The hour of pearls, crouched outside the Iruvian Consulate, staring up at the constellations while I waited for him.

While he failed to appear.

While I watched and shivered and wondered if this torrent of submerged terror and half-drowned guilt was what drove Mother to the window night after night.

Just before dawn briefly eclipsed the stars, I lurched stiffly to my feet and stamped the mud off my boots. Another night of futile surveillance had produced one useful outcome, at least: I'd finally decided what to do about the railcar. True, Faith's ditzy façade hid a deeply troubled young woman with disturbing hobbies. True, Ash was deep to his pitch-black demon-telltale elbow in some ravening god's cult. In the final analysis, however, their extracurricular activities had nothing to do with me personally, and even more importantly, he would never search for me in a graveyard of passenger trains.

Time to tell Madame Bell and Bazso that I was moving out, then.

Back in Crow's Foot, I identified one of the Lampblack runners, a nine-year-old urchin with a shock of red hair who was contemplating a knot of hungover sailors as if calculating how much coin they had left. Slipping up beside him, I bent over until my head was level with his and advised softly in his ear, "Don't. See that sailor? The one with the tattoo of a snake turning into an owl?"

Caught unawares, he squeaked and jumped, but obediently followed my gaze.

"The tattoo means that he serves under Captain Vaati Ankhayat," I continued in a low voice. House Ankhayat owned half of the Iruvian leviathan hunter fleet and on top of that was bound to Demon Prince Khayat the Wise. "Trust me, you don't want to mess with him."

While I spoke, the sailors turned the corner and faded into the morning mist. Unappreciative of my efforts to save his skin, the urchin scowled fiercely at me. Why did I even bother? With a sigh, I straightened painfully – knife wounds garnered two years ago tended to ache in Doskvol's cold, damp weather – and flipped him one of my last coppers. "Tell Bazso Baz he's inviting me to dinner tonight. He can name the time and place."

The boy pocketed the coin, repeated my message word for word, and then raced off in the direction of the abandoned coal warehouse that served as Lampblack headquarters. Rubbing my side absently, I trudged back to Madame Bell's flophouse to pack.

Bazso maintained such strict runner silence that I started fretting while I folded blouses and matched up stockings. Had I miscalculated my little power play? Had I actually offended him? To distract myself, I passed the afternoon at the Red Sash Sword Academy training against one of the masters, who beat me handily (but somewhat less handily than last week). Utterly sweaty and disheveled and exhausted, I was limping out the front gate when a runner stopped me and rattled off mechanically, "Bazso says: He-requests-the-honor-of-your-presence-at-dinner-at-the-Leaky-Bucket-at-the-hour-of-honor." Whirling, I checked the clock mounted over the academy entrance – right as it struck half past the twelfth hour.

Bazso had given me exactly thirty minutes' notice for dinner.

Like as not, Madame Bell had already tipped him off that I was leaving – meaning that my attire needed to convey the sentiment: "Yes, I'm declaring my independence from you, but no, I'm not trying to challenge your authority, and nothing is going to change, except that everything already has." Did such an outfit even exist? Cursing in Hadrathi, I sprinted back to my room, where I yanked out all the clothing that I'd spent the morning packing away tidily. Akorosi trousers and Iruvian leggings flew everywhere while I searched frantically for the right costume.

In the end, I settled for a light blue gown that matched both my eyes and his, emphasizing my Skovlander heritage. Its small waistline required me to lace my corset so tightly that I couldn't run any meaningful distance (not that I expected to do any running, of course, but I thought he'd appreciate the gesture). Storing Grandfather in a special compartment in the wall by my bed, I pinned up my hair with a handful of stilettos, strapped a dagger to my forearm, and floated onto the streets of Crow's Foot practically unarmed.

