He galloped briskly toward the east and plunged into the depths of the forest. Along the banks of the river Eeryys, he rode current-wards. On his right, the steady flow of water fell into dips, slapped the rocks, and splashed on the banks. On his left, small shrubs drowned amid trees paving the way.

The clock struck midday when his ride finished. He stalled where the forest earthen paths converged into a short street spanning to a square of dark cobbles. Heron watched the eastern granddoor of the city beyond the square, apprehensive.

He sighed. Never had he been so far from home and alone.

A cluster of carriages, carts, and nomad vendors hummed about the square. As Heron advanced beside a carriage, a man's head stuck out of the window, his sweaty hair brushing his arm.

"Two bronze!" he shouted. "Two little bronze for the fifth borough. Fast ride." He spoke with an eminent sneer. "You're coming, you, rich boy? My friend keeps your stallion safe." He winked.

Inside the packed chariot a girl whose face was stained with what seemed like dark lamp oil, sitting on a woman's lap, was laughing at Heron.

"No need."

As soon as he said the words an old nomad vendor approached with a basket full of fake silver jewelry, some of it with broken gems and stained with rust. "Real silver pendants, sir, from Anuteh." Her voice had a trembling timber. She appeared unwell in some way. It was as if she was begging. "Only one bronze, sir."

He shook his head, maneuvered around her, and as he trotted away, the man in the chariot yelled, "You get half of the coins for the horse meat." He was chuckling. "Ancients burn my family if not. Eleh!" To Heron's complete surprise, now the whole carriage was laughing at him.

Cladding himself in old clothes wasn't enough to keep a low profile. The city folks' stares lingered. And Heron's thoughts conjured the vile projects they had with him. The memory of the tavern boy's dagger on his throat made his mouth dry.

He felt bare. Davir's chambers in the seventh borough were still a long way from there. And Heron knew it was only a matter of time until a foe approached him, knowing exactly who he was. The air was already damp and hot, Heron's anxiety was making it hard to breathe. His hand traveled to his sack, brushing the glass of a bottle of liquor. He needed to find an isolated spot where he could drink now.

Under the shade of a pine, on the pavement. He was trembling when he retrieved the bottle.

"Eh, you're right to be afraid, you." The voice sounded from behind him. Instinctively, Heron snatched a dagger out of its sheathe, legs buckled in a defensive stance, the tip of his blade pointed towards a man... A boy, in reality. About his age. Heron pushed the bottle inside the sack and placed it on the ground, keeping his blade straight.

Swarthy-skinned like him, the boy was unnaturally rusty-haired, with clear eyes and freckles all over his face.

Despite having a dagger one palm away from him, he didn't seem fazed. "Impressive," he said. "But you'd rather not turn away from the real danger." He turned around, eyeing a group of men watching them, indeed. Heron needed to get away from there.

"I'm a thief," he said casually. "You?"

"I don't care about who you are." Heron stepped forward, Rusty-haired stepping out of grasp. "I'll cut you if you approach."

His eyes widened. "They didn't tell me you'd be this violent, you."

"They?"

"The Ancients," he said. "They always direct me to the easiest target."

"You're amused, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps you should consider using your charms instead of being so offensive, Eleh? You nobles tend to be good at wording. You're menacing someone who can kill you before you can blink." Heron blinked. "Blink twice." At the third time, he said, "Well you get the idea, right?"

"Just get out of here."

"I won't do that. I won't kill you, I mean."

Annoyed, Heron finally opted for following his advice: use his words. "I am a noble. I can order your public execution by the guard for a simple fee."

Heron realized Rusty-haired was only half paying attention to him. "A pity, it's a bit late," he murmured. "Well, the problem is not me." Heron peered at the crowd of men again. They were approaching. This bastard made him lose precious time. Heron turned to his horse but the boy stopped him in his tracks.

"The streets are too packed." He was right. "I only steal but they have no qualms about killing to get what they want. I'm a nomad. They're not happy you're mine." Heron felt horribly objectified.

One of the men coming their way unsheathed a long metal bar. It opened the way to others. Swords and daggers were out. Heron counted seven men. Against two. Eight against one, in reality. Because Heron was alone in this.

