They haven’t vanished. More than likely, they hung back to crack a bottle of something. You go find them. And if they do have liquor, bring it up here. They should share; it’s gettin’ cold.”

Benjamin made that stupid salute he always did as if they were in an army or something and then trotted back.

“The Lord Novron will wreak vengeance upon you, Bradshaw!” Hildreth shouted from the wagon.

“He’s gonna need to wait in line, Hildreth. Didn’t you hear? We’re all gonna be eaten by evil spirits tonight.” He grinned at Harvey and Ira, whom he could barely see, but he had no trouble hearing Ira’s chuckle.

It had been a long day, and Bradshaw had to admit he wasn’t the young man he’d used to be. After coming by the orphanage that afternoon to get his next batch of deep-tunnel scrapers, he was enraged to find them, and Ferguson’s hay wagon, gone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. Hildreth was always going on and on about protecting the children and the sanctity of life. It was only a matter of time before she tried something stupid. Still, he didn’t think that “something” would include running off. Complaining was one thing, but stealing what was rightfully his came with consequences. Dire ones.

He figured she’d make a run for it. Where else could she go? No one in Ratibor would take them in, so the only logical choice was to head for somewhere else.

By the time Bradshaw had enough men gathered for two groups, it was getting late, and he wanted to catch his wagon of stolen property before sunset. He had a fifty-fifty chance, and luck had been with him. Although now that he thought about it, the southern party was probably back in town after coming up empty, so maybe being in the other group would have been the better choice. That hard ride had been, well, hard, and when they finally closed in, he was tired and not just because of his age. Bradshaw had let success turn him soft. By this time of day, he would normally have his slippered feet propped up on a cushioned stool in front of a blazing fire while a servant brought him coffee and dessert. He had a good life, better than most.

Even better than a magistrate, he mused. Especially the one murdered in his own bed last night.

Why his mind had gone there was puzzling—a dark thought, even for him. Probably all that talk about ghosts and crying children.

That’s when he noticed there weren’t any. Crying children that is. The night was eerily quiet. The only sound came from Benjamin’s horse as it came alongside.

Bradshaw asked, “Well, did they have a bottle?” Looking over, he was shocked to see the horse’s saddle was empty. He raised a hand to call a halt to the party but then realized the gesture wouldn’t be seen in the dark. He wheeled around to yell for them to stop, but the words died in his throat.

He was alone.

No Ira. No Harvey. No wagon.

“Ira? Harvey?” he called.

No answer.

Then he saw movement. It looked like nothing more than a shadow within a shadow. He saw it dart, and Bradshaw drew his sword. “Come out where I can see you.”

Even as he said it, he realized how stupid it sounded. No one, least of all a child-eating ghost, was going to listen to him. It only served to demonstrate his fear.

To his surprise, a figure did emerge. He heard the crunch of snow and watched as the bard wannabe stepped forward.

“Looks like Luck is with you, Mr. Bradshaw. Unfortunately, it treats you as badly as it does me,” the young man said. He had a creepy tone: the words cold, his voice low.

Bradshaw stared baffled for a moment. “What’s going on. I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. I’m not sure I do, either. Not entirely. Freakish how things turn out sometimes. If I hadn’t wanted to prove myself on such a big target, if Garnet hadn’t exaggerated the threat, and if Peridot hadn’t told me to join up with someone—anyone—I never would have been in that wagon. Strange.”

The young man came closer. The wind howled through the pass and blew his cloak back. That’s when Bradshaw saw the pair of curved blades.

“You’re the one that killed the magistrate. The guy the city guards are looking for.”

The young man nodded. “Weird thing is that just last night, I was thinking about the old orphanage on Herald Street. I was actually considering burning it down. I hate it. It’s a miserable place that has only gotten worse over the years. Looks like they’ve shifted from abuse to slavery. To you, it’s a means of acquiring cheap labor, and it doesn’t matter that the children you use, the ones that have already lost so much, must surrender their freedom. I also suspect more than a few have lost the only thing that is truly theirs—their lives. They can’t return the favor, so I guess I’ll have to do it for them.”

----------------------------------------

Royce returned to Hildreth, Shawna, and the children with the last of the horses. After tying up Benjamin’s, he joined the others who were huddled around a fire.

“How’d you manage that?” he asked, pointing at the flames.

“Harvey had a sparker pad in his pocket, and we had a lot of dry hay,” Shawna explained with a smile.

“Where’d you get the wood?” Looking around, he saw what was left of the wagon near the hammer and pry bar. “Oh.”

Hildreth stood up and walked to him. “It’s a short trip to Aquesta from here, and the children can ride double. The horses are worth more than the wagon, and after selling them, we should have a good nest egg to work with. I want to thank you.”

“We all do,” Shawna said.

“But I want to thank you properly,” Hildreth said. “Tell me, son, what is your name?”

Royce took a breath. “I’m not actually sure, but maybe you can tell me.”

“Huh?” They both looked over; even a few of the children did as well.

“As far back as I can remember, people have called me Royce Melborn, but I don’t know if that’s my real name.” He fished out the well-worn card from his purse and held it out to Hildreth. “I can’t read, but I imagine you do. Can you tell me what it says?”

Hildreth took it and moved closer to the fire in order to see better. “This is an HSO child’s identification card. It’s quite old.”

“It’s mine,” Royce said. “What does it say?”

Hildreth looked down at the card again and read:

Roy: C. E. Male, born 2952.

Abandoned. Parents unknown.

Royce considered this for a moment, then asked, “What’s the C. E. for?”

“It stands for Ward C, Section E. That indicates where you were found. At least that’s what the person who brought you to the orphanage reported. I believe that would be…” She looked at Shawna.

“Near East End Square, around Ingersol’s Leather and that silversmith shop that I can never remember the name of.”

“Ferguson’s,” Royce said.

“That’s right.”

“So my name is Roy?”

Hildreth shook her head and handed the card back. “No, that’s the name of the person who dropped you off. No last name, which is kinda odd. Maybe he didn’t want anyone looking for him.”

Royce took the card and rubbed the stock with his fingers. After so many years, it had been worn down and was now soft as cloth.

“So I still don’t know my real name. I always thought this would solve that mystery. Maybe my mother didn’t even bother to give me one. Just as well, I guess. I like Royce and wouldn’t likely change it after all these years.”

“It’s a good name,” Hildreth agreed, and her daughter nodded as well.

Royce held out the card and dropped it into the fire. “This isn’t me anymore. Not sure it ever was.”

“What will you do now?” Shawna asked. “Someone will find the bodies and come looking.”

He chuckled. “With my luck, they won’t find me.”

“You can’t trust your fate to such tenuous happenstance.” Hildreth thought a moment and then smiled. “I know what to do. We’ll pray to Novron that you won’t be found. Preservation of life is something we hold dear, and surely our Lord will honor such a noble request.” She spoke with the absolute conviction of a woman on a mission. Waving toward Shawna and the children, she added, “We’ll all pray. You saved us tonight, and asking for your protection is the least we can do.”

Royce shook his head. “Oh, that’s not necessary. You misunderstood what I was saying.”

Confusion crossed Hildreth’s brow. “But that makes no sense. Are you suggesting you want to be found?”

“Not exactly. But I appreciate the offer.”

Royce put no faith in Novron, or any god, but the fact that Hildreth would go to the trouble was surprising. After thinking a bit, he added, “If you feel compelled to pray, I suggest praying for someone who really needs it.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Anyone unfortunate enough to actually find me.”

He smiled, offered a wink, then drew up his hood. Taking Bradshaw’s horse, he walked into the shadows.