Pulling out of the spin, he lunged for the door. One of the older boys was there, and Haern felt panic rise in his chest as he saw the deadly angle of the boy’s thrust. He reacted on instinct, blocking hard enough to knock the dagger free, then following it up with a kick to send the boy flying. Breaking back into a run, he kicked off a pile of crates to vault into the air, catching a rafter with one hand. Swinging himself up onto a perch, he stared down at the children, several of whom gathered around the body of the one he’d kicked.

“Listen to me,” Haern said to them, trying to forgive the children’s attack. They didn’t know any better. “You’re master is dead. You have no hope of winning this fight.”

“Fuck you,” said one of the kids. Haern swallowed down his anger at such disrespect. They were frightened punks living in a world Haern knew all too well. If reason would not work, he knew what would.

“Say that again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The boy stepped back, as if stunned by the coldness in his voice. The rest looked up at him, some ready to cry, some angry, but most were heartbreakingly indifferent. Haern pointed to Brann Goodfinger’s corpse.

“Take his coin,” he said. “Go, and make better lives than this. Remain thieves, and you’ll fall to the guilds, or to me. I don’t want to kill you, but I will. There is no future for you, not in this.”

“None for you, either,” said another, but Haern could not tell who. With practiced efficiency the children took everything of value from Brann’s corpse and vanished into the streets. Haern didn’t know where they went, nor did he care. He only felt fury. Brann had died quick, hardly the example Haern desired to set. As for the boy he’d kicked…