A wicked nine-inch dagger appeared in Raven’s hand. Count stopped so violently his feet tangled. He fell forward, rolling off the edge of Raven’s table.

“Oh, shit,” Shed groaned. Somebody was going to get killed. Krage wouldn’t put up with this. It would be bad for business.

But as Count rose, Krage said, “Count, help Red.” His tone was conversational.

Count obediently turned to Red, who had dragged himself away to nurse his wrist.

“Maybe we had a little misunderstanding here,” Krage said. “I’ll put it plain, Shed. You’ve got one week to pay me. The big and the nut both.”

“But...”

“No buts, Shed. That’s according to terms. Kill somebody. Rob somebody. Sell this dump. But get the money.” The or-elses did not have to be explained.

I’ll be all right, Shed promised himself. He won’t hurt me. I’m too good a customer.

How the hell would he come up with it? He couldn’t sell out. Not with winter closing in. The old woman couldn’t survive in the street.

Cold air gusted into the Lily as Krage paused at the door. He glared at Raven. Raven did not bother looking back.

“Some wine here, Shed,” Raven said. “I seem to have spilled mine.”

Shed hustled despite his pain. He could not help fawning. “I thank you, Raven, but you shouldn’t have interfered. He’ll kill you for that.”

Raven shrugged. “Go to the wood-seller before somebody else tries to take my money.”

Shed looked at the door. He did not want to go outside. They might be waiting. But then he looked at Raven again. The man was

cleaning his nails with that wicked knife. “Right away.”

It was snowing now. The street was treacherous. Only a thin white mask covered the mud.

Shed could not help wondering why Raven had intervened. To protect his money? Reasonable... Only, reasonable men stayed quiet around Krage. He would cut your throat if you looked at him wrong.

Raven was new around here. Maybe he did not know about Krage.

He would learn the hard way. His life wasn’t worth two gersh anymore.

Raven seemed well-heeled. He wouldn’t carry his whole fortune around with him, would he? Maybe he kept part hidden in his room. Maybe enough to pay off Krage. Maybe he could set Raven up. Krage would appreciate that.

“Let’s see your money,” Latham said when he asked for wood. Shed produced Raven’s silver leva. “Ha! Who died this time?”

Shed reddened. An old prostitute had died at the Lily last winter. Shed had rifled her belongings before summoning the Custodians. His mother had lived warm for the rest of the winter. The whole Buskin knew because he had made the mistake of telling Asa.

By custom, the Custodians took the personal possessions of the newly dead. Those and donations supported them and the Catacombs.

“Nobody died. A guest sent me.”

“Ha! The day you have a guest who can afford generosity...” Latham shrugged. “But what do I care? The coin is good. I don’t need its provenance. Grab some wood. You’re headed that way.”

Shed staggered back to the Lily, face burning, ribs aching. Latham hadn’t bothered to hide his contempt.

Back home, with the fire taking hold of the good oak, Shed drew two mugs of wine and sat down opposite Raven. “On the house.”

Raven stared momentarily, took a sip, maneuvered the mug to an exact spot upon the tabletop. “What do you want?”

“To thank you again.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

“To warn you, then. You didn’t take Krage serious enough.”

Latham tramped in with an armload of firewood, grumbling because he couldn’t get his wagon out. He would be back and forth for a long time.

“Go away, Shed.” And, as Shed rose, face hot, Raven snapped, “Wait. You think you owe me? Then someday I’ll ask a favor. You do it. Right?”

“Sure, Raven. Anything. Just name it.”

“Go sit by the fire, Shed.”

Shed squeezed in between Asa and his mother, joining their surly silence. That Raven really was creepy.

The man in question was engaged in a lively exchange of signs with the deaf serving girl.

I let the tip of my blade drop to the inn floor. I slumped in exhaustion, coughing weakly in the smoke. I swayed, feebly reached for the support of an overturned table. Reaction was setting in. I had been sure this time was the end. If they hadn’t been forced to extinguish the fires themselves...

Elmo crossed the room and threw an arm around me. “You hurt, Croaker? Want me to find One-Eye?”

“Not hurt. Just burned out. Been a long time since I been so scared, Elmo. Thought I was a goner.”

He righted a chair with a foot and sat me down. He was my closest friend, a wiry, old hardcase seldom given to moodiness. Wet blood reddened his left sleeve. I tried to stand. “Sit,” he ordered. “Pockets can take care of it.”

Pockets was my understudy, a kid of twenty-three. The Company is getting older-at least at its core, my contemporaries. Elmo is past fifty. The Captain and Lieutenant straddle that five-zero. I wouldn’t see forty again. “Get them all?”

“Enough.” Elmo settled on another chair. “One-Eye and Goblin and Silent went after the ones who took off.” His voice was vacant. “Half the Rebels in the province, first shot.”

“We’re getting too old for this.” The men began bringing prisoners inside, sifting them for characters who might know something useful. “Ought to leave this stuff to the kids.”

“They couldn’t handle it.” He stared into nothing, at long ago and far away.

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head, then contradicted himself. “What are we doing, Croaker? Isn’t there any end to it?”

I waited. He did not go on. He doesn’t talk much. Especially not about his feelings. I nudged. “What do you mean?”

“Just goes on and on. Hunting Rebels. No end to the supply. Even back when we worked for the Syndic in Beryl. We hunted dissidents. And before Beryl... Thirty-six years of same old same old. And me never sure I was doing right. Especially now.”

It was like Elmo to keep his reservations in abeyance eight years before airing them. “We’re in no position to change anything. The Lady won’t take kindly to us if we suddenly say we’re only going to do thus and so, and none of that.”

The Lady’s service has not been bad. Though we get the toughest missions, we never have to do the dirty stuff. The regulars get those jobs. Preemptive strikes sometimes, sure. The occasional massacre. But all in the line of business. Militarily necessary. We’d never gotten involved in atrocities. The Captain wouldn’t permit that.

“It’s not the morality, Croaker. What’s moral in war? Superior strength. No. I’m just tired.”

“Not an adventure anymore, eh?”

“Stopped being that a long time ago. Turned into a job. Something I do because I don’t know anything else.”

“Something you do very well.” That did not help, but I couldn’t think of anything better to say.

The Captain came in, a shambling bear who surveyed the wreckage with a cold eye. He came over. “How many did we get, Croaker?”

“Count’s not in yet. Most of their command structure, I’d guess.”

He nodded. “You hurt?”

“Worn out. Physically and emotionally. Been a while since I was so scared.”

He righted a table, dragged up a chair, produced a case of maps. The Lieutenant joined him. Later, Candy brought Madle over. Somehow, the innkeeper had survived. “Our friend has some names for you, Croaker.” I spread my paper, scratched out those Madle named. The company commanders began drafting prisoners for grave-digging detail. Idly, I wondered if they realized they were preparing their own resting places. No Rebel soldier is paroled unless we can enlist him inescapably into the Lady’s cause. Madle we enlisted. We gave him a story to explain his survival and eliminated everyone who could deny it. Candy, in a fit of generosity, had the bodies removed from his well.