The Tree Streets Guardhouse was a tidy sandstone building with plenty of lighting, white window frames, a shed for wagons, and a stable to house horses. It expected a wealthier clientele than others around the Grey Streets, and the guards who worked there behaved that way. She had met its Guard Superior once, a snobby man who thought the position far beneath his dignity—and who thought the same of women. She had no idea why Sir Armarandos placed him there, other than as punishment. Chasers avoided it, but considering what she carried, she preferred to off-load the documents as soon as possible.

Would the Guard Superior’s dislike get the better of him? Would he decide to keep them from Sir Armarandos because she gave them to him? She wished she had thought of that before she walked into the yard. It would look odd if she turned about and sauntered away.

A smattering of guards braved the weather, hunched over in raincoats with wide hoods. She could tell from their jerky movements they resented being forced into the rain. She looked at the man they faced, who stood tall, hands behind his back, and almost laughed. Almost.

“Lady Lanth,” he said, surprised.

“Why, Sir Armarandos, this is a poor night to be out and about.”

“It is an odd night,” he agreed. “It’s quite the rough time for a stake.”

“Especially when you have rats who decided to help,” she managed with a straight face.

“Lady!” Rin protested. His outrage, and the immediate humor from Sir Armarandos, played the other guards. Good.

“Well, I’d like to get out of the rain,” the knight said, nodding to the interior. She hastened down the short, tiled walk and inside the warm, flower-scented house, aware of the glares deposited on her back. The rats scurried to keep up, uninterested in standing outside being silently yelled at by disgruntled guards.

“You have your orders,” Sir Armarandos reminded them with cool authority before striding purposefully into the guardhouse. “They’re supposed to be tracking Mama,” he told her, annoyed. He held out his hand, and she gave him the pages, which he glanced at as he moved into the lead. “It’s too foggy for the bell ringers to easily find her, and when it is, the local guards patrol the streets until they find her, then march with the ringers until she returns to the Pit. Every guard in every house knows this, and Tree Streets has been lagging in their participation.” He motioned to a short hallway and headed for the room clear at the end. All the other ones appeared vacant, which made her wonder. There should be a couple of night guards hanging about, drinking hot liquids and griping about the weather. “Have you seen her?”

“She went past the Eaves around dinnertime,” Lapis told him as she and the rats chose well-padded, light brown chairs that quickly soaked up the rainwater and dribbled it onto the floor. “I don’t know where she went after that.”

“Hmm.” He closed the door, then eyed her speculatively. “Metgals?” he asked, raising the pages.

“Orinder stupidly confronted me at the Eaves for staking his pottery booth,” she told him. “His grandson Dandi broke Phialla and Ness’s pots, and then he dropped on by to frighten them into not selling at the Lells anymore. Well, the idiot left his purse, and guess what was inside.”

He raised an eyebrow as he sank into one of the nicely padded chairs. She slipped the trigger from her pouch and slid it across the table to him. He immediately sat up, flabbergasted.

“So I went to investigate. He has crates of eggs, all miswired, and a bunch of stuff that looks like tech, but I have no idea what it’s used for.” She pointed at the papers. “Those are his merchandise records.”

“Orinder.” He grabbed the trigger and rolled it about his fingers, his face darkening. “I never would have thought him involved in weapons smuggling. He’s too . . .”

“He’s small-time wantin’ it big,” Rin said. “He’s braggin’ hard ‘bout gettin’ ‘way with stuff. He’s tryin’ t’ scare others outta the Lells, sayin’ they’s at his mercy.”

“Metgals don’t just disappear,” Sir Armarandos murmured, staring at the tech. “If Orinder had that much income, he would move to a wealthier district. Have you any idea where the money has gone?”

“No, but I’m guessing to Hoyt. His men were pulling up with a wagon when we left.” She jerked her chin at Rin, who sat a tad straighter.

“Onna them’s Seft.”

“Seft?” She rarely heard the man utter anything in so dark a tone. “A raid freed him. We lost a lot of good men, and their side lost even more.”

“He’s supposed to have premium contact with the empire, Taangis and Meergevenis undergrounds,” Lapis said.

He nodded. “He does. It makes him an invaluable asset, one Hoyt would risk other men for.” He studied her, as if he knew more about her past than she suspected. “And how do you know they were miswired?”

She cleared her throat. “I accidentally picked one up when I was three. My father experienced enough angst to fill the sea twice over. Afterwards, he showed the neighborhood kids, my sibs and me how to disarm them. I thought it was a game, and I was pretty good at it.”

Lapis would have said more, but she noticed that a couple of guards had taken undue interest in their little meeting, peeking in through the door glass before retreating. “How safe is it here?”

“It’s not,” he told her. “I wear a marching shirt when I visit because I don’t trust Nevid.”

The three rats’ eyes popped, and Lapis had to control her own shock. Dentherion scientists designed marching shirts for front-line soldiers who might encounter fire from tech weapons. Had he modified his uniform, or did he wear one under it?

“As long as they believe you are turning in a stake, you should be fine. Do not return anytime soon, though, not until I officially terminate Nevid and can hire replacements for all the men here.”

“He’ll revenge that.”

Sir Armarandos half-smiled in angry agreement. “He will try. But his family has unwittingly annoyed my father.”

