Ralan spent a restless night thinking over his future. Did he even have a future? He was about to travel to a part of the city that no one he knew had ever been due to its filth and danger. What kind of future was that?

The Wretched Quarter was occupied by the poorest of the poor—those that wore threadbare brown due to no guild wanting them and those that worked in the dirtiest least-desired guild jobs—those that cleaned the stables, hauled away human waste, and toiled in the dirt under a hot sun. They would shuffle across the Great Bridge, clean the manure from the streets before the sun came up, and then return across the bridge to their hovels.

To make matters worse, the Thieves Tower was apparently in the remotest and poorest part of the Wretched Quarter, on the edge of the Ash Fields, which were so barren that rats couldn't even live there. Ralan knew that the Wall extended around the Wretched Quarter and the Ash Fields, but did the knights even bother guarding it that far out of the proper city? Ralan eventually fell into a fitful sleep, not sure of anything about his future other than he had to flee his brother.

At the edge of his dreams, Ralan heard the sounds of shuffling boots and a shout. The dream disappeared into a cacophony of clanging metal, louder shouts, and a scream. He sat up, wondering if someone was having an argument in his hall in the Merchant Tower, but as he rubbed his eyes, he remembered he was in the basement and in the Guildmaster Thief quarters.

The ringing sound of swords was mere feet away, separated from him by the door to his quarters. Ralan jumped out of bed. He dressed as fast as he could. Ralan couldn't quite believe it, but he could conceive of no other alternative—his brother was trying to assassinate him. As he laced up his black boots, Ralan was almost more sad at the thought than fearful of the danger he faced.

He glanced at the door, and pictured Alard beating back soldiers. As intimidating as he seemed, how could even Alard hold back a group of assailants? Ralan had to help him, even as the battle continued outside. He had no weapon beyond a decorative dagger. Still, it was sharp, so he held it tight in his hand and approached the door.

He unlatched the door and opened it.

Alard was battling a single man wearing heavy armor, accented in blue. My brother's men, Ralan thought. Two other men wearing the blue of the Merchant's guild lay on the floor, not moving. Alard glanced at Ralan. "Get inside and lock the door!" Ralan didn't move.

The armored assailant pressed his attack, and Alard responded with a dizzying combination of spinning slashes, kicks, and parries. Ralan forgot that he was even there to help. He watched in awe as Alard's precise attacks and brute force blows pushed the attacker back down the hallway. Ralan breathed easier, the opponent was no match for Alard.

There was a flutter of air and then a thunk next to Ralan's head. He flinched and looked up. An arrow stuck in the frame of the door. A scream drew his attention, and Ralan turned to see Alard pull his sword from his attacker. Ralan's relief in Alard's victory ended as he watched Alard lurch backward. A bowman at the base of the stairs at the end of the hall reached behind his back for another arrow.

Alard wasted no time and rushed toward the bowman. The bowman's eyes opened wide, and he turned and fled up the staircase. Alard stopped, turned, and yelled down the hall. "Sir, you must stay in your quarters. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone! I will send someone to help." Alard turned, his black robe flowing behind him, and rushed up the stairs.

"How will I know who you have sent?" Ralan shouted, but Alard was gone.

With the battle over, Ralan could hear groans from the prone body in the middle of the hall. He had considered going to help, but the arrow above his head reminded him how foolish that would be. He returned to his quarters, shut the door and closed the deadbolt. He walked over and sat on the bed, laying his knife next to him. He waited.

It had been only a few moments, but Ralan was already second-guessing Alard. Someone was trying to kill him. Wouldn't it make more sense to run off and hide somewhere? Certainly somewhere out-of-the-way was better than being locked in a room and protected only by a wooden door.

There was a click sound, and before Ralan realized what was happening his door opened and a slight figure darted in. He quickly grabbed his dagger and stood up. Facing the intruder, he said, "Who are you?"

"Shut up!" It was a girl dressed in the yellow of the Craft Guild. She looked all around the room, her head moving in short sharp motions.

"Show some respect, I'm the Guildmaster Thief. What are you doing here, and how did you get in?"

The girl stormed over to Ralan. She was a good six inches shorter than him and had black, curly, hair, cut unfashionably short. Her arched eyebrows, brown eyes, and sharp features made the whole look work with her deep brown skin. Ralan realized that she was quite pretty. He pushed that thought aside, however, for what filled his attention was her fury. She held her clenched fists on her hips, and stared up at him with what looked like a combination of disdain and anger.

