Ugly sludge and darkness filled her.

Her nightmares burst into life, her shock a platform for the crushing memories of Perben the traitor slicing her little brother’s neck with his giant sword, of the soldier smashing Neola’s face in with his mace. She gasped, swallowed air, fought not to puke. Not in front of the rats. The Grey Streets met weakness with disgust and death.

She clutched the glass she held, something ceramic; it shattered, and she stared at the minute cuts and blood running with water before someone wrapped a towel about her hand. A clean towel, not an item scrounged from a cubby or a harried shopkeep.

“Lanth.”

A soothing smoothness laced Faelan’s tone, with an underlying fury he could not quite quell. She clenched her hands; the envelope crinkled loudly. She slammed it down onto the bench next to her and mentally screamed her rage and sick pain.

The memories shattered her peace. She needed to concentrate on something else, like what terrible thing happened the night before, that Sir Armarandos demanded she meet with Fyor? That trouble would keep her occupied until she could find a secluded place to hide.

“We need to go to the guardhouse.”

“Not lookin’ like that you ain’t,” Rinan told her.

“GO AWAY YOU STUPID RAT,” she screamed. Heat filled her face, her neck, exploded behind her eyes and she could barely see through the tears. He pursed his lips at her, exceedingly unimpressed, his stubborn streak rising, defiant, as his green eyes flashed.

“You knows I won’t. I’s the Lady’s man, even when you don’t think it,” he reminded her.

Running footsteps echoed to them just before Lyet and Scand skidded to a stop; she had not realized they left. What was wrong with her?

Lyet imperiously held out a damp cloth. She accepted it; cool, soaked with water. She wiped at her face, then swiped the remaining blood on her palm away, uncertain which way her emotions would now fall. She had not had a break like that since leaving Coriy, and she despised succumbing to one in front of a brother she no longer knew and the rats. What must they think of her?

She finally raised her head and glanced about. They squeezed into a small, roofless, half-circle gazebo set in the old city wall. Broken columns stood sentry to the cracked benches, the once-white stone a dingy, muddy ashen color, like everything else in the Grey Streets. Few bothered to mingle in that section of the district unless they had some illegal business to conduct, so the average resident would never see that her soul reflected the condition of the limestone on which she sat.

“We may wish to postpone this meeting.”

She glanced at Faelan, then shook her head. “No. It must be important if Fyor’s sending the rats to find me. More important than . . . this.”

At least they kept their outrage to themselves.

She scrubbed her lower arm across her face to erase the tingling clean left behind and rose, handing the wet cloth to Lyet before she snagged the crinkled envelope. She doubted a lengthy stop would help her state, and the quicker she met with the guard, the quicker she could sequester herself in some small, secluded place and truly vent. Or die of shame; she had yet to decide.

She led, which suited her. No one spoke, which also suited her, though Faelan and the rats cast each other looks as she hastened across the roads and proceeded to the guardhouse with far more speed than necessary. The quicker she met with Fyor, the quicker she could leave and  . . . and do what? Ponder her mistakes?

She never expected to renew her relationship with her older brother, never thought he would meet the street rats, and she had no plan how to handle that, the questions from both sides, or the shattering of her carefully constructed city life. She did not want to see the distrust in the rats’ eyes because she neglected to be completely truthful about her past with them—at least, the little peek of the past she let them see. She did not want to see the same in Faelan’s, because while she knew he lived, he had spent part of the last eight years believing her dead. He knew she never attempted to search him out, and while he hid it, her distrust had to hurt.

Lapis pulled her hood further down, keeping her wretched state hidden from the casual viewer as the five of them walked into the Lells Guardhouse yard. More guards than usual bustled about, and she noted very few traders. Not a good sign. Dread twisted her stomach as she headed into the brown-stained interior. She did not see Fyor, but one of the other guards she often returned stakes to waved them down the right hallway. She whispered her thanks, which he accepted with a smile while he watched a ‘keeper complete a form with a slow, methodical hand, and headed down the way.