"Listen," his voice had suddenly become cold and serious, "grab your stuff. If you want to survive, you. Do as I tell you. I'll crack Styra."

"You have Styra?" Heron muttered through gritted teeth, unable to contain his anger. "It's illegal for you to own it."

"We have other priorities now, don't you think? Ready your dagger." Your stallion stays behind.

"What?" Heron couldn't lose another horse. They were going to make meat out of it. "Are you mad? I can't leave it behind."

"We'll escape by the alleys. Too narrow for fat, tall, expensive horses. He stays behind."

"Eleh! What are you two doing?" asked one of the men, so gaunt his tunic seemed to hang on his shoulders. His voice was a mixture of deep and throaty. Next, he addressed the rusty-haired boy, "We already told you this is not your territory." He had an arm-length metal chain in his grip which he let loose and chinked against the ground. The men around him mumbled their agreements, all staring at Heron as if he was a mere pouch to rip through for silver. He was their quarry. Heron realized. Rusty-haired was only an obstacle.

"Hey, I'm sure we can share him, right?" said Rusty-haired, going forward, hand behind his back already wrapping the green mineral. "We all get something out of the noble." Styra cracked against the ground before the crowd of thieves could face objection, a thick green veil of gas expanded and enveloped them, cutting their sight from each other.

Shouts and neighs echoed all around. Carriage wheels scratched the ground and the streets stirred with movement.

Knowing exactly where to go, Rusty-haired clutched Heron's wrist and pulled him forward while Heron swung his blade to keep the thieves away. When the second crack of Styra echoed, the tumult increased.

"Thieves!" Rusty-haired shouted for all around to hear. "Ancients burn my seed if not. Hide your goods. There are thieves here." His words erupted chaos.

He led Heron out of the green cloud. Both battled a fit of coughs, their eyes watering as they ran for the alleys. "Crap!" Rusty-haired snapped.

Behind them, the thieves were still following.

Above, the sky began to roll with thunder, wind gusts sweeping across the roofs.

Rusty-haired glided through the interstices of the unordered mass of buildings like a snake in its den. He engaged alleys with grounds rougher than the last. Behind, Heron followed, half-stumbling. The gap between them grew.

Feeling the thieves unbearably closer, their weapons striking the walls, Heron shot a glance over his shoulders, then found the way ahead empty. He panicked. The path split in two opposite directions and Heron ignored where Rusty-haired had gone.

In his indecision, the thieves caught up to him, slamming him against the wall. The gaunt one had his chain wrapped around his neck before Heron could utter a word. With disconcerting coldness and efficiency, one cut through his sack. The bottle of liquor fell over and shattered on the ground. He sliced the stripes and caught the sack.

Another was assessing Heron's tunic. He meant to tackle his trousers next but his gaze stalled at the Trefoil pendant around Heron's neck.

Heron shook his head. "No, not this. Please. It has my mother's ashes." As soon as the words were out, the chain wrapped around his neck tightened.

"I'll throw the ashes away."

Then a whistle echoed. "There you are." Rusty-haired was back, panting.

"Stay out if you don't want your guts salted and fed to wadogs tonight," one of the thieves warned.

"It'll soon rain. I don't think you'll have time to salt my guts and properly dry them."

All looked at him puzzled.

"I have no choice but to do this."

Rusty-haired swung his arm forward. The chain around Heron's neck gained a life of its own and undid its folds, wrapping around the thief's arms. Rusty-haired moved a finger and all the thieves were disarmed, weapons shooting up to levitate above their heads.

Horrified, one of them screamed. "Ancients, Eleh?"

With cold resolve, Rusty-haired targeted him. Heron's dagger leaped out of its scabbard. Now its tip was a nail away from the thief's eye.

"Flee," Rusty-haired ordered. "Before it's too late."

Only once the men had scrambled away, pathetically muttering some sort of prayer, did the strangeness of it all became clear to Heron. When Heron looked in his eyes- clear, bottomless grey eyes- he understood. Another one. Like Davir and the soothsayer. Still ignorant of his motives, Heron found a new interest in him.