"Guildmaster Thief? Ha!" She practically spit the words. "You have the title. We'll see if you have earned the respect it brings." Ralan was going to dispute the point, but she didn't stop. "As to your questions. I am Maela. Alard sent me to save you, and I got in with a key, which should have been obvious by the fact that your door isn't in splinters."

"Alard sent you?"

"Are you deaf?" The girl turned, and walked toward the door. Over her shoulder, she added. "You have ten seconds to grab anything that's important to you."

Ralan had decided he had enough of her impertinence, even if Alard did send her. "Look here, I don't need a Craft apprentice telling me what to do. Just tell me what Alard told you, and I'll take care of myself."

Maela turned toward Ralan in an exaggerated motion and rolled her eyes. "Not just deaf, but dim, too?" She pointed toward the door. "In moments, that hallway will be filled with Merchant guardsmen. If you want to avoid being tossed in the guild dungeon or worse, then I recommend you follow me." She took two steps toward the door, stopped, and turned back to Ralan. "But, of course, you can do what you want, my guildmaster."

She was already out the door by the time Ralan had glanced around the room and decided he had nothing of value worth taking. He rushed to follow her. She was halfway down the hall, and Ralan found himself both annoyed and concerned that she wasn't bluffing—she fully intended on leaving him there if he didn't follow. He sprinted past the bodies in the hall and reached her as she stopped by the door that Alard had said contained the linens from Guildmaster Galway's elevation.

Before Ralan could say anything, Maela said, "Shut up." She pulled two small metal rods from her trousers and placed them in the keyhole. She twisted on the rods, and there was a click. She turned and smiled at Ralan. He was rather taken aback. If she was pretty while angry, she was beautiful while smiling. "Simple locks on these doors. Now let's hope the Night Guild didn't block up the entrance from here or we'll have some digging to do."

"Knight Guild? What do they have to do with rooms in the Merchant Tower?"

She pushed through the door, and Ralan followed. She closed the door behind him and relocked it. The room was stocked with napkins and tablecloths, all in the rich blue of the Merchant guild. Galway's name was sewn into all of them. Ralan shook his head. It must have taken ages for the Craft Guild to do this work. The room smelled awful, which surprised Ralan, as the linens looked unused and clean.

"Not Knight Guild, you idiot. Night Guild. N-I-G-H-T." She went to the corner of the room, where a low table stood with piles of napkins on it. "See that pipe?" Maela pointed up. There was a thick pipe that led from the ceiling down into the floor. "Up there is the kitchen bathroom. I'm certain this used to be a bathroom, as well."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Ralan stated, as Maela started grabbing napkins and tossing them off the table toward the center of the room.

"Do what?"

"Call me an idiot." Ralan started tossing napkins off the table.

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't do that, too." With most of the napkins on the floor, she grabbed the table and pulled it away from the corner. Ralan grabbed the table and helped.

"Do what?" Ralan couldn't hide the exasperation in his voice. The girl had never met him and yet treated him like a child.

"I wish you wouldn't act like an idiot." The table had covered a wooden hatch. "I knew it!" Maela said. She reached down to lift the hatch, but Ralan put his foot down on it.

"Look, Maela, I appreciate your help, but I don't need a Craft apprentice treating me like a child." She looked up at him with a dumbfounded look. "Just tell me where I need to go, and I'll take it from here."

She stood up and poked her finger in Ralan's chest. "Alard told me you were new and to be understanding, but this is ridiculous. I'm a thief. Do you think thieves run around wearing black?" She moved her hand up and tapped him on the temple. "Use your head." She sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. You may not be an idiot. I don't really know. But I do know we need to get out of here, and that"—she pointed at the hatch—"is the only safe way out."

Ralan nodded and took his foot off the hatch. For one of the few times in his life, he wasn't sure what to say. He leaned down, and as he pulled the hatch up. A noxious smell so bad that it made Ralan cough hit his nose. Maela smiled and added, "This is probably an improvement for you."

Before Ralan could reply, there was the sound of boots pounding on the stairs outside the door.

Maela held a finger to her lips and then pointed down. There was a wooden ladder secured against the side of the rectangular hole. Maela didn't move but opened her eyes wide, and pointed down again. Ralan knelt down and swung his legs over the ledge. The ladder felt secure. With little choice, he climbed down, clearly heading into the waste sewers of Ness.

As if the Founders Day parade was bad enough, now he was literally going to wade through piss and shit.