While talk still rose below and the hot air thickened with the scents of ale and roasted meat, upstairs it was dark and still.

  Niko sat on the cold floor of the little back room with a piece of cheese in his hand. Before him in the half-light sat Rize, who went on licking herself clean, only now and then glancing at the boy.

  As he left, Hemile had said: “Feed her from your hand—chiefly, make no sudden moves, and she’ll grow used to you.”

  — H-here… — Niko whispered, offering the cheese with a trembling hand.

  Rize pricked up her ears; her nose quivered as it caught the smell. Slowly and carefully, she stretched out a hand, then quickly tossed the piece into her mouth. Niko nearly flinched, but held himself, then took out a strip of salted meat. Little by little, he was beginning to get used to it.

  Following the second bit of counsel — “If she’s eating, try to stroke her”—he reached out slowly. Rize froze with the meat still in her mouth. His fingers touched the fur between her shoulder blades. She tensed, yet did not hiss. Niko ran his palm downward—the coat was surprisingly soft and thick. Rize swallowed her food and let out a quiet purr.

  Heartened, Niko gave a small smile and broke off another bit of cheese. But this time Rize did not move; instead, with great blue eyes wide, she stared past Niko’s shoulder. The door opened, and on the other side stood a tall woman—motionless, heavy with jewels, her face hidden behind a veil.

  — Aze! Shiny! — Rize cried out, all a-flutter, and sprang from her place, darting past the stunned Niko into the corridor. The woman was already going down the stairs.

  Niko, rubbing his bruised side, lifted his head and saw only a fluffy tail flashing in the doorway. A cold horror—far worse than the quiet fear in the little room—clenched his throat.

  — N-no… — he groaned.

  Rize ran past Dwain and Gyuste, burst into the common hall, and halted, crushed by the uproar around her: the roar of drunken voices, tankards slapped upon oak tables, benches scraping and thundering. The air, thick with the steam of hot stew, sour breath, sweat, and hearth-smoke, struck her keen nostrils.

  The fright that replaced her hunting eagerness held her rigid for a heartbeat. She stood in the middle of the hall, back arched, fur bristling, eyes—two blue, terrified discs. Then instinct took hold—she shot forward, under a bench, clipping a patron’s boot. He yelped and snatched his foot away, overturning his tankard. Beer splashed the neighbors; laughter rose with indignant cries. Rize sprang up onto a table, skittering across bread-plates; several mugs flew to the floor, spilling ale onto the straw. Women shouted and protested; most men either laughed or did not so much as look up, drinking on. With the room so crowded, most of the patrons never saw what was happening.

  Colette understood at once and was already charging across the hall, her face fierce. Dwain, standing by the stairs, lunged to cut her off.

  They both caught up with Rize by the hearth. She looked about wildly, hissing and baring her teeth as though readying herself to strike.

  At that moment Gyuste emerged from the press and drew his fingers across the strings. Everyone fell silent; Rize’s ears cocked. A calm melody flowed through the tavern. Nothing remarkable—an ordinary quiet air—yet the longer it went on, the calmer Rize became. She lowered her tail, sheathed her claws, and caught each note with trembling ears. Dwain let out a breath of relief; Colette dragged a hand down her face as if wiping away the strain. By the melody’s end, Rize, crouched, stared at the floor without a sign of fear or spite.

  Gyuste, never breaking the tune, lifted his gaze to the hall and proclaimed loudly, with a theatrical catch of breath:

  — Do you see it, my friends? Here it is—the power of music! The power that melts the ice of cold hearts and quenches the fires of wrath! I am grateful to our dearly beloved hostess for the chance to show you this wondrous art!

  It was sheer improvisation, yet so effective that the crowd stirred, breaking into an approving rumble and applause.

  Dwain and Hemile seized the moment. While all eyes were on Gyuste, the old man threw his rough but clean apron over the dazed—yet no longer resisting—Rize, and the dwerg deftly scooped her up, pressing her to his chest so she could not wriggle free.

  — Keep your merriment, good folk! — Gyuste cried, swelling the sound and slipping into a lively dancing tune, and the revel went on as though nothing had happened.

  The tavern erupted into fresh cheers and demands for drink. Colette, wiping sweat from her brow, shot a glance at the stairs, up which Dwain and Hemile hurried.

  Once they had brought Rize back to the little room, Hemile hastened down into the hall. Niko, sitting on the floor, was sobbing with his face buried in his knees.

