Arvin touched the bead that hung around his neck for reassurance and glanced across the rooftop, estimating how far he’d have to run. The militia had obviously given up on merely capturing him. They meant to kill him instead. “Nine lives,” he whispered, dropping his hand, but it was more of a question, this time. Had his luck finally run out? He heard the creak of sinews tightening and the winding of a crank. The sergeant was reloading his crossbow.

Breaking from cover, Arvin sprinted across the roof. There were chimneys every few paces, emitting thin, hot smoke laden with glowing sparks that settled on his hair and skin. Ignoring these pinpricks of pain, he zigzagged from one chimney to another, all the while making for the center of the building, which was open to the sky. The open area was a circular courtyard filled with stacks of newly made pots and firewood for the kilns. No one was in it at the moment.

This courtyard looked like a dead end-but Arvin knew it must have doors leading out of it. He could always double back through the factory and escape onto the street again.

As he ran toward the lip of the roof, Arvin scanned the courtyard below, looking for a place to jump down. There: that pile of straw looked soft enough.

Just as he started to jump, something whooshed past his head and the sharp edge of a fletch scraped his ear. The crossbow bolt sailed on across the courtyard, but its close passage unnerved Arvin and threw him off his stride. He tripped over a lip of decorative tile that undulated around the inner edge of the rooftop and fell headlong into the courtyard.

He crashed down onto the lid of an enormous clay pot. It stood inside the courtyard-most of it underneath the overhang of the roof, but with just enough of it protruding that Arvin had landed on it. The wooden lid Arvin had fallen onto was as wide as a feast table. He’d landed facedown on top of it with his head, one arm, and one leg dangling over the edge of the pot. He’d heard something crack when he landed and felt pain flare in his collarbone, but it wasn’t sharp enough for the bone to be broken. Dazed, he rolled onto his back and found himself looking up at the underside of the rooftop. Above, someone was making his way cautiously across the roof, coming in his direction-the sergeant.

Arvin rolled over a second time-farther into the shadow of the overhang-then rose to his elbows and knees, his back brushing the rooftop above him. He glanced quickly around the courtyard. A few paces away from the pot on which he was perched were double doors leading into the factory. These doors were just starting to open-but whether it would be a factory worker or a militiaman who came through them would be a coin toss. Arvin spoke his glove’s command word and his dagger appeared in his left hand. He dropped flat onto his stomach, hoping they wouldn’t spot him.

Suddenly, the lid tilted underneath him. Arvin grabbed for the rim of the pot but missed. Flailing, he tumbled down into its darkened interior and landed in something wet, soft, and squishy. The lid struck the underside of the overhanging roof with a dull thud, teetered an instant, and then fell back into place. It had closed-but not completely. A thin crescent of morning light shone down into the otherwise dark interior of the pot.

Arvin lay in what felt like soft, wet earth. The smell of wet clay surrounded him. The squelch of it between the fingers of his bare hand and inside his trouser legs as he sat up reminded him of the sewers, and he shuddered. For the second time that morning, he was covered in muck. But at least the clay didn’t stink. Instead it had a pleasant, earthy smell.

The running footsteps reached the edge of the overhanging roof then stopped.

“Do you see him?” the sergeant shouted down.

“No,” another man’s voice shouted back-the person who came through the door had been a militiaman, after all. “But he’s got to be hiding here somewhere. Tanju will sniff him out. We’ll soon have that rebel in our grasp.”

“Just remember the bounty that goes to whoever takes him down,” the sergeant called back. “And keep your eyes sharp.”

“For ten thousand in gold, you bet I will.”

Ten thousand gold pieces? Arvin whistled under his breath. That was some bounty. As he slowly sank into the clay in which he sat, he wondered again who they’d mistaken him for. He didn’t dare stand up; the sucking noise of his legs pulling out of the clay would betray his location. And he was starting to wonder if he would ever be able to climb out of the pot. Its walls were concave and thickly coated with clay. It had partially dried to a crumbly consistency, but underneath this skin was a damp, slippery layer. And the pot was enormous; even standing, Arvin wouldn’t be able to reach its rim. A jump would allow him to catch hold of it-assuming his feet and legs didn’t become so deeply mired in clay that jumping became impossible.

His dagger had landed point-down in the clay beside him. Slowly, wary of squelching the clay, he drew it out. Armed again, he felt better, but only slightly. With his ungloved hand, he reached up to touch his bead-and found it rough to the touch.

Superstitious dread washed through him as he realized what must have happened. When he’d struck the edge of the pot, the bead had cracked. Holding it at the end of its thong, he stared down at it. He couldn’t see much in this dim light, but the front of the cat’s eye appeared to have a deep, jagged line running across it. The damage could be temporarily mended-all Arvin had to do was fill the crack with some of the clay he was sitting in-but the timing of it frightened him. His mother had said the bead was a good luck charm-that as long as Arvin kept it close, it would provide him with the nine lives of a cat.

Had he just used up his last one?

He could hear the murmur of voices-both men’s and women’s. They had to be those of the potters, emerging into the courtyard to find out what was happening. One voice rose above the rest-Tanju, calling up to the sergeant, asking him exactly where he’d last seen the man they’d been pursuing.

“He jumped down from here,” came the answer from above. “And I can guess where he’s hiding. You there-fetch a ladder so we can look inside the pot.”

Arvin gritted his teeth. In another moment the lid would open and the militia would lean over the edge to feather him with crossbow bolts. Readying his dagger for throwing, Arvin vowed to take at least one of them with him. He waited, heart racing, almost forgetting to breathe.

He heard running footsteps-and a breathless voice, announcing that a ladder could not be found. Arvin opened his mouth to whisper a prayer to Tymora for favoring him-then halted as he noticed the light filtering down into the pot through the crack where the lid was askew. The light had a distinctive purple glow.

“Is he inside?” the sergeant asked from close above.

The purple glow came nearer; as it did Arvin heard a low humming noise. It must have been Tanju, humming to himself as he worked his magic. Above it, Arvin heard the clink of mail; the militiamen must be standing just outside the pot, waiting for Tanju’s pronouncement.

The humming stopped. “No,” Tanju called back. “All I see is darkness. The pot is empty. He must have escaped from the courtyard.”

The purple glow dimmed.

Arvin felt his eyes widen as the sergeant shouted down at his men, ordering them to search the factory. Despite his magic, Tanju hadn’t been able to find Arvin, this time. Something had saved him-but what?

Arvin stared at the clay caked onto the walls of the pot and the inside of its wooden lid. The clay had a peculiar undertone to its smell, one that he was at last able to place. It was heavy and metallic-lead.

Suddenly, Arvin understood. He’d heard that lead would block certain magics; the spells Tanju was casting must have been among these.