The Lampblacks' favorite tavern, the Leaky Bucket, was technically neutral ground among the gangs of Crow's Foot, an uneasy truce maintained mostly out of respect for its owner. White-haired, wiry Mardin Gull had headed the Crows for decades until he shocked the Doskvol underground by retiring and opening a fully legitimate business. Personally, I thought the gangs honored the demilitarized zone so they could bring in their young scoundrels and exhort them, "Kids, if you work hard and save your coin, you too can someday transcend gang wars! Now get out there and make your quota!"

Tonight, a single glance from the doorway revealed a healthy mix of civilians and scoundrels jostling amiably at the bar. Lining the other three walls were lovingly polished wooden booths, most of which had been claimed by gang members. Long tables filled the rest of the space, occupied by groups of dockers and sailors and the occasional factory hand. In the far corner, a rowdy dice game was underway; from behind the bar, Mardin kept a sharp eye on the gamblers and their beer intake lest they erupt into a brawl. As I slipped off my cloak and draped it neatly over my arm, a particularly raunchy sea shanty rose above the din, drawing laughter and cheers. Half the room joined in lustily and off key. Very off key.

As always, the Lampblacks were easy to spot. Not only did I know most of them by sight, but they all sported variations on the black wool overcoat of the Lamplighters' Guild. Those who could afford one added a battered top hat too. As for their leader – even if I didn't know his favorite corner booth, I could have guessed from the steady increase in Lampblack density. Despite the heat of the common room, Bazso lounged on his bench in his regulation overcoat, a lovely thick waterproof one that all of us coveted, and the elegant top hat that he donned while prowling around on business. Surveying the room alertly, he noticed me almost as soon as I entered the Leaky Bucket and nodded at me to approach. Packed into the neighboring booth with her minions, his second-in-command, Pickett, followed his gaze and glared ferociously. I cast a polite, almost-but-not-quite-triumphant smile at her in passing.

When I reached his booth, Bazso got to his feet courteously, doffed his hat for a gallant bow – and then replaced it on his head.

As he gestured for me to seat myself, he remarked ironically, "A funny thing happened to me this morning. I found myself suddenly seized by the desire to invite you to dinner. It must have happened, oh, around the time Bug showed up with a message."

I caught the hint of warning in his voice but refused to back down – especially not in front of Pickett, who was eavesdropping as hard as she could. "Yes," I replied demurely, smoothing down the back of my skirt and sinking gracefully onto the bench opposite his, "it was quite sweet of you." Then I smiled innocently up at him.

The Lampblacks within earshot drew a collective breath. Pickett turned almost as pale as Ash with fury.

Bazso burst into laughter. Waving at Mardin, he called, "A bottle of nice wine for the lady!"

"Young man, I only serve nice wine," retorted the proprietor.

Still chuckling, Bazso sat down across from me as his people started breathing again. The barmaid materialized with a bottle of dubiously nice red wine, and he went through his usual ritual with the three glasses, after which he handed me my drink like the consummate gentleman.

I countered with my best etiquette. For a few moments, we sipped the wine and dared each other to speak first. Pickett's scowl could have curdled milk.

Bazso held up his glass, swirled the wine, and admired the little fingers that ran down the sides. Then he smiled very deliberately, as if to remind me, "Well, my dear, you requested this meeting."

Setting my glass down delicately and folding my hands carefully on the table, I adopted a casual tone. "I've found a new home. It's great. No rent."

"Really?" asked Bazso neutrally. "And where is this new, great, and rent-free home?"

From the other booths drifted a few gasps. Pickett snickered softly, her sneer saying, "Well, girl, now you've done it."

I didn't dare take my eyes off Bazso's face. "It's over in Coalridge," I said lightly, watching him as alertly as the rest of his gang.

His eyebrows raised very slightly.

"I'm moving into a railcar with some, uh, friends." Uncertain how he'd react to my joining another crew, I fudged the truth a little.

At the lie, Bazso's eyebrows went up even more. "Does this mean you'll crash less often at my place then?" he inquired mildly.

Wait – did he really think? Faith and Ash and me? "No!" I yelped before I could catch myself. "No! That's not what I meant – Of course not!"