  — It’s not my fault… — he muttered through tears when he saw Dwain. — The door opened on its own, I don’t know how…

  Dwain sighed heavily and sat down beside him.

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  — Easy, lad. No one’s punishing you. Such things happen. — He rummaged in his pocket and held out two small coins. — Here. As we agreed. For your first day.

  The boy took the money in astonishment; for a moment his tears stopped. He even ceased his sniffling. Rize simply lay curled by the wall.

  Much later, when the last guests had left the tavern and the doors were barred, Colette came up the stairs. Her face was stone with weariness and anger.

  — That’s it. Enough. Tomorrow I’m going to the alchemist. I’ll buy a sleeping draught, and let that monster sleep the remaining two days. Otherwise, I’ll be ruined.

  — You’ll sooner poison her, — Dwain replied evenly. — I won’t allow you to call an alchemist here, nor anyone else.

  — Then what am I supposed to do?! — her voice broke. — I’ve a tavern, not a menagerie!

  — Let’s speak calmly. In private. Hemile, bring us some beer.

  They shut themselves in a room on the second floor. Niko, left alone in the corridor by the little room, felt the tears rising again. He tried to hold them back, biting his lip.

  Then he felt a light touch against his leg. Rize, who had been sitting in the corner of the little room with a miserable look, padded up quietly and began rubbing her head against his shin, purring softly. Niko cautiously reached out and stroked her along the back. Hemile hurried about with errands below, but in his mind, he wondered what the owners would decide.

  At last, the door opened. Dwain came out first. He looked tired, yet satisfied. Colette followed.

  — All right. I’ll be back tomorrow evening. Rize, Niko—farewell for now. — With that he went toward the stairs.

  Niko froze, watching Colette, but she only waved him off.

  — You may sleep.

  And she went back down without another word.

  The boy, bewildered, looked at Rize, who had settled close by, curled into a ball. He understood that sleep would most likely not come—but that crushing terror was gone.

  All the way back to the shop Dwain remained deep in thought. For some reason he kept returning to the notion of giving Rize back to the Louazier. There were different ways: hand her over through the guard; contact them directly, lying that he’d found her in the street; put her to sleep and leave her at their estate. Plainly, in such a case there would be no personal profit—and it would draw needless attention besides. He could sell her—not to aristocrats, for news that anyone had bought such a curiosity would, in the coming months, draw attention all the same. But what of someone outside the circle? Mages, perhaps, or foreign merchants? Finding such a buyer would take time—maybe more than two days.

  Returning to the shop, he shut the door behind him and kept thinking for a while longer, slowly sinking toward sleep—when suddenly the bell over the door rang.

  Dwain started.

  — Closed! — he shouted without moving. — Come tomorrow!

  The bell rang again.

  The dwerg frowned, rose, and went to the little mirror behind the shelves.

  Outside stood a man no longer young, in a dark cloak, with a long nose and heavy mustaches. Dwain hurried to open the door.

  — Good evening, — the man said as he stepped in.

  — And to you, Morres. Sit down, — the owner said, returning to the table. — I can offer you tea.

  The guest lifted his palm.

  — No. Today there isn’t time.

  — What’s this about?

  Morres sighed.

  — The Council of Masters has declared Sedrik an enemy of the guild.

  — That’s no news. You’ve been snapping at each other for three years.

  — Going rogue is one thing, but on the recent night he crossed the line.

  — And what did he do? — Dwain asked, propping his elbows on the table.

  — I can’t tell you all of it, but he put guild members’ lives at risk. We’ve decided to close the matter for good. Dwain, out of respect for you we’ve overlooked your dealings with Sed, but now the situation is different. If you know where he is, you’d best speak now.

  “Interesting—so either Guy or Roche lived; otherwise, how would the guild have learned of it,” the dwerg thought, scratching at his stubble.

  — Aye, I’ve worked closely with Sed these last three years, we get on well and all that—but you know the sort. Of course he’s told me not a word about his hideout, nor his plans. He’s too careful… and always sober.

  — When did you last see him?

  — Six days ago. He brought the order, took his money, and left.

  They looked one another in the eye and fell silent for a moment, as though reading each other.

  — I see, — Morres’s mustaches twitched as he rose from the table. — So, you know: the underground has put a hundred and fifty forrins on him.

  The dwerg gave a crooked smile.

  — Then my debtors have a chance. I’ll keep an eye out, sure enough—but if I were in his place, I’d already be out of the city.

  — A prideful man won’t run, — Morres said, and went out, closing the door.

  “As ever, spoken true,” Dwain thought, left alone.