Impulse said to grab that loaf of brown bread from the baker’s cart, and Brat was never one to ignore an impulse. Second thoughts were for corpses. In the muddy low streets of Siu Carinal, the Jewel of the Delta, first thoughts and fast hands filled bellies.

The fat baker wasn’t looking. He was busy haggling with a tired-looking woman juggling screaming babies. Nobody was watching the dirty street urchin edge toward the cart except the equally dirty little girl crouched in the alley across the street, ready to dart into the Closes beneath the city at the first sign of trouble.

Brat claimed to be that little girl’s twin, but there wasn’t another close-rat with half a mind who would give that lie credence. How could anyone know if they’d been born at the same time by the same woman when any trace of a mother was long gone? Besides, it was common sense around the Closes—the maze of enclosed tunnels and brick caverns beneath the city that had once been Old Siu Carinal—that nothing the brat said could be trusted.

Even if someone did manage to wrestle Brat and Pretty into submission long enough to hold them side by side, an observer would find the claims of twinship doubtful at best. Brat’s tight-chopped, colorless hair was dotted with bald patches from ringworm and rats, where Pretty’s long black tangles hung like riverweed from beneath her threadbare, mud-encrusted headscarf. The former’s sharp teeth and pointed features sparked distrust rather than pity—too much of a nasty, elfin cast to them—whereas the latter’s wide, innocent eyes and heart-shaped face emphasized the unfairness of a world that could cast such beauty into its gutters.

The nearest thing to resemblance between the pair was the dirt and the hungry, malnourished look common to all the abandoned creatures who called the Closes home.

Fat Baker held out a loaf of softbread to Tired Woman, demonstrating its freshness and pliability with the gentle press of a thumb.

Brat darted in, snatched the brown bread from the cart, and bolted.

“Sir Baker,” drawled a bored voice with a strange, nasally accent, “that little beggar’s swiped something.”

“Hey! Stop him!”

Somebody had been watching after all. Brat didn’t slow down to see who it was. Slowing down got you dead or thrown in the gaol, and brats didn’t last long in the river city gaol. So death, or death and worse, and then who would look after Pretty?

Pursuing footsteps splashed in the muddy street, gaining.

What aboveground dweller cared so much about a hard loaf of brown bread that they would actually chase after a thief? It was every man for himself in the low streets.

Brat hadn’t eaten in nights, but the cramped thoroughfares were full of folks going about their nightly business, bathed in the green glow of the ghost city overhead. Plenty of medicine for the taking at this hour. Brat snuck a sip from a whore as she tried to cuff the little close-rat for almost running her over, then nabbed a gulp from a dockworker plodding toward the river. The urchin’s speed increased with every bit of energy stolen.

But the splashing footsteps weren’t fading.

Blood would have worked better. That was always stronger medicine than energy. But finding a rat or stray dog to drain when you’re on the run? Not so easy.

Brat swung around a corner, catching a glimpse of the pursuer for the first time. Just one man? It had sounded like two or three.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

If the clean clothing and healthy cast of the man’s features weren’t enough to give away that he didn’t belong on the low streets, the sword hanging at his hip cemented it. Not the usual merchant’s thug, riverboat deckhand, or dockworker. Not even a priest of the strong gods looking for someone disposable to sacrifice.

That could only mean the bodyguard of a slumming lord or lady. Very bad news. The twins had fallen into the ring-bedecked hands of the uphill folk once. Better to get caught as a sacrifice than let that happen again.

Out of habit, Brat prayed to the Cormorant, but the god of the streets didn’t appear. No surprise there. The Cormorant couldn’t save every close-rat every time they got into trouble. Most of the time it was up to them if they wanted to live, which Brat thought was reasonable. Besides, the Cormorant’s rare attention was more mind than the rich folks’ strong gods ever paid to street urchins.

The wailing of music grew louder as Brat shot around a corner. A minstrel band had set up right on the other side of the building, busking for coins. Reactions sharpened by the stolen medicine, Brat leapt over the tangle of sprawled legs, the crust of the brown bread cracking beneath clutching fingers, feet narrowly missing a skin drum and its cursing player.

Minstrels meant the edge of the stinking riverfront neighborhood and the start of the rich uphill houses. Should be easy to lose the thug in the packed, colorful promenades.

Fast as Brat was, though, Sword Man was catching up.

More medicine. The rich folks up-hill were healthier, so their energy boosted better.

A four-horse cart from the docks rumbled up the street, laden with cargo.

Impulse again.

Brat ducked between the teams, head down to avoid their trappings. The heavy workhorses tossed their heads and whinnied indignantly, but the impish creature had zipped out the other side before their massive hooves crushed bone. Cursing floridly, the driver fought to get his beasts under control.

Brat’s gamble paid off. Sword Man was too big and too scairt to follow. He cursed and ran around the back of the cart. The fool cut the corner tighter than he ought to have and clipped the edge of the rolling vehicle with his shoulder. Brat guffawed.

Just ahead, beneath a hanging bit of rotten siding, was a hole into the Closes too small for an adult to squeeze through. All Brat would have to do was wriggle in, take the Windings up to the Clutch, climb the metal staples, and crawl along the brick shaft to their little chamber.

Pretty was probably already there waiting to share the meal of brown bread.

Brat’s mouth watered so hard it hurt, imagining the taste of that first bite. Pretty would finally stop crying if she had a full belly, and they could both sleep easy without hunger pains waking them up.

Then maybe later Brat would sneak out and see if Sword Man was still hanging around the low streets. Come looking for trouble and you just might get a handful of dung slung in your face.

Thrown from the safety of a bolt hole, of course.

Two mud-splattered boots stepped in front of Brat’s escape tunnel. Handsome boots topped with clean trousers over straight, bowless legs. Another sword hilt flashing, this one even fancier than Sword Man’s, glinting in the pale light of the ghost city.

Brat spun right.

And crashed into Sword Man. One hand caught hold of Brat’s too-large sack shirt, while the other grabbed the back of Brat’s scrawny neck.

“I thought he’d outpaced you.” Muddy Boots smirked at Sword Man.

A laugh. “I’m not that old yet.”

They were working together, probably for the same lord.

Brat kicked and clawed and smacked with the loaf of bread. Sword Man tried to stop the onslaught, got his hand too close to Brat’s face, and got bitten.

“Bloodthirsty little monster.” He cuffed Brat in the side of the head.

The close-rat screamed and went into a frenzy. A few months before, Brat had been cuffed hard enough to wake up a night later, right eye swelling and oozing. The damaged orb had since shrunk back to normal, and it wasn’t tender anymore, but Brat couldn’t see out of that eye now. The thought of losing sight in the other one was terror itself.

“What do you think?” Muddy Boots yelled over Brat’s flailing and shrieking. “Feisty enough?”

Sword Man cursed and tightened his grip. “I think he’s feral.”

“Even better, Grandmaster would say.”

“Grandmaster’s not here. Let’s see how he measures up against the other candidates at the gaol. If the crop’s too weedy, we’ll have to take him.”

Powerful hands clamped around Brat’s fists while a muscled arm snaked around the screaming throat. Air was suddenly in very short supply.

Pretty’s face appeared, white and terrified, in the hole beneath the siding.

As darkness closed in, Brat wrenched a hand free and launched the loaf of bread Pretty’s way, praying she wouldn’t try to get it before the men left and that no one else would run in and grab it before she did.