"Admirable," said Locke. "And fascinating, but… perhaps there are some customs of Tal Verrar best left unexplored."

"To your own tastes be true." Still smiling, the man pulled his cloak-sleeve back down and folded his hands before him. "After all, a scorpion hawk was never to your liking, Master Lamora."

Locke felt a sudden cold pressure in his chest. He flicked a glance at Jean and found the larger man instantly tense as well. Struggling to maintain his outward calm, Locke cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry." The merchant blinked at him guilelessly. "I merely wished you a pleasant night, gentlemen."

"Right." Locke eyed him for a moment or two longer, then stepped back, turned on his heel and began to walk across the Night Market once more. Jean was at his side immediately. "You heard that," whispered Locke.

"Very clearly," said Jean. "I wonder who our friendly scorpion-merchant works for?"

"It's not just him," muttered Locke. "The fruit-seller called me "Lamora" as well. You didn't hear that one, but I damn well did." "Shit. Want to double back and grab one of them?" "Going somewhere, Master Lamora?"

Locke almost whirled on the middle-aged female merchant who stepped toward them from their right; he managed to keep the six-inch stiletto concealed up his right sleeve from flying reflexively into his hand. Jean slid one arm beneath the back of his coat.

"You appear to be mistaken, madam," said Locke. "My name is Leo-canto Kosta."

The woman made no further move toward them; she merely smiled and chuckled. "Lamora … Locke Lamora."

"Jean Tannen," said the scorpion-merchant, who had stepped out from behind his little cage-covered table. Other merchants were moving slowly behind them, staring fixedly at Locke and Jean. "There seems to be a, ah, misunderstanding afoot," said Jean. He slid his right hand back out from under his coat; Locke knew from long experience that the head of one of his hatchets would be cupped in his palm, with the handle concealed up his sleeve. "No misunderstanding," said the scorpion-merchant.

"Thorn of Camorr…" said a little girl who stepped out to block their progress toward the Savrola side of the Great Gallery. "Thorn of Camorr…" said the middle-aged woman. "Gentlemen Bastards," said the scorpion-merchant. "Far from home."

Locke glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest. Deciding that the time for discretion was past, he let a stiletto fall into his itching fingers. All the merchants in the Night Market appeared to have taken an interest in them; they were surrounded, and the merchants were slowly tightening the circle. They cast long, dark shadows upon the stones at Locke and Jean's feet. Was Locke imagining things, or were some of the lights dimming? Already the Night Gallery looked darker — damn, some of the lanterns were indeed going out right before his eyes.

"That is far enough." Jean let his hatchet fall visibly into his right hand; he and Locke pressed their backs together.

"No closer," shouted Locke. "Cut the weird shit or there's going to be blood!" "There has already been blood…" said the little girl.

"Locke Lamora…" muttered a soft chorus of the people surrounding them.

"There has already been blood, Locke Lamora," said the middle-aged woman.

The last alchemical lanterns within the periphery of the Night Market dimmed; the last few fires banked down, and now Locke and Jean faced the circle of merchants solely by the wan fight coming from the inner harbour, and from the eerie flicker of distant lamps beneath the vast, deserted Gallery, much too far away for comfort.

The little girl took one last step toward them, her eyes grey and unblinking. "Master Lamora, Master Tannen," she said in her clear, soft voice, "the Falconer of Karthain sends his regards."

Locke stared at the little girl, jaw half-open. She glided forward like an apparition, until just two paces separated them. Locke felt a pang of foolishness at holding a stiletto on a girl not yet three feet high, but then she smiled coldly in the near-darkness, and the malice behind that smile steadied his hand on the hilt of the blade. The little girl reached up to touch her chin. "Though he cannot speak," she said.

"Though he cannot speak for himself…" chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.

"Though he is mad," said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out. "Mad with pain, mad beyond measure…" whispered the circle. "His friends remain," said the girl. "His friends remember."

Locke felt Jean move against his back, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened-steel heads naked to the night. "These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us," he hissed.

"Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!" said Locke, speaking to the girl. "We show our power," she replied.

"What more do you need…" whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.

"What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?" The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsey.

"Whatever you want," said Locke, "leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don't want to hurt these people." "Of course, Master Lamora…" "Of course…" whispered the circle.

"Of course, that's the point," said the girl. "So you must hear what we have to say." "State your gods-damned business, then." "You must answer," said the girl. "Answer for the Falconer," said the chorus. "You must answer. Both of you."

"Of all the…fuckyouV said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. "We did answer for the Falconer. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!" "Not for you to judge," hissed the girl. "… judge the Magi of Karthain…" whispered the circle.

"Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume to grasp our laws," said the girl.

"All the world knows it's death to slay a Bondsmage," said Jean. "That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter." "This is not business," said the girl. "But personal," said the circle.

"Personal," repeated the girl. "A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered."

"You sons of bitches," said Locke. "You really think you're fucking gods, don't you? I didn't mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I'm not sorry he's mad and I'm not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free."

"No," said the scorpion-merchant. A whispered chorus of" no" echoed around the circle.

"Cowards. Pissants!" Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. "You can't scare us with this penny-theatre bullshit!"

"If you force us to," said Locke, "we'll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us." "No," said the girl, giggling. "We can do worse," said the fruit-seller. "We can let you live," said the scorpion-merchant. "Live, uncertain," said the girl.

"Uncertain…" chorused the merchants as they began to step backwards, widening their circle. "Watched," said the girl. "Followed," said the circle.

"Now wait," said the girl. "Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes…"

"And wait," whispered the chorus. "Wait for our answer. Wait for our time."

"You are always in our reach," said the little girl, "and you are always in our sight."

"Always," whispered the circle, slowly dispersing back to their stalls, back to the positions thed'r held just a few minutes earlier.