Milo’s insides twist in anguish. The giant pummels at Hallon on the ground, and there’s nothing Milo can do to stop the beating. There are no scenarios in which he can win against even one of the attackers, let alone the giant.

Tap tap tap-tap tap tap-tap. The man named Marid taps a knife against his leg. The people who’d attacked earlier pick themselves up. With each motion and every moment, the probability of Hallon surviving the fight plummets. With every punch, Milo’s heart stutters in fear.

Think. Think! Marid controls the giant, but what controls Marid? The Scholar, the Rules, the— Milo pulls out the rethak bottles. “Stop! Or I’ll smash these!”

The basket tumbles down the inn’s ramp. The giant pauses, his fists hanging in the air. Marid stops his tapping.

“What are you doing?” Marid says. “Don’t you know how much those are worth?”

“I don’t, and I don’t care. Leave Hallon alone. Leave us alone.”

The equations around Marid’s eyes narrow. A halo of calculations emerges, the probabilities branching around him. There’s only one that’s likely though, rising more prominently than the others to indicate with a 85.77 percent certainty that he and the giant will try to split Milo’s attention to get at the rethak.

Marid gestures. “Sab, that’s enough.”

The giant named Sab steps away from Hallon’s body. Her torso is outside its normal range of angles. Milo gulps at the sight, a chasm of terror opening in his belly. He nearly drops the rethak bottles.

Marid takes a step to the left, Sab to the right.

“Stop. I mean it.” Milo pulls the bottles’ stoppers with his teeth. The liquid inside is oily, bitter, and metallic. “If you come at me, the rethak will spill out.”

Everyone stops moving, and the probabilities branch again. Marid rubs the equations along his chin with the back of his knife. “Seems we have an impasse. Shall we make a deal then? Give me the rethak, and I’ll spare your life? I still need to take a hand, but at least you’ll be alive, unlike that dung pile of a girl. Looks like she won’t last much longer.” His numbers sharpen. “Hand over the rethak, or you’ll wish you were dead too. I’ll cut you into—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Milo nearly spills the rethak trying to wipe his brow. He feels like he’s on fire, and sweat keeps dropping into his eyes. “Stars above, I’m trying to think here.” He turns to the innkeeper, replaying the memory in his head. Her name is Dr. Rugaam. The waiter is her son. There is a question about why a doctor is running an inn, but it must wait. Both are looking at Hallon, lying still in the street. “Is this—is this stuff worth a lot?”

Dr. Rugaam wheels closer to inspect the bottles. “Those sparrows on the tubes are the sign of House Barmaki, which means the rethak will be pure.”

“But is it worth a lot?” Milo asks.

“Yes,” she says. “What you’re holding is two monthly doses worth about three thousand dinars together.”

“Oh.”

“You really didn’t know?” Dr. Rugaam asks.

“No. Neither of us did. At least I don’t think so.”

Marid intrudes. “It’s best not to get involved, Rugaam.”

“I’m already involved,” Dr. Rugaam says. “You made me involved by having your hells-be-damed fight in front of my inn.”

“I’ll go get my sword,” Safi says.

“You will not,” Dr. Rugaam says. “We’re going to talk this through and come to a deal. No more fighting.”

Milo feels sick to his stomach, and the world keeps spinning, but he has to hold on for Hallon’s sake. The measurements around her have stopped moving. “I don’t think she’s breathing anymore.”

Dr. Rugaam closes her eyes. The equations around her mouth tighten. She opens her eyes and says, “I’m coming out there.” Safi starts to follow her down the ramp, but she stops him. “You stay where you are.”

The giant steps away when Dr. Rugaam approaches and makes room for her to climb down from the wheelchair to examine Hallon. “Her back’s broken, right arm, maybe her neck too. The boy’s right—she’s not breathing. Safi, all right, come here.”

Safi jogs over to kneel beside Hallon. When he kisses her lips, Milo nearly drops the bottles, but no—he’s breathing for her—taking deep breaths and blowing them into her mouth.

“This girl’s already paid dearly for keeping the rethak back,” Dr. Rugaam says. “She’s paid for herself and the boy both.”

“What about my men and the trouble she caused?” Marid asks.

“They’re fine. Embarrassed, but they’ll recover, which is more than can be said of the girl. Let be, Marid. Make a deal for the rethak and let be.” Dr. Rugaam points to Milo. “Look at the boy. He’s lost to grief. There’s no knowing what he’ll do if she passes. Make the deal.”

Can a person die in sympathy with another? Milo feels steadily worse and worse. The shoulder where he was shot throbs, and his stomach keeps going sideways. He feels pins stabbing him all over his body. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Marid and his rapidly constructed mathematical model shift out of focus and back in again. “I’ll deal. The rethak for the boy’s life and what’s left of the girl.”

“They keep their hands,” Dr. Rugaam says. “She’s paid enough.”

“Fine, fine,” Marid says. “This is what I get for being so soft. People take advantage. They can keep their hands. Just give me those bottles!”

“Young man.” Dr. Rugaam calls to Milo. “It’s as good a deal as you’re going to get. I recommend you take it.”

“What about Hallon?”

“That’s your friend’s name? I promise to help as best I can, but we need to get her to the hospital quickly,” Dr. Rugaam says. “Make the deal.”

The calculations stall. Milo tries to think through the nausea, to assemble the probability and behavioral models he needs to make a decision, but they keep falling apart. There are too many variables to track, too many unknowns and what-could-bes. How will he know if he can trust these people? Does it even matter? If Milo doesn’t trust them, then Hallon will die for sure. If he does, then at least she has a chance, no matter how small.

