Sartore dropped off the pier and swiveled to face the voice. It had come from an old man, hunched over and breathing restlessly. His jaw was rounded and carried a reptilian sack beneath it. The weather was cold; as he stood, he felt a shiver run down his arms and spine. And the shadowy, slackened case of a person in front of him, standing in the near-dark, didn’t help either.

“I’m not here to hurt you, child,” Maisero said. The child had more gumption than he’d anticipated; fists raised and body bent forward. Maisero almost wanted to flee, but swatted the thought—this was, of course, just a child. “What’s your name?”

For a second, Sartore did nothing. Then he dropped his fists to his sides and stood a little taller, now looking away with a knotted brow.

“Sartore, I think.”

“What’re you doing out here?” A flash of recognition crossed the boy’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be home? Eating dinner?”

“Well, I have no house to go to here, it’s only my first day.”

Maisero paused for a second to register the words. “Where did you come from?”

“A small village, not far. Just past the gates and around the corner.”

Weren’t the Sacredate’s men near those parts? Shit. “What brought you here?”

“The Sun asked me to come.”

Maisero laughed, nervously. “Got lost playing a child’s game?”

“No, the Sun asked. Didn’t I—”

“The Sun doesn’t speak, child, you’ll have to be clearer with me.”

“Yeah, it does. You’re just not listening.” Sartore had meant it more as a quip to fill the space, now that he’d run out of things to say, but instead the old man had grown silent.

“Are you planning on staying the night here, child?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Why don’t we meet again tomorrow? Be awaiting for me here at around sunrise, and I can find you, take you to the library, and we can chat for a little bit. Does that sound agreeable?”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Sure, but—”

“In the meantime, there are a few places around here you might be able to find shelter, perhaps one of the more lavish cots, or, if you’re really, you know, struggling, just find yourself a good—a good corner, and get into some cozy position, and get a little bit of rest.”

“Can’t I come with you?” Sartore knew the answer he was going to get as soon as he’d asked. The old man had flinched back like a child dodging his friend’s fake punch.

“What?”

“Can I sleep at your house? It’s going to be cold, and I’m going to be hungry, and there’s . . . strange people walking around. I can take the floor, anything, really.”

“Of course not, child. There isn’t the space, nor the time, nor the accomodations to produce something of that nature that quickly. Things are in a bit more disorder than I would like, and I won’t be inviting any guests in those circumstances. Now, I’ll be on my way. Farewell, I will see you in the morning.”

“Please? I—”

“You should be fine. Farewell.”

And the old, nameless figure bent to hide from the thickening darkness ahead of him, the pace of his feet quickening as he disappeared. In some sense, the old man meant he might find a little bit of solace in the morning, if any could be recovered now, but that still left the task of surviving the night. Sartore turned, taking a last look at the docks and the wrinkled sheet of blue water. He might miss the morning; sleep through it. Miss the old man, but more importantly, miss the sunrise. But he didn’t have time for those worries: the last of the evening-watchers had disappeared, and house lamps were blinking out. Soon, only rats would be scurrying around.

Sartore hurried into an alleyway, hoping no one would spot him in the poor lighting. Most corners had already been taken by bodies, dead or alive. He needed a place these folks would probably avoid—a richer neighborhood, perhaps. After few turns, winding himself deeper into the city’s maze, he stumbled on a wide road with individual, autonomous houses. The tall silhouettes were each menacing figures, but alone, none of them were too frightening.

His choice in hiding place was arbitrary. He found a smaller block than the others, crushed between the broader shoulders of its neighbors, and hid at the side of its rickety stairwell. He lay down in the grass, the moss under his head resembling a pillow, and fell asleep.

Maisero found his way through a memorized sequence of steps. He didn’t dare lift his head, lest some strangers see him, or recognize him as human. He knew when he’d finished, and raised his eyes only when he knew his front door would be there to greet him. He climbed his staircase in a hurry, withdrew his key like a pocket knife, and wedged it into the door. He always thought he heard strange noises, or saw strange shadows, on his way. Not until he was safe at home could he laugh.

No lamp was lit. He could see the outlines of the loose papers and manuscripts, the books left open and piled on top of each other, carrying a decade of dust. Maisero dropped his things, leaving his briefcase against a wall, slipping out of his clothes and into bed. He had a small window, where the sickly white eye of the moon always watched him. He never liked the view, but never bothered doing anything about it. Instead, he turned on his other side, and fell asleep.