Maybe she should make Rin ‘keep for her. A random thought, but she welcomed the distraction. Her stakes rarely held trouble, and if she could make him fill out the completed stake forms while she returned to the Eaves, ate a late meal, and listened to kids read, she should. He’d earn a few bits without pickpocketing, so a win, all around.

Fyor sat in an office to the very back, door open, listening with an overly polite expression to a merchant who had very loud opinions about the guttershank who stole his moneybox early that morning. He had slicked back, but not styled, his dark brown hair, and grey tinged the skin under his soft brown eyes; had he got any sleep the night before? He glanced at them and nodded before leaning over the table and sliding a stake sheet to the excited man.

“Fill this out and return it to Guardsman Wrainven at the front.”

“But—” the merchant protested, surprised at the abrupt conclusion of their talk.

“I have other business, I’m afraid.” Fyor rose and motioned to them; he led them back through the foyer and to a narrow, dim hallway across from the front entrance. At the end was a stout hardwood door with a single sconce lighting its dark brown paint. He opened and held it while they all slipped inside. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“You were lucky,” Lapis told him. “Rin caught me out and about. What’s up?” Her voice sounded a little raw, but not far off normal. Fyor flicked his gaze to Faelan, the single person he did not know, and she withheld a little sigh. “Guard Superior Fyor, please meet my brother. He’s a partner with my other unexpected visitors.” He looked surprised, and she took advantage. “Yeah, it was a shock for me, too.”

He nodded then looked pointedly at the rats. “I appreciate your quick action, but this is between myself and the Lady.”

Scand sighed mightily. Rin glared and looked to protest, glanced at Lyet, then smashed his lips together and retreated out the door, casting Lapis a worried look before he moved beyond the jamb. Lyet ushered Scand out, and both reflected Rin’s concern.

Before Fyor did more than stare at her brother, suspicious, the man she met the night before, Sir Armarandos’s father, bustled in. He wore a sleek grey raincoat and a fine black jacket and pants beneath, common business meeting attire among the gentry, though his snowy hair waved softly about his head, an attempt to undermine the stern look. He glanced at her, his crisp grey eyes intent, no-nonsense, before he stopped in shock.

“Faelan, my boy!” he cried.

He knew Faelan. He knew Faelan?

“Lord Adrastos,” Faelan said, shaking his hand, smiling his charming half-smile. While she had not spoken to her brother in eight years, she recognized when he trusted someone, and his movement, his tone, indicated he held the man in deep respect and confidence.

Fyor closed the door, not bothering to hide his own surprise.

“Figured you’d be around, when I saw your sister,” Lord Adrastos told him.

“I didn’t know she survived,” Faelan told him.

“Shock for you, too, then.” He nodded and helped himself to a chair. Lapis took that as an invitation to sit. “But seeing Iolanthe in her eyes, I knew.”

“Do I look that much like my mother?” She had to ask.

“Yes,” came the chorus.

Well, then.

“You’re the one who wanted to speak to Lanth?” Faelan asked as he, too, found a seat. Fyor chose the chair behind the single desk in the room.

“Yes,” Lord Adrastos admitted. “Though the guard’s interested as well. It’s good, that you’re here. Saves me a trip.”

A trip? Was she correct, then, in assuming Sir Armarandos’s father had a rebel name? Who might he be?

“When I got back from the hullabaloo last night, my wife gave me a message from a contact. It made the obvious connection between Hoyt and Nevid. Nevid’s the guard who started all this,” he said, waving his hand and looking at Faelan. Fyor appeared to want to interrupt but thought better of it. She had the impression that Lord Adrastos was not a man to contradict, but the superior squirmed in curiosity over the stranger the elder immediately welcomed and took into confidence. “But he had another bit. He said that a chaser named Aethon upset Hoyt by interfering in some stake or other that another chaser, Predi, was supposed to complete. It was important, something to do with tech, and they wanted payback. After some digging, someone supplied them with a name and told them his partner was Lady Lanth. So they decided to go after Lanth, here,” and he indicated her.