That’s no choice at all, and he gives over the rethak. It’s simple enough--Sab takes the bottles, and then Milo is running to where Hallon lies still. He holds her hand to check her pulse, but there’s a whooshing in his ears that won’t go away and the world feels like it’s pulsing. His head swims. His grasp on his senses slips. His body feels like it’s about to shake apart, but he refuses to leave, refuses to let go of Hallon.

“Easy now, lad. Easy.”

People. People surround him, crowding the equations. He feels someone take him by the shoulders.

“Can you get up?”

The words don’t make sense. The part of Milo’s brain used to parse language and its meaning must be broken. He must be broken, but then he’d known that all his life. Nothing new there.

Movement. All around is movement, but Milo can’t seem to move himself.

“We can’t take your friend to the hospital unless you let go. You’re holding on too tight.”

“Hallon?” Milo’s throat hurts.

“That’s his friend’s name.”

“We need to get her moving now.”

“Careful of the neck! Try not to jostle her.”

“Yes, that’s right we’re going to help your friend Hallon. We’re taking her to the hospital. Will you come with us?”

The hands help Milo to stand, and he finds himself walking, Hallon’s hand still in his.

The buildings blur, moving closer and farther in his vision, their lights dimming and brightening, dimming and brightening.

“Almost there. Not much longer.”

Milo passes through a door. The lights are brighter here, though flickering. He shields his eyes.

“What’s happened?”

“A brawl. Sab was involved. We’ll need the surgery.”

A bell clangs. People rush; the equations in chaos. Someone urges Milo to let go of Hallon’s hand, but he refuses. A cloth covers his mouth, and he goes to sleep.

###

Mary strides through an alley, her staff firmly in hand. A simulacrum of Eratosthenes follows behind, man-shaped but wearing a dragon mask. He’d sent this puppet to guard her while she searches for clues to the evening’s events. The dragon himself is still with Hallon, not willing to leave her side. She shakes her head in dismay. A disaster. This night’s been nothing but a disaster.

She’d been watching Hallon fight, wondering at how many years of practice it would take for the movements to become so polished, when a dozen shadows swept in from the alleys. A sprig of holly at Mary’s shoulder repelled the first attack and gave her time to raise her magical shields. The next attack, she knocked away with her staff, but soon she was surrounded and all her attention was on defending herself. Meanwhile, the shadows swarmed Eratosthenes and Hallon, just long enough to obstruct their coordination before fleeing back through the alleys. By the time Mary realized they were gone, Hallon was already senseless on the ground.

There was such fury in the dragon’s eyes, Mary thought she’d have to caution him against chasing after the shadows, but he was a canny old being and knew the dangers of pursuing an enemy into unknown territory. One ambush can conceal another. She’d learned that lesson herself years ago, the hard way. Instead, he poured himself into saving Hallon, while Mary kept watch and did her best to support Milo. The magics within him ran wild when they were cut off from Hallon.

“How is she?” Mary asks.

“Not good,” Eratosthenes says through the simulacrum. “I still can’t reach her.”

“Should I come back?”

“No. This is a battle on two fronts, and we can’t ignore either,” Eratosthenes says, his voice distracted. When Mary last left him, he was calling on powerful magics—Starlight and Blood, Iron and Air—to save Hallon’s life. It’s a combination that Mary wouldn’t dare touch, not even with the full coven behind her.

But why were the shadows working together? By their nature, they’re egotistical beings, parasites on the living. They should only be concerned with themselves and their cravings. “The ambush was planned,” she says, exploring the idea.

Eratosthenes responds slowly. “If that’s true, then it explains why there are so few guardians here. They’ve all been routed.”

“Would knowing about the Calamity be enough? To get the shadows working together, I mean?”

“Suffering beyond measure, across multiple universes—yes, they’d hunger for it, but someone would still need to keep them in line.” From the tone of his voice, Mary can tell Eratosthenes doesn’t like the idea. Not one bit.

“That’s a worrisome thought,” she says. A weed, green-stemmed and fuzzy-headed, catches Mary’s attention. It muscled its way up through the packed dirt, and she crouches to admire its handiwork. “Bravely done, little one. Bravely done.”

Eratosthenes uses the simulacrum to look over her shoulder. “Will it talk to you?”

“It’s young, and there are no elders nearby to socialize it. Talking may be impossible, but it may have sense-thoughts to share.” Mary brushes the fuzz on the weed’s head.

The weed, woken from its sleep, sways in surprise. Its first instinct is to prickle Mary’s palm, but when she doesn’t fight back, the weed comes closer and senses the Green within her. The attack melts into cautious curiosity. A leaf lifts to stroke Mary’s hand.

“There we are,” Mary says. “No need to get all fighty fighty. There’s been more than enough of that already. Let’s have a proper conversation instead.”

The weed nuzzles her palm, like a cat asking to be petted. Mary complies, and a thrill runs down the weed’s stalk.

“What have you seen, little one, while the lesser light’s been above?”

Plant memories run together—fighting a rat who thought the weed tender enough to eat, two-legs unmindful of the sprout at their feet, a chill unlike the evening cold.

“That last one, if you please. Tell me more.”

The weed had been drowsing when something hungry slid past, soon joined by another and another and several anothers more. They’d come from farther down the alley, at the far edge of the weed’s senses. Sorrow arises, a willingness to share more if it could.

“Don’t fret, little one. You have been of help.”

Will I be lonely when you’re gone? The weed’s first thought is surprisingly soft for such a fierce spirit.

Mary’s heart moves in her chest. “Yes, but I’ll come to visit when I can, and we’ll tell each other stories of what we’ve seen and done.”

I would like that, the weed says.

“So would I.”

Behind her, Eratosthenes’s puppet is already moving down the alley. Mary sighs and gathers her wits. There’s danger about, and she’ll be damned if she lets it catch her unawares again. Staff in hand, she follows after, leaving blessings for the little weed that pointed the way.