Right when I’m considering avoiding all thatand heading back to the village, the mountain starts shakingbeneath us, like it’s awakening from a long sleep, ready to buck usoff. It’s a surreal feeling I’ve felt many times before, but itstill leaves me breathless and clutching at the ground. “Are we introuble?” Buff shouts above the earthy thunder.

We’re both wondering the same thing, butslowly coming to the same conclusion. We shake our heads at thesame time. “Nay,” I say, voicing Buff’s thoughts. “The avalanchemust be a good two miles away. The west side of the mountainmaybe?”

Buff nods. “It’s a good guess.”

As the tremors subside, I breathe easier inour consensus that whatever massive load of boulders and snow andice is plummeting down the mountainside won’t come anywhere nearus. We typically get at least one nasty rockslide each winter,which might take out a handful of houses and maybe kill someonewho’s even unluckier than me, but we haven’t had a “Village Killer”avalanche since before I was born. Since before my mother was borneven. The last VK was more than fitty years ago and wiped out mostof the Brown District and a good chunk of the Red too. Themiddle-class Blue District was hit less severely, and the castleand the White District were well above the melee, avoiding itcompletely. Big shocker. Even nature bows down to the rich.

“Will we get hit this year?” Buff asks. It’sa question that gets asked dozens of times at Yo’s each year.

I shrug. “You can only control what you cancontrol,” I say.

“Like how much you gamble and lose?” Buffsays, smirking.

“Shut the chill—” I start to say, but thenstop when I hear a whoop.

We scramble to our feet, spin around, gaze upthe snowy mountainside. Plumes of snow burst from the ground likelow-flying clouds. Blurs of black snowsuits flash down the incline,cutting side to side, carving up the slope. A line of sliders,chasing each other playfully, head right toward us.

“Look out!” Buff shouts, but I’m not sure ifhe’s talking to me or the sliders bearing down on us. I don’t havetime to clarify as I jump to one side, narrowly avoiding gettingchopped down like a poorly placed snowman.

When I look up there’s snow in the scruff ofmy thin beard and flecks of ice on my eyelashes. “What the chill?”I say, pushing to my feet, warmth flooding through my limbs. I’mnot warm, but something inside me wants me to be.

Three sliders are stopped just past us,having turned their slides at sharp angles to brake suddenly. It’salmost like they were aiming right for us. We can’t see theirfaces, because they’re wearing thick masks to keep the snow andcold away, but their eyes are alight with adrenaline and blinkingaway coldness-induced moisture.

“You Daisy and Barf?” one of them says, hisalert eyes flicking between us.

“What?” I say, taking a step forward. “Ioughta beat you senseless for a move like that.”

The guy laughs. “The king calls the shotshere. You touch me and you’ll be off the job quicker than you goton it. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

“What?” I say. “You mean, you’re the onesmeeting us?”

“Get wit’ it, kid,” another of the guys says.“You must be Daisy, the big gambler who lost enough silver to landyou wit’ us.”

“It’s Dazz,” I say, taking another stepforward. “Call me that one more time and you can slide the rest ofthe way down the mountain with a broken arm.”

“And I’m Buff,” Buff says, stepping besideme, his fists knotted. He’s all riled up, too, which almost makesme grin. Nothing like a good scrap to start our first day on thejob.

“Calm the freeze down,” the first guy says,shaking his head. “Heart of the Mountain, you’d think we actuallyhit you guys.”

“Near enough,” Buff says, not giving aninch.

“Look, we’re on the same side. Consider it abit of friendly first day initiation. Now do you want to get towork or swing those antsy fists of yers?”

The honest answer is that I want to swing myfists, but this new job is supposed to be part of a fresh start, soI flex my hands, trying to coax the fight out of them. But I’m alsonot about to back off without some form of retribution. Weaknesslike that can haunt a guy. I pick up one of my snowballs and launchit hard enough to do some serious damage. Crunch! Althoughit was headed right for the main speaker’s head, the ball slamsinto the open hand of one of the other guys, the biggest of thelot. Good reflexes. He grunts, squeezes the ball into mush in hisfist, lets it crumble to the ground.

The main guy laughs. “Nice arm,” he says.“That’s why we keep this guy around. We call him Hightower, onaccount of…well, I think it’s obvious.”

Obvious as a wolf in a sled dog team,I think, staring at the big, brown eyes of the gargantuan who’s ateye level despite being a good foot further down the hill thanme.

“I’m Abe,” the guy continues. “This fella isBrock.” He motions to the other one who spoke to us. His eyes glareback, sort of cross-eyed. “And this little guy is…” Abe looksaround, scanning at waist level, like he’s trying to find a missingchild. There’s no one else around. “Where the freeze is Nebo?”

Brock gazes up the mountain. “’E was right’ere a minute ago…Musta gotten lost at the hairpin.” Somethingabout his tone tells me he knows exactly what happened to the onethey call Nebo.

Hightower grunts and points, so we all followhis gesture until we spot another slider coming down slowly, barelyspraying any snow at all. We track his progress all the way to us,although it takes so long I swear another inch of fresh snow hasfallen by the time he gets down. His every movement is uncertain,awkward, unbalanced, and when he tries to stop, his slider gets alltangled up with his feet and he goes down face first.

The others are laughing—even Buff issniggering—and normally I’d probably join in, but something aboutthe guy seems so helpless, so pathetic, that I don’t feel likegetting pleasure at his expense. After all, I’ve been prettypathetic lately myself.

“Shut it,” I say, punching Buff and shootingicicles at the others. I help the guy, who really is quite small,to his feet, using the back of my hand to brush some of the snowoff. Right away he pulls at his mask, which is caked with snow,until it pops off his head.

He’s bald…and short…and jittery.

It’s the man who came out of the Chance Holelast night.

“You!” I say, loud enough that the small mantakes a step back, concern flashing across his red face.

“Do I know you?” he asks, saying it in such away that it sounds like he thinks he probably should.

“We saw you leaving the Hole last night,” Isay.

He screws up his face. “Last night. Not agood night,” he says.

“Ah, I wouldn’t say that, Neebs,” Abe says.“Your new losses pretty much guarantee you’ll be working with usfor the rest of time.” Abe chuckles, takes a few steps over tosmack Nebo on the back. Nebo cringes and puts a hand to his mouthas if the weak blow knocked a few of his teeth loose. “You’re late.Where you been?”

“Uh, sir, I’m sorry, but uh, Brock here, he,well, he…”

“Spit it out!” Abe says, glancing at Brock.“What did Brock do?”

Behind Abe’s back I see Brock use his thumbto make a slashing motion across his throat. “I, uh, well, Brockdidn’t do anything actually. I just, well, sort of fell goingaround a bend, sir. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Nebofinishes lamely, ducking his head like he expects to be hit.

Clearly there’s more to the story, and if Ihad to guess, it was probably Brock who caused the fall in thefirst place.

I chew on my lip, which is suddenly feelingnumb. “So this is his first day, too?” I ask, wondering why hedidn’t meet them at the same place as us.

“Ha ha ha!” Brock laughs boisterously. “Firstday—that’s funny. Despite Neeb’s awful display of sliding, ’e’sactually been runnin’ with us for comin’ on a year now.”

“Then why…” I start to ask, but then figureout exactly what happened. Why would Nebo be playing high stakesboulders-’n-avalanches if he’s already got a job and debts to pay?Simple. Because he wanted out. One lucky night and he could pay hisway back to whatever normal job he might’ve had before he firstlost big at the Chance Hole. But why would he want out of a jobworking for the king?