Malden grabbed a sack of coins from the wagon-Doral’s first payment, made in advance-and walked away from the horse and its burden, knowing they would be taken care of by the children. The urchins who lived in the Ashes, orphans all, were desperate, violent little sprites but they worked hard for the pittance Cutbill gave them. It was their only way of getting food other than catching the district’s vast number of feral cats and roasting them over open fires.

Malden turned a corner and walked into the ruin of an old inn. Three old men waited for him there, ancient graybeards who nodded and smiled as he approached. They were sitting on a coffin in the middle of an abandoned building, just as they did every night. The old grand masters of the guild of thieves.

“Well met, Malden,” Loophole said, raising a hand in welcome. Malden took it warmly and smiled. “More grist for the mill?”

“The wheel of the gods grinds slowly, but it grinds the barleycorn exceeding fine,” Malden said, making sure to use the night’s password. He bowed and started to walk past the old men, when ’Levenfingers stopped him with a discreet clearing of the throat.

“Someone’s been asking for you.”

Malden stopped where he was and turned to look at the oldsters. It was Lockjaw, he who rarely spoke at all, who gave him the news.

“It’s nothin’. Just some fool poking around where he don’t belong.”

“What kind of fool?” Malden asked. “The heavily armed kind?”

’Levenfingers sighed. “The children spotted him, an hour hence, just on the edge of the Ashes. Little fellow in very plain clothes. Not a watchman, nor a bravo with a grudge. Looked more like a priest.”

“Perhaps he came to save my soul,” Malden suggested.

“He got naught from the bairns, save a nasty look,” Loophole told him. “He was smart enough to clear off after that.”