Lapis blinked. “But . . . I don’t know anyone named Aethon.” She had never encountered another chaser by that name, though plenty of out-city ones came and went on stakes without her meeting them. One of them had likely carried out his stake, completed it, upset Predi in the process, and left. She wondered if he was part of the last incident that forced the confrontation between him and Patch. But why did they assume she was this Aethon’s partner?

Fyor raised an eyebrow. “Not your partner?”

She shook her head, the dread growing. Someone targeted her for the actions of another, someone she had never met but may end up dying for. “No,” she said. “He did have a couple of not-good-for-Predi encounters, but he’s not called Aethon. I don’t know anyone who is. A lot of chasers don’t really like hunters, so it could be, that someone from out-city came in and they had a spat. I don’t know why they’d link us, though.”

Fyor nodded and sighed. “I don’t recall any chaser named Aethon working in the city, though I don’t know all the out-city ones.” He leaned on his elbows, pressed his fingertips together, and tapped his index fingers against his lips. “It may be, someone decided to try their hand at chasing, had a terrible experience, and dropped out of it. But that doesn’t explain how you got linked to him.”

She shook her head again. “I’ve never worked with someone named Aethon. I’m on my own or in the company of my partner. I usually only see other chasers when I’m turning in a stake, and they ignore me because I’ve never competed with anyone for a stake. I choose the ones others don’t seem interested in completing.”

“That’s true,” the guard said. “You do important work for little reward. Many of us respect that. It’s why we’re puzzled, why Hoyt wants to make you a target. Lady, you may not think so, but the Grey Streets respect you, not just for bringing justice to those of little means, but because you do what you can to help the street rats. How you shifted Rin from sullen and angry to productive teen is extraordinary.”

“I didn’t have much to do with that, Superior Fyor. Rin achieved it on his own.”

“Perhaps so, but he watched a woman he respected walk a different path from the normal Grey Streets way,” Fyor replied. “You are a beacon to others because you’ve shown that one can succeed without falling into the underground trap, and that kindness and charity aren’t liabilities. Hoyt’s misunderstood your support if he thinks he can target you and reap no repercussions. And maybe he, personally, will not, but his men certainly will. It won’t just be your rats seeking revenge on bit shanks, either. This has the potential to backfire on anyone who works for Hoyt. That, in turn, would harm his ability to hire men and make him vulnerable against other underbosses. He doesn’t take chances like that. What’s prompted him to do so in this case is unclear and worrisome.”

He could say that.

She sank back. She rarely took the stakes of well-known criminals because of the potential backlash against her reading circle if she screwed it up. While she helped Patch on a few more dangerous, rebel-related outings, when on her own, she kept to the small-time, safer chases that paid a few bits and which never attracted attention from the underground. If Hoyt had staked her and a chaser took it, they would probably go after the rats to demoralize her, make her susceptible to attack. How was she going to keep them safe?

If she told the rats, they would shrug. All of them, at one point, entertained the bad graces of a guttershank, and they turned fleeing into an artform. They would consider themselves up to the task of outwitting and outrunning Hoyt’s people, and while they avoided the common shank, Hoyt employed far more dangerous individuals who would not care about their tender years, only about completing their stake.

“I know you’re worried,” Lord Adrastos said. “So’s my son. But,” and he held up his index finger, “this gives me the opportunity to go chat with some of the underbosses. It’s not well-known, but the syndicates hate Hoyt. They feel he draws unwanted attention to their activities by being loud, obnoxious, and stupid. If something happened to you, they’d have to do some unpalatable hiding because it would give the guard a reason to hunt down and clean out the villains. The knight superiors will promote it because they’ll see it as a way to regain lost influence and respect, and my son is certainly a law-oriented man. It’s in their interest to remind Hoyt that they don’t appreciate this kind of revenge. Their displeasure may not scare Hoyt, but it will scare anyone he sends after you, hunters included.”

“How would it scare a hunter?” she asked.