He smirked, as if he'd hoped to provoke just such a response.

Reclaiming my dignity, I informed him, "I still need to teach and train at the academy every week." Widening my eyes à la Faith, I added, "Classes sometimes run...late. You wouldn't let a girl walk all the way back to the Old Rail Yard on her own, would you? I might get mugged!"

"I pity the mugger," he replied drily. He refilled my glass and then his, then leaned back and studied me, noting my attire. Aided by the corset, I sat ramrod straight, taking shallow breaths and making sure to keep my hands out in the open. "The Old Rail Yard," he mused. "That's Cortland's territory. Well, I suppose it's not too far away." With a sigh, he removed his hat at last.

If it weren't for the corset, I might have sagged with relief, the way some of the younger Lampblacks were doing.

With such perfect timing that I suspected Mardin of keeping a sharp eye on our booth, the barmaid silently re-materialized with plates of steaming hot mushroom-and-eel pies.

"I took the liberty of ordering for you," Bazso said, mostly for the benefit of his people. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? I was starving! I'd have eaten algae soup – and gratefully too – if that were all he'd ordered. Perhaps guessing at my recent eating habits, or the lack thereof, he mercifully allowed me to devour half of my pie before asking how I'd been and what I'd done since the last time we met. All too aware of Pickett's pricked ears, I spun out the official Kamilin cover story into an entire saga about a hero's tragic, tragic death at the hands of hungry ghosts.

Bazso, who hated specters as much as he loved dramatic tales, listened raptly. When I finally concluded with my narrow escape thanks to the hero's self-sacrifice, he offered, "Perhaps I should send some of the boys to deal with the public hazard."

I couldn't let him do that. "Isn't the whole city a public hazard?" I inquired coquettishly. (Some of the Doskvol-born Lampblacks looked as if they wanted to protest.) In a more business-like tone, I added, "This was no worse than usual. We just – got unlucky. Anyway, how are things here?"

He considered me for a moment, decided to trust my assessment, and shrugged. "It's been quiet lately."

"The same for the Red Sashes," I said. Setting down my fork, I made the quick hand sign that indicated an official report.

"Maybe we should move on them now, then," he mused.

Oh no, that wouldn't do at all. My secret goal – a stepping stone or practice session, if you would – was to reconcile the two gangs. To distract Bazso, I asked quickly, "Why do you and Mylera Klev hate each other so much? It seems...somehow personal."

After toying with his knife for a moment, he lowered his voice and said slowly, "I suppose.... I suppose you can't find two people who are less alike than Mylera and I." Now that I could attest to. "We were both immigrants to Doskvol, both trying to make a name for ourselves, and because we were both newcomers and relatively vulnerable, we found each other's gangs to be the easiest target. At first we just pushed each other around. " Lost in his memories, he looked at me without really seeing me. "Then the killings started. And then it got personal. And then things got ingrained. And then it seemed like we were always looking at each other as the person to beat, maybe because we come from the same place. It's a little like...transcending yourself." Trailing off, he laid down the knife and stared out blankly across the crowded room.

Slowly, to avoid alarming Pickett, I rose, walked around the table, and slid onto the bench next to him. When I leaned my head against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me close.

"It's funny," he confessed softly. "When I think of running Crow's Foot one day, it's always Mylera I think of defeating – never the other gangs."

I took a moment to frame my words. "Perhaps," I suggested carefully and equally softly, "you shouldn't focus on one opponent to the exclusion of all others."

Tipping my head back a little, I watched as he processed my words and filed them away for future consideration. Then he snapped back to the present. "Enough of that," he said firmly. "I want to hear more about the ghosts."

So I regaled him with detailed descriptions of the specters and made him gasp at the viciousness of the ghost brawl and, later that evening, went home with him. There, snuggled safely between his sheets, I finally told him the full story.

The next morning, he assigned two Lampblacks to carry my trunk to the Old Rail Yard.