Haern sighed.

“So be it,” he said. “When do we leave?”

“T oday?” Tarlak said, leaning back in his chair with a bewildered look on his face. “You’re leaving today? But we still have that contract with the Heshans, and I haven’t tracked down that damn prostitute killer Antonil paid us to find. How am I supposed to find the bastard without your help?”

“Start spending time with prostitutes. Well, more time.”

Tarlak raised an eyebrow, then laughed. Still in his bedrobes, he stood and gestured about his office, which was a haphazard mess.

“Clearly, this place will fall apart without you,” he said. “But go and do what you must. Can’t have someone giving you a bad name, after all.”

They embraced, Tarlak smacking him on the shoulder.

“Don’t get killed on me,” he said.

“I’ll try not to.”

Haern exited the room onto the circular staircase of the tower. Heading up a floor, he entered his barren room. After stripping down to his underclothes, he slipped into bed and slept. When he awoke, it was to something poking him in the shoulder. He looked, then groaned and rolled over.

“You’re risking death, Brug,” he muttered.

“You’re the one heading off after someone brave enough, or dumb enough, to taunt you,” said the short, burly smith. “Besides, day’s almost over. Get your ass up. Oh, and I have something for ya.”

Haern rubbed his eyes, then looked again. Brug stood beside his bed, a pair of shoes in hand.

“Shoes?” he asked.

“Not just shoes!” Brug said, flinging them. They smacked against Haern’s chest. “I’ve spent two months making them things for you, so you could show some damn appreciation.”

Haern sat up and examined them. They were gray, made of soft cloth thickened on the bottom. They would muffle any footsteps, though he wondered how long they’d endure his chaotic sprints across rooftops.