“Most rely on more than one syndicate for income,” he replied. “If the only underboss hiring them is Hoyt, they won’t be making much money because he doesn’t have the funds to pay for the really big stakes—and hunters enjoy the silvers. They’re not going to want to lose their comfy homes in the Orchards or the Kells, and if the syndicates tell them they won’t pay out to anyone who touches you, the hunters will stay clear. Never underestimate what greed will accomplish.”

That did not make her feel safer.

“When are you going to have these chats?” Faelan asked, settling his chin in his palm.

“Today, some tomorrow. The underbosses are curious as to why I want a formal meeting. I’ll spin it as me showing them goodwill, which they will understand and accept. I’ll expect something in return for the info, but I always call in what’s owed at later dates, and nothing that ever inconveniences them. Last time, I asked the Minq to get me Rulen apple seeds. Underboss just shook his head as he handed over the packets.”

“Apple seeds?” Faelan asked, amused. “Don’t you have enough apples in your orchards?”

He laughed. “Never,” he denied. “Some of my citrus died, so I had space. They contracted the fungus that took out several of the groves southeast of Jiy. I got it under control, but not before it killed a few of the trees.” He pursed his lips. “That was another favor, asking for Dentherion chemicals to kill it. Persistent and deadly, that fungus. We experienced a light winter, so the deep cold didn’t eradicate it, like normal. It wasn’t pretty.”

Lapis inwardly fumed. Why not chit-chat about apples and citrus while her life was a target? Even if Lord Adrastos met with the underbosses, between now and whenever they issued decrees, she and the rats remained in danger. She could hide at the rebel house, but the urchins did not have that option.

“Sir Armarandos’s urchin ban is still in place,” Fyor reminded them. “No chaser will receive another payment for a stake from the guard if they target the street rats. They’ll need to give up the profession or look to the underground for work—and if Lord Adrastos convinces the underbosses that targeting you is not in their best interest, they won’t find stakes there, either.”

Money. The world did revolve around recompense.

“I need to spread the word to the rats,” Lapis said. “I’m not certain I can convince them it’s more than a game.”

“They band together in times of need.” Fyor sat back and settled his hands, palms down, on the desk. “It should only be for a few days.”

Lapis stared at Fyor, a sudden dread prickling her shoulder blades. “Do you think that guttershank and his partner, the ones from the Eaves we took down a couple of days ago, had anything to do with this stake?”

“I . . . don’t think so, but we haven’t gotten an answer from either about why they were chasing street rats in the first place.”

Dammit. “Superior Fyor, is there anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. How may I contact you, if more information comes to light?”

“Leave it with the rats, like you did this time. I have a reason to check with them instead of just focusing on my stake.” She glanced at the old man as she rose, then bowed, a small, perfunctory action that indicated respect but not overwhelming awe. The envelope in her hand crinkled loudly, reminding her that it existed, and she needed to give it to Fyor. “Thank you, Lord Adrastos, for taking the time to help someone you don’t know. You’re doing me a favor.”

He waved his hand as he, too, rose. “A favor, eh? Well, I’m certain I can find some way for you to return it.”

She smiled at that. She wondered if he would understand the Grey and Stone Streets way of bartering for services, but he obviously had some familiarity with it. She held the envelope to Fyor, who took it with raised eyebrows.

“This is a copy of the papers Predi had,” she told him. “They’re addresses and don’t seem to have anything in common.”

He opened it and scanned the contents as Faelan gained his feet. The elder patted him on the arm, a warmly affectionate touch. “Now that you’re here, I expect you’ll accept a dinner invitation. Nerine will love to see you.”

“I’ll send word. It may not be within the next few days, but soon.”

He nodded. “Of course. Might pull Krios out of his shell, too. He’s been far too secluded, these past few years.”

Fyor raised an eyebrow and a nervous twinge jumped through Lapis’s breast. If Faelan knew she survived, Midir would find out sooner rather than later, and would want to see her again. Varr would be on his heels. Varr, more than Faelan, would be incredibly hurt by her secrecy, and she anxiously anticipated his anger.