I try to keep the Dead Man’s door closed. But kids keep wandering in. They never leave anything the way they find it.

I entered the kitchen saying, “His Nibs is really asleep. I dumped my trick bag. Nothing worked.”

Dean looked worried. Singe sort of collapsed in on herself.

“It ain’t a big deal. He’s taking a nap. We always get through his off-seasons.” Dean didn’t want to be reminded, though. I never do things the way he wants them done.

I said, “So, Dean, I hear tell a tribe of baby cats has infiltrated my kitchen.”

“They aren’t ordinary kittens, Mr. Garrett. They’re part of an ancient prophecy.”

“A modern prophecy has them taking a trip down the river in a gunnysack with a couple broken bricks as companions on the voyage. What’re you babbling about?”

“Penny isn’t just another street urchin. She’s a priestess.”

I poured some tea, eyed the bucket of cats. They looked like gray tabby babies. Though there was something strange about them. “A priestess. Right.” No surprise in TunFaire, the most god-plagued city that ever was.

“She’s the last priestess of A-Lat. From Ymber. She ran off to TunFaire after her mother was murdered by zealots from the cult of A-Laf. Who’re in TunFaire now, looking for the kittens.”

Somebody had gotten somebody to invest heavily in off-river wetlands. Similar scams are out there every day. People turn blind stupid if you say there’s a god involved.

Even Singe looked skeptical. She said, “They are cats, Dean.” Coolly.

“Ymber, eh?” I had only vague knowledge of that little city. It’s up the river several days’ journey. It has problems with thunder lizards. It’s supposedly a party town, ruled by a very loose goddess of love, peace, and whatnot. Ymber ships grain, fruit, sheep, cattle, and timber to TunFaire. And lately, thunder lizard hides. It’s not known for exporting religious refugees. Or zealots.