LITMIR.BIZ

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district, where a bell in a steeple atop a church spire announced the time to the residents of this part of the city. Up ahead rose the massive stone dam that diverted the course of the Kappa near the West Gate. I could already feel the dampness of the river spray against my skin.

      Activity in the city had picked up considerably, both along the road by which I drew near to the West Gate and over the bridge from the south that had been the location of Shea’s and my arrest. Carriages and convoys rattled under the thirty-foot-high passageway, its doors swung wide to provide for two lanes of traffic and then some. Numerous Constabularies were on duty, trying to keep order, but despite their efforts, angry shouts rose with frequency from those eager for admittance but lacking in patience.

      Dodging traffic and horse droppings, I scurried to the base of the wall that surrounded the city. The gate’s architecture made a shadowed alcove where the curve of the guard tower met the stone-lay, and I dropped my pack in its protective cover before inching around for a better view of the guards. I was looking for a robust fellow slightly shorter than me with a round face and a swagger to his walk.

      The scarlet-clad Constabularies worked in pairs, and I found myself staring at the backs of those closest to me. One member of a duo would check papers and enter information in a logbook, while the other scanned wares and equipment for irregularities. Those folks who passed inspection were pushed into the city like tagged cattle; those under suspicion were taken by other guards for further questioning. I examined the men in front of me, but all were too tall to match the image I had stored in my memory. One in particular was almost twice my height, and as thick as a bull—not someone I’d want to cross.

      Needing to get a look at the Constabularies on the other side of the road, I weighed my options. I could fight through the mass of people, horses, carriages, and wagons, or try to gain some height and a viewpoint. I studied the tower next to me from top to bottom. There were battened windows just above my head and crevices in the mortar large enough for my fingertips. I ran a hand over the stone surface to check that it was coarse enough to provide some grip, then swung my cloak off my shoulders and deposited it with my pack.

      If there was one side effect of growing up with the ability to fly it was that I had no fear of heights. I fitted the toe of my left boot between two stones, found a handhold above my head, and launched myself upward. Body pressed close to the tower, I lodged my opposite foot on the window ledge and redirected my momentum toward the sconce bolted into the stone over it. After grabbing on to it for support, I pulled myself up to balance on the top of the window frame above the heads of the swarm.

      The Constabularies across the thoroughfare stood out from the drably dressed travelers like the dragon’s blood sedum flowers used by nesting snowbirds did against the white landscape of winter. I screwed up my face to make out the guards’ features, but with each one I studied, my disappointment grew. Then I spotted a straggler near the opposite tower. He looked the part by his height, stature, and strut; but it was when his eyes widened and he pointed at me that I was sure of his identity. It was the same expression he’d worn when he’d realized Shea was wanted by the law.

      He yelled something incomprehensible, though it was likely the name of one of the guards on my side of the gate. At least the bull-like one whipped around with a massive scowl, his forehead so creased it formed a cross pattern. He started toward me, and in the shock of the moment, I released my handhold, lost my footing, and tipped backward.

      I had always loved the sensation of falling, of slipping through insubstantial air toward the solid arms of the earth, but I hadn’t much experience with full-force landing. My arms pinwheeled in an attempt to replace my missing wings, but I hit the cobblestone shoulders first, head snapping to follow, the rest of my body close behind. I coughed and wheezed, certain my lungs had collapsed. Then the pain hit me, and I sucked in air. My head pounded, my back smarted from tailbone to neck, and a burning sensation resonated to my elbows. Worst of all, panic was shooting through me, riling every pore in my body. Run, I commanded my muscles. Get up and run. I moaned and rolled laboriously onto my side, my legs curling into my chest. Either my brain wasn’t sending the right signals or my body was ignoring them. I covered my head with my arms as though that would protect me, and struggled to withhold tears. At least I had not fallen where hooves and wheels would squash me.

      “All right?” a man with a deep voice asked, his shadow encasing me where I lay on the ground.

      My heart pounded out my fear, loudly enough to be heard over the cacophony around me. Though I wanted to pretend he wasn’t there, I forced myself to turn my head and look at him. The bull-guard was kneeling near me, a mixture of worry and exasperation on his face. When he saw that I was conscious, he rolled his eyes and held out a hand. I stared at him, not quite believing he would help me.

      “Come on,” he ordered. When I didn’t move, he grasped the collar of my tunic and stood, hauling me up with him. He brushed off my clothing, then held a hand up a few feet from my face. “How many fingers?”

      I concentrated, narrowing my eyes to bring the blurred image into focus, then squeaked out a response.

      “Three?”

      He laughed, the sound rolling up from his chest as though from a deep well.

      “It may not feel like it, but you’ll be fine. Just find a place to sit for a while. And if you want to cause trouble, go to the South Gate.”

      He turned me about and gave me a slight shove. Still a little wobbly, I retrieved my pack and cloak and scampered away at the best pace I could manage, thanking Nature that the guard hadn’t been inclined to arrest me. He had, in fact, been rather kind.

      Shaking uncontrollably, I trudged a few blocks to a bench in a less crowded area and sat down, unexpectedly inundated with thoughts of my father. I wanted him to be the one to pick me up. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and comfort me. It felt like I’d been alone forever; more than that, I hadn’t felt safe or protected or connected since the hunters had attacked me.

      “Still ain’t sure of your smarts.”

      I sprang to my feet and whirled around, fighting my resulting dizziness to gaze into an enormous pair of brown eyes in a hollow, dirty face.

      “What are you doing here?” I snapped to the young boy I’d met in the alley. “Have you been following me?”

      “Not followin’, just noticin’.” He smirked and rested his forearms on the back of the bench I’d just vacated. “Saw when you showed up ’ere. This is my turf, ya know.”

      “Your turf?”

      “Where I makes me livin’.” He opened his coat and patted an inside pocket, setting it to jingling.

      I rolled my eyes. “You’re a thief, are you?”

      “Wouldn’t say that. I’m more of an entrepreneur.” He pronounced the word carefully, proud to be showing off his vocabulary. “I just lightens the load for a few stuffed shirts. No ’arm in that—they got plenty to spare.”

      I was struck by an urge to scold him. “At your age, you should be in school.”

      “Plenty of schoolin’ to be had on the streets.”

      “Just how old are you, anyway?”

      He puffed out his chest. “I’m twelve.”

      “No, you’re not.” My thoughts went to Shea’s youngest sister, Marissa. “I’d guess nine at the most.”

      “Papers say twelve. And that makes me twelve.”

      I laughed. This boy was spunky. “Did you steal those, too?”

      “Got ’em nice and legal.”

      “If by legal you mean from a forger.”

      “Paid the man, di’nt I?” A touch of belligerence had entered his voice; then he took off his hat and scratched his head. “If I was to bet, I’d say you got forged ones, too.”

      I gaped at him, too surprised to respond. His manner reminded me

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