"Weird." He approached. "You haven't wetted your trousers." He caught Heron's torn sack, eyeing it with a grimace.

Mastering his impulse to give out valuable information, Heron said, "I have seen worse." He hoped to sound nonchalant.

Rusty-haired raised his brows. "They'll return with a group of twenty at least. Don't be fooled by the prayers." He turned away.

Heron followed.

It was raining when they arrived where Rusty-haired led him: a two-floor house. The door was sealed with bars of metal, but he knew how to open it easily with his strange knack. Inside, he lit lanterns of white crystal dust. Even with the furniture covered in a thick veil of dust, the interior of the house appeared larger and more expensive than the exterior suggested.

Stairs led to the first floor, finishing into a small corridor that led to a large room with minimal furniture: an armchair, a bed, an ambry, and a music column— the whole clean.

Rusty-haired flumped on an armchair and tucked Heron's sack onto it.

Nothing had gone as Heron had planned and now he was inside a thief's den. "You broke into this house?"

"It's been years it's for sale." He opened Heron's sack and watched its contents. "People around here in the seventh don't have enough silvers for a house like this. And nobles from the third, second and first won't never buy a house here. You can say I'm putting the house to good use."

He extracted the contents of Heron sacks. About thirty silver Ceric. Maps. Extracts from the Onus of War Heron was to show Davir. He devoted less attention to the money than Heron would have bet for a thief. "Why are you here in the city?"

"To visit family."

"You have family out of the royal domain? With the rotten reputation you have lately, they haven't been killed yet?"

Heron tensed. "I see you're well informed." He was terrified but chose to show control. "Who are you exactly?"

Looking away, he said, "It's raining outside. You could stay the night. I don't mean any harm." He yawned. "I'm tired and hungry." Listlessly, he went to his drawers to retrieve a volume wrapped in leaves, which he removed. Meat-bread. He gathered rattling dry nuts, then a bottle that once uncorked let out the smell of artisanal Bora, reeking of must and sweets.

He did pour two cups to the brim before he cut himself a slice of meatbread. He tucked his back obliquely against the armchair, tunic unbuttoned at chest height to show reddish body hair descending to his belly. Behind him, rain pelted at the oval window's edge.

"I was engaged to track you down. But I'm resigning."

It infuriated Heron that he said it all so casually. "By rebels?"

"Not quite." He seemed to ponder. "By revolutionaries."

"There's a difference?"

He shrugged. "I guess you'd be inclined to call them rebels, yes." He ate, chews too audible, and slurps unnaturally long. The crumbs stuck to his lips were wiped with the back of his hand. "Lucky for you I'm not short on money." He opened his palm and a coin from Heron's sack leaped to his hand. "You have nothing to worry about. When I was hired, I imagined you differently. That's why I accepted the job. I was to be paid fifteen silver."

"Differently?"

He studied Heron for a moment. "Less naive," he said. "Stronger. More calculating. As it is, I don't feel I'm facing an equal. No offense. Plus, I don't know what they intend to do with you. They never told me. Would be a waste if they, say, decapitate you, or damage your face in any way. I always underestimate how appealing it is to look at rich boys. Every time."

Heron was furious. With himself most of all. Because he knew he was being lured. He knew one moment or another someone could walk past the door's threshold to tie him, take him wherever they intend to put him. But despite it all, he felt flattered by the comment on his appearance and absolutely ached to have some Bora down his throat.

He reasoned with himself: Rusty-haired had information that could be useful to him. Heron was a good drinker. If Rusty-haired drank enough to spill it all out...Was he fooling himself, too? Heron rushed to the armchair, grabbed one cup, and jugged its content down his throat.

Upper-lip half buried into his cup, bottom lip hidden, Rusty-haired said, "Finally." Cup down at the table again, he smiled. "Wylmon yma da," he said. "Wyl for you."

He unbuttoned his tunic further downward to expose his belly, yellowish fabric flapping at the side of his body as he batted it away. "It's going to rain for a while," he said more to himself than to Heron, who was at his second pour from the bottle.

It seemed to surprise Wyl that Heron reached for his still half-full cup to refill it. He reacted with a daring smirk and swallowed the content in one jug.

