LITMIR.BIZ

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don’t like Elani Street?”

      “Not much, no. You?”

      She shrugged. “It’s a street.”

      He stopped in front of a placard that was leaning haphazardly against a grimy window. “Love potions?” he said. The sneer was entirely in his tone. “Meet your perfect mate? Find out what your future holds?”

      As she’d said more or less the same thing—well, more and more heated—she shrugged again. “It’s a living.”

      “So is theft.”

      “Yeah, but people come here to empty their pockets. There’s no knife at their throat.”

      “Dreams are their own knife, Kaylin. Dreams, what-ifs, desires. We all have to have hope.”

      “This isn’t hope,” she replied quietly. “It’s just another way of lying to yourself.”

      “Almost everything is, in the end.” He glanced at the board again, and then continued to walk down the street. He walked slowly enough that she could catch up to him; on patrol he usually did. But there was distance in his expression, some thought she couldn’t read—not that he’d ever been transparent.

      Still, the street itself was quiet; the Festival season had passed over and around it, and the merchants who had, enterprising hucksters all, taken stalls near the Ablayne had returned home to the nest to find it, as it so often was after festival celebrations—and the cost of those—empty.

      Evanton was not above taking a stall—or so he said—but his age prevented him from doing so so close to water. It made his bones ache. Kaylin expected that it was his jaw that ached, because he had some idea of what customer service was supposed to be, and fixing a smile across lines that were worn in perpetual frown taxed his strength.

      Still, she smiled when she saw his store. Touching the hilts of her daggers for both luck and memory, she walked up the three flat steps that led to his door, and frowned slightly.

      “Is it late?”

      “You just had breakfast. You answer.” But Severn’s frown echoed hers; the curtains were drawn. In the door’s window and also, across the shop’s wider front. Gold leaf had flecked in places, and glass was scratched atop those letters—some thief attempting to remove what was on the other side had no doubt had too much to drink that night.

      She knocked. Waited a minute, counting slowly, before she knocked again; Evanton never moved quickly, and his temper soured greatly if the visitor was too stupid to realize this.

      But before she could be really annoying, the curtains flipped back, and she saw a wizened face peering through glass. He didn’t look much older than he had the first time she’d met him—but then again, she doubted that was possible. The curtains fell back into place, black drape that was almost gray with sun. No stars on it, no moons, no fancy—and fake—arcane symbols.

      The door opened slowly; she heard keys twisting a rusty lock, followed by creaking hinges.

      “You really should get some help around here,” she muttered.

      “Good help,” he said coolly, “is hard to find in this city.”

      “You’ve tried?”

      He grimaced. “Don’t force me to be rude, girl. You’re wearing the Hawk.”

      She smiled. It wasn’t the forced smile of an officer of the law, either; she had walked back into his dusty parlor, with its long counter, its rows of shelves—a city, no doubt, for spiders—its odd books stacked here and there like so much garbage so many times she couldn’t feel uncomfortable here. If it was an odd place, it felt like someone’s home, and she was welcome in it.

      “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Evanton added pointedly, looking up at Severn. As Evanton, bent, was about Kaylin’s height, he had to look up.

      “No, sir,” Severn said, in a much politer—and cooler—voice. “But I am aware of your establishment.”

      “Fame gets me every time,” the old man replied. “Who are you?”

      “He’s Severn,” Kaylin answered quickly. “Corporal Handred is also—as you can see—a Hawk.”

      “Aye, I can see that,” Evanton said. “I would have called him a Wolf, if you’d asked me.”

      Severn raised a brow. It went half as high as Kaylin’s. “He was a Wolf—” she began, but stopped as Severn stepped neatly, and heavily, on her foot. “What do you know about the Wolves?”

      “Meaning what dealings have I had with them?”

      “Meaning that.”

      Evanton snorted. “You haven’t spent enough time with those Barrani, girl.”

      “What?”

      “That’s no way to get an answer.”

      “I could threaten to break your arms if you want.”

      He laughed his dry, low chuckle. “Aye, but they’re more subtle than that. I’m of use to them. It’s important in this business to be of use to people.”

      Severn said, quietly, “We’re here on official business.”

      “Dressed like that, you’d have to be. Although the uniform suits you.”

      “You sent a message to the Hawks.”

      Evanton shrugged. “I? I sent no message to the Hawks. I believe a message was sent, on the other hand. I know my own business,” he said at last, “and I know Hawk business when I see it. I prefer to keep them entirely separate, you understand, but we can’t always get what we want. You’ll want to follow me,” he added.

      Kaylin was already behind him, because she always was in his store; he could bite your head off for going anywhere without him, and usually at length.

      He led them behind his tall, sturdy counter. Its sides were made of solid wood that had the patina of time and disregard, not craft. It was impossible to see most of the wood, it was covered by so many things. Papers, bits of cloth, needles, thread—she had never asked why he wanted those because his answers could be mocking and gruesome. It looked more as if it belonged in a bar than a store, but then again, most of the things in the store looked as if they belonged somewhere else; the only things they had in common were dust and cobwebs, and the occasional glint of something that might be gold, or steel, or captive light—a hint of magic.

      Wedged between two hulking shelves that looked suspiciously unstable was a very narrow door. Evanton took out a key ring that Kaylin could have put her whole arm through without trying very hard, chose one of three keys that dangled forlornly from its thin, tarnished metal, and unlocked the door. Like everything else in the store, it creaked.

      He opened it slowly—he opened everything that way—and after a moment, nodded to himself and motioned for them to follow. Kaylin started forward, and Severn, with long years of practice, managed to slide between her and Evanton so smoothly she didn’t even step on the back of his feet. And not for lack of trying.

      They entered a hall that was, like everything else in the building, narrow; they could walk single file, and if anyone had tried to pull a sword here, it would have lodged in the wall or the roof if they actually had to use it. Given Evanton, this was possibly deliberate. It was hard to say where the old man was concerned.

      But at the end of the hall was another door, and judging by the jangle of keys, it, too, was locked. “Here,” he said quietly, “is the heart of my store. Let me tell you again. Touch nothing. Look at nothing for too long unless I instruct you otherwise. Take nothing.”

      Kaylin bridled slightly, but Severn merely nodded. “How difficult will that be, old man?”

      “Maybe you are a Hawk after all,” Evanton replied, eyeing Severn with barely veiled curiosity. “And the

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