Impulse said to grab that loaf of brown bread from the baker’s cart, and Brat was never oo ignore an impulse. Sed thoughts were for corpses. In the muddy low streets of Siu al, the Jewel of the Delta, first thoughts and fast hands filled bellies.

  The fat baker wasn’t looking. He was busy haggling with a tired-looking woman juggling screaming babies. Nobody was watg the dirty street ur edge toward the cart except the equally dirty little girl crouched in the alley across the street, ready to dart into the Closes beh the city at the first sign of trouble.

  Brat cimed to be that little girl’s twin, but there wasn’t another close-rat with half a mind who would give that lie credence. How could anyone know if they’d been born at the same time by the same woman when any trace of a mother was long gone? Besides, it was on sense around the Closes—the maze of enclosed tunnels and brick caverh the city that had once been Old Siu al—that nothing the brat said could be trusted.

  Even if someone did mao wrestle Brat and Pretty into submission long enough to hold them side by side, an observer would find the cims of twinship doubtful at best. Brat’s tight-chopped, colorless hair was dotted with bald patches frworm and rats, where Pretty’s long bck tangles hung like riverweed from beh her threadbare, mud-encrusted headscarf. The former’s sharp teeth and pointed features sparked distrust rather than pity—too much of a nasty, elfin cast to them—whereas the tter’s wide, i eyes a-shaped face emphasized the unfairness of a world that could cast such beauty into its gutters.

  The hing to resembween the pair was the dirt and the hungry, malnourished look on to all the abandoned creatures who called the Closes home.

  Fat Baker held out a loaf of softbread to Tired Woman, demonstrating its freshness and pliability with the gentle press of a thumb.

  Brat darted in, snatched the brown bread from the cart, and bolted.

  “Sir Baker,” drawled a bored voice with a strange, nasally at, “that little beggar’s swiped something.”

  “Hey! Stop him!”

  Somebody had been watg after all. Brat didn’t slow down to see who it was. Slowing down got you dead or thrown in the gaol, and brats didn’t st long in the river city gaol. So death, or death and worse, and then who would look after Pretty?

  Pursuing footsteps spshed in the muddy street, gaining.

  What aboveground dweller cared so much about a hard loaf of browhat they would actually chase after a thief? It was every man for himself in the low streets.

  Brat haden in nights, but the cramped thhfares were full of folks going about their nightly business, bathed in the green glow of the ghost city overhead. Plenty of medie for the taking at this hour. Brat snuck a sip from a whore as she tried to cuff the little close-rat for almost running her over, then nabbed a gulp from a dockworker plodding toward the river. The ur’s speed increased with every bit of energy stolen.

  But the spshing footsteps weren’t fading.

  Blood would have worked better. That was always stronger medie than energy. But finding a rat or stray dog to drain when you’re on the run? Not so easy.

  Brat swung around a er, catg a glimpse of the pursuer for the first time. Just one man? It had sounded like two or three.

  If the clothing ahy cast of the man’s features weren’t enough to give away that he didn’t belong on the low streets, the sword hanging at his hip ted it. Not the usual mert’s thug, riverboat ded, or dockworker. Not even a priest of the strong gods looking for someone disposable to sacrifice.

  That could only mean the bodyguard of a slumming lord or dy. Very bad news. The twins had fallen into the ring-bedecked hands of the uphill folk once. Better to get caught as a sacrifice thahat happen again.

  Out of habit, Brat prayed to the orant, but the god of the streets didn’t appear. No surprise there. The orant couldn’t save every close-rat every time they got into trouble. Most of the time it to them if they wao live, which Brat thought was reasonable. Besides, the orant’s rare attention was more mind than the rich folks’ strong gods ever paid to street urs.

  The wailing of music grew louder as Brat shot around a er. A minstrel band had set up right oher side of the building, busking for s. Reas sharpened by the stolen medie, Brat leapt over the tangle of sprawled legs, the crust of the brown bread crag beh clutg fingers, feet narrowly missing a skin drum and its cursing pyer.

  Minstrels meant the edge of the stinking riverfront neighborhood and the start of the rich uphill houses. Should be easy to lose the thug in the packed, colorful promenades.

  Fast as Brat was, though, Sword Man was catg up.

  More medie. The rich folks up-hill were healthier, so their energy boosted better.

  A four-horse cart from the docks rumbled up the street, den with cargo.

  Impulse again.

  Brat ducked betweeeams, head down to avoid their trappings. The heavy workhorses tossed their heads and whinnied indignantly, but the impish creature had zipped out the other side before their massive hooves crushed bone. Cursing floridly, the driver fought to get his beasts under trol.

  Brat’s gamble paid off. Sword Man was too big and too scairt to follow. He cursed and ran around the back of the cart. The fool cut the er tighter than he ought to have and clipped the edge of the rolling vehicle with his shoulder. Brat guffawed.

  Just ahead, beh a hanging bit of rotten siding, was a hole into the Closes too small for an adult to squeeze through. All Brat would have to do was wriggle in, take the Windings up to the Clutch, climb the metal staples, and crawl along the brick shaft to their little chamber.

  Pretty robably already there waiting to share the meal of brown bread.

  Brat’s mouth watered so hard it hurt, imagining the taste of that first bite. Pretty would finally st if she had a full belly, and they could both sleep easy without hunger pains waking them up.

  Then maybe ter Brat would sneak out and see if Sword Man was still hanging around the low streets. e looking for trouble and you just might get a handful of dung slung in your face.

  Thrown from the safety of a bolt hole, of course.

  Two mud-spttered boots stepped in front of Brat’s escape tunnel. Handsome boots topped with trousers over straight, bowless legs. Another sword hilt fshing, this one even fahan Sword Man’s, glinting in the pale light of the ghost city.

  Brat spun right.

  And crashed into Sword Man. One hand caught hold of Brat’s te sack shirt, while the rabbed the back of Brat’s sy neck.

  “I thought he’d outpaced you.” Muddy Boots smirked at Sword Man.

  A ugh. “I’m not that old yet.”

  They were w together, probably for the same lord.

  Brat kicked and cwed and smacked with the loaf of bread. Sword Man tried to stop the onsught, got his hand too close to Brat’s face, and got bitten.

  “Bloodthirsty little monster.” He cuffed Brat in the side of the head.

  The close-rat screamed a into a frenzy. A few months before, Brat had been cuffed hard enough to wake up a night ter, right eye swelling and oozing. The damaged orb had since shrunk back to normal, and it wasn’t tender anymore, but Brat couldn’t see out of that eye now. The thought of losing sight iher one was terror itself.

  “What do you think?” Muddy Boots yelled over Brat’s filing and shrieking. “Feisty enough?”

  Sword Man cursed and tightened his grip. “I think he’s feral.”

  “Eveer, Grandmaster would say.”

  “Grandmaster’s not here. Let’s see how he measures up against the other didates at the gaol. If the crop’s too weedy, we’ll have to take him.”

  Powerful hands cmped around Brat’s fists while a muscled arm snaked around the screaming throat. Air was suddenly in very short supply.

  Pretty’s face appeared, white and terrified, in the hole beh the siding.

  As darkness closed in, Brat wrenched a hand free and uhe loaf of bread Pretty’s raying she wouldn’t try to get it before the me and that no one else would run in and grab it before she did.