“I understand.” Gaedynn glanced around, taking in the several streets and alleys snaking and forking away from the central point, then turned his gaze on the rest of the watchmen. “We’ll need to split up to have any hope of catching the murderer.”

“We don’t all have lights,” a watchman said.

“Then commandeer them,” Gaedynn said. “Quickly! For all we know, the killer is only a few moments ahead of us.”

And that, he realized, was what they were afraid of. No one actually wanted to catch up with the fiend. Not by himself and in the dark.

“The whoreson probably headed back to the wizards’ quarter,” said another man. “We’ll have the best chance of spotting him if we all head in that direction.”

“We have no idea where he’s headed.” Gaedynn turned back to the sergeant. “But search as you think best. Just look somewhere, and we’ll rendezvous back here.”

He hurried back to Eider and swung himself into the saddle. The griffon trotted, lashed her wings, and sprang skyward.

Gaedynn laid an arrow on his bow and, guiding Eider with his knees, flew a spiral course away from the well. He looked for motion atop the roofs and in the air.

For a while he was optimistic about spotting it. As he understood matters, the sole witness claimed the killer had fled the scene of his first atrocity by traveling over the housetops, even if said witness wasn’t clear whether he’d jumped like a squirrel or flown like a bird.

But all Gaedynn found were bats, owls, scurrying roof-dwelling rats, and an elderly astrologer leaning on a gnarled cane as he studied the moon and her trailing cloud of glittering tears. And when Eider had wheeled her way over a good quarter of the city, it was time to admit their quarry had eluded them.

He hoped the watchmen had had better luck. But he doubted it, and when he returned to the well, he found them loitering around empty-handed.

“Useless,” sneered an onlooker to his companion, just loud enough for Gaedynn to overhear.

“We need to run them off,” Randal said.

“Yes,” and “Right,” said some of the other boys.

But Theriseus asked, “Why?” Towheaded and gangly, not much good at games, he was just like that, always asking questions. Sometimes it made him seem clever, and sometimes stupid.

Either way, Randal had an answer for him, because he’d listened to his father talk-well, yell, really-about that very subject.

“They strut and push people around like they conquered the city or something. But they’re just sellswords, which means they’re just animals who kill for coin.”

Theriseus shrugged. “That doesn’t sound too different from the regular watch. They clubbed that one drunkard to death after he wouldn’t put down the knife.”

“Oh, it’s different,” Randal said. Even if he was vague on exactly how. “So, are you up to it, or are you too scared?”

“I’ll help,” Theriseus said, as Randal had known he would. The lanky blond boy might think a little differently than his fellows, but he prized his membership in the Black Wasps just as highly. In the rookeries where their families lived, if you weren’t in a gang, you weren’t anything. And you couldn’t belong to the Wasps if you were scared to take a dare.

Randal led his fellows down an alley choked with slippery, ripe-smelling refuse. Up ahead, the passage met a street. Having studied their routine, he knew a sellsword patrol would march across the intersection in just a little while.

Sure enough, here came the clink of armor and the thump of feet striding in unison. The other Black Wasps pulled stones from their pockets and the bags and pouches on their belts.

Randal could go them one better because his father had taught him to use a sling, and he’d borrowed it from the chest where the old man kept it. And a sling could throw a stone hard. His father said it was a genuine weapon of war, although Randal suspected that had been truer in olden times than it was today.

The soldiers tramped into view. A dwarf with a spear in his hand and some sort of axe strapped to his back was in the lead.

Randal’s father said dwarves were as evil as wizards. They practiced the same sort of diabolical arts. So Randal whipped his rock at the small warrior, and his friends threw theirs too.

The missiles clattered on shields, helmets, and mail. Some of the sellswords staggered, although to Randal’s disappointment nobody fell down.

“There they are!” said the dwarf. He reversed his grip on the spear-so he could strike with the butt, presumably. Then he and several of the human soldiers charged.

Randal and his friends turned and ran. He felt excited, not scared, because he was sure they’d get away. They weren’t carrying the weight of armor, and they knew the back alleys of the ropemakers’ precinct like no outsider ever would.

They rounded several turns, and then he glanced back. The sellswords were nowhere in sight. He waved the hand with the sling over his head and gasped out that the others should stop.

Everybody grinned and, once they caught their breaths, slapped their comrades on the back. Even Theriseus, who also asked, “What now?”

“What do you think?” answered Randal, pushing sweaty hair back from his forehead. “The same again!”

They sneaked through the alleys, staged a second ambush, and once again escaped. If anything, the new assault was even more exhilarating, yet still not entirely satisfactory. Because even after two volleys, some of the armored warriors were bruised and bloodied, but every one of them was still on his feet. Surely the sling could do better. In practice, it had smashed chips loose from a stone wall.

“Once more,” Randal said.

“Are you sure?” Theriseus asked. “This time they’ll be expecting us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Randal said. “We’re smarter and faster than they are.” And that really did seem to be the case. It made you wonder how these Brotherhood of the Griffon ever won a battle.

He and the other Wasps crept through the narrow, shadowed space between two tenements. Up ahead, the first rank of outlanders prowled into view. Randal kissed his stone and offered a curt, silent prayer to Loviatar, goddess of punishment, for luck, then let the missile fly.

His target clapped a hand to his eye. Blood welled between the soldier’s fingers, and then he pitched forward.

Randal whooped. He and the other Wasps whirled to flee, then faltered. Somehow the dwarf and three of his men had sneaked up right behind them.

It would be useless to turn back around, because the rest of the sellswords were blocking the other end of the passage. All the Wasps could do was try to dart by the dwarf and his allies.

Theriseus and another boy made it. The outlanders beat others to the ground. Some swung the same sort of truncheons as the regular watch. The rest struck and jabbed with the shafts of their spears. It seemed unfair that they wielded the long weapons so nimbly in the crowded space.

Randal faked left, then lunged right, but the sellsword in front of him wasn’t fooled. He kept himself in the way, dropping his cudgel and snatching a long, thin dagger from his belt.

He and Randal slammed together. A sort of shock jolted Randal. His legs gave way and dumped him on his back in the dirt. He heard a rattling, whistling sound. Something wet was in his throat and mouth, choking him, and he coughed a glob of it out.

The dwarf discarded his spear and shield, kneeled down, and pressed his hands against Randal’s torso. Randal, whose thoughts seemed murky and slow, realized the human sellsword had stabbed him, and the dwarf-the evil, magic-loving dwarf!-was trying to stanch the bleeding.

“Curse it!” snarled the dwarf. “They’re just boys. How do you think the town will react to this?”

“That’s the little bastard who put Fodek’s eye out,” said the warrior gripping the bloody blade. “He had a sling, and a sling is a deadly weapon.”