Heron did the same and tackled the bottle again, still clear-headed, while Wylmon already showed his first signs of drunkenness: teary gray eyes, a slight flash on brown freckled cheeks, and a persistent smile. It would be easier than he imagined, Heron thought.

But four cups after, Wylmon was still just as solidly conscious of what he was doing. Laughing louder, sure. But then he couldn't answer Heron's question on where people like him and Davir came from; if he knew the soothsayer; who was giving him orders?

Heron too was starting to feel the first effects of the alcohol. He felt lighter, carefree, and more confident and even wondered why he insisted on being so suspicious about Wylmon. Wyl for him, he had said.

He knew his guard was down when he started to find everything Wyl did incredibly charming. The way he dipped his nose into his cup, his grey eyes...

"Enough," Wyl said. "You're a bottomless hole and are trying to corrupt me, you." He stood, but fell on all fours, immediately bursting out laughing. That, too, was charming.

Heron was still able to walk straight. A bit dizzy, sure. But his balance remained intact. Pretending Bora had affected his coordination way less than it had in reality, he helped Wyl to bed and came back to the armchair to drink more.

• • •

Heron woke up with his head above Rusty-haired's chest, his freckled arm resting on his back. Outside, rain still poured profusely. His blood seemed to rush. "What have I done?"

He inspected himself. Still fully clothed. As was Rusty-haired. He exhaled.

The slightest movement of his head while freeing himself erupted a pang of headache. When he stood, Heron's gut twisted with nausea. He felt everything crashing down on him: his fatigue, the start of his hangover, and the sickness of his infected wound. And Davir. . .

Ancients, he was pathetic. He rubbed his face with his hands. This was the outcome of his plan to get the Rusty-haired drunk. He sighed. Perhaps it was time to stop drinking altogether.

He eyed Rusty-haired, who still slept, and grabbed his dagger, ready to destroy the lock of the door.

"That's how you leave?" Rusty-haired said as soon as Heron inserted the tip of his dagger into the lock.

"I need to go."

"You never told me your name."

"It doesn't matter."

"You know where to find me, if ever. I told you I won't be going behind you anymore."

Heron hadn't forgotten he was a criminal in illegal possession of flingstones and with ties with the rebellion. "Open the door or I'll break it."

"Don't go ruining everything around here, you. I don't want to have to move soon. It's open now."

Fed-up, Heron turned to Rusty-haired. "Seriously?"

"You're always this defiant and untrusting. Your noble friends used to destroy all your toys?" Rusty-haired stood, eyeing Heron with impatience now. He pushed the lock open with a finger. "Here. Happy? Go now, if you're so eager. The entry door is open, too." He walked back to bed.

As soon as Heron stepped outside the house, he was already feverish. Under the cover of the threshold of the door, Heron opened his maps to study his route, before he stepped into the road. Burning flesh under cold rain made for a torturous mixture.

The roads that led to the center of the borough were narrow and irregular, cornered by unkept edifices shuffled into an ocean of white stone stained by an oily layer of dirt. The buildings elevated themselves one or two levels above the ground and harbored gaps in the intersections that created a maze-like structure. He saw children move inside them, barefoot, sometimes shirtless. Each image was more painful than the other.

The pouring ceased finally and the natural colors and smells of the city came forth, old piss and mold, now partially washed down. Heron was trembling now. From the fatigue, the fever, the cold. He sensed this was not going to end well.

In their wordless staring, as they passed by him, it seemed people sensed Heron was not one of them. Even the air seemed different here. Heavier, tenser, and more hostile. The rain rushed nightfall, which at least brought the safety of not being seen.

On the roads, the simple-blooded didn't burn dust of white crystals. Instead, street torches, lit by random passersby, clung to the walls with glows that couldn't quench the thickest shadows.

When he reached the entry port of the fifth building of the borough, he was overwhelmed by sudden dizziness that forced him to reach for the gate for balance. Stomps echoed behind him. He turned around, perceiving the man's green uniform. But his vision blurred out before he could register his face.

The man grabbed him by the waist. "Lord," he murmured. Heron was glad to have reached the good address. "You're well?"

No. He was about to vomit on Davir.