Lapis winced. “I see.”

“While old, he is still a fierce man when openly confronted. They will wail, but ultimately they will flee to Avida or Tavyk rather than face him and a court they deeply upset. King Gall doesn’t have the clout to overcome my father’s resentment or noble hatred to keep them safe.”

What had Nevid’s family done to earn such a rebuke? Curiosity wormed through her, accompanied by relief that she no longer had to deal with the ass.

The knight retrieved a form and slid it across the table to her. “I’m amused at how many chasers enter a guardhouse without the faintest idea how to fill one of these out.”

Lapis accepted a pen from him. “It’s that common?” Filling out the mundane had been Patch’s first lesson, one she resented at the time, and the only one she used after every stake.

The rats poked their noses over the form, so she slowly filled it out, showing them what needed attention, what did not, scratching ‘special circumstances’ where required, and neatly writing her explanation. Sir Armarandos regarded them with a small but warmly amused smile.

“Being a chaser, like the Lady, isn’t such a bad profession,” he told them after she signed his name to the form. “She is careful with her selections, careful with her planning, and brings many more to justice than one would expect. Her smaller stakes end up paying more than the larger ones that are complicated and easily screwed up.”

Rin smiled, large enough to brighten the fog-hidden night. “You’s thinkin’, we’d be chasers?”

“I think rats are uniquely suited to it,” he said. Lapis almost protested—almost—but a sudden chill ran up her neck and prickled her head. One of the men that chased them from the alley peeked into the room, accompanied by a nosy guard, eyes narrowed to black slits, his mouth an ornery grimace.

“That’s Seft,” Rinan murmured, under his breath. He leaned over the table, dripping onto the surface. Lapis rescued the form and slid it to the knight.

Sir Armarandos did not turn about, but lounged back in his chair as he took the paper and scanned the contents. “So I see,” he said. “Lady, it pains me that Nevid is dirtier than I thought. You need to leave.”

“Sir Armarandos, I’m not leaving you to face them alone.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “This is not your fight.”

“You’ve always been good to me, and you’re practically the only guard my partner has even a glimmering of admiration for. I’m not leaving you to face Hoyt’s thugs by yourself.”

“I’m well protected, Lady,” he told her, though the mention of her partner surprised him. “You and the rats aren’t.”

“We’s squirrely,” Rin told him.

“I run faster than you think,” Lykas said.

“We have lots of practice, tripping those who are trying to run down another rat,” Scand piped up.

“No. You three need to run to the Eaves and tell Raban I need help.” She doubted Hoyt’s thugs knew the streets well enough to track them if they took their special routes. Hopefully Brander had gone back to the tavern after his eavesdropping session. If not, the Blue Council members would have an exciting night after all.

“Raban?” Sir Armarandos asked, blinking in surprise. “He’s the man you didn’t list a name for on the form.”

“Yeah. He’s a good friend. He’s also no slouch in a fight.” She leaned over the table, pressing her bosom into the edge, letting her cloak fall around her. She adjusted her gauntlets and slid a throwing knife into her palm. “Rin, you and Lykas leave first. Talk about how boring filling out forms is. Something like that. Scand, trail them. If things get out of hand, Rin can keep them busy while the two of you run for it. When we get outside, you do exactly as I tell you. No questions, no insubordination.” She studied Sir Armarandos. “You think Nevid’s here?”

“Yes. I will be very surprised, if Seft and those shanks are inside the house without his approval.”

“It’s going to take a while, to get to the Eaves and back,” Scand said, his voice trembling.

“Run as fast as you can,” she told him. “It may be, we won’t have to worry about it. Sir Armarandos and I can have a nice chat while walking back to the Eaves.”

“Lady, if you thought that would happen, you wouldn’t be sending us ahead,” Lykas said, folding his hands over his upper arms.

“I need one of you to alert Superior Fyor,” Sir Armarandos said. “We’ve been cautiously planning for this, and he’ll be ready. Due to Mama’s presence, he’ll be at the Lells Guardhouse.”

“All right. Let’s go,” she said.

Lapis rose and stretched, attempting casual. Her body had stiffened from cold and fear, but she needed her muscles to work properly. The rats hopped up, as breezy as if they had just spent the day at the Lells. She knew their acting skills—a necessity, to worm out of being caught with their hands in a purse.

Rin opened the door and Lykas walked out, rubbing at his eyes. “Who’d’a thought being a chaser would be so dull?” he grumbled.

“Lady spends a long time plannin’,” Rin told him. “Ain’t the most excitin’ thing, I ‘spect.”

“The Lady?” someone asked in a mocking voice. Merchant accent flavored the words, reminding her of Grey Streets residents who spent too much time around wealthier compatriots and picked up their speech patterns.

“Yeah, the Lady,” Rin said defensively. “She’s a good chaser.”

“Good?” They all forced their laughter.

Scand followed, looking annoyed. Lapis had weathered sentiment before and shrugged. Let them chuckle over her presence; she made more bits than most of them doing the small, odd jobs that did not pay enough to attract much chaser attention. Unbidden, she thought of the alchemist’s unexpected visit to the farm and hoped she had seared the end of that string of fate, or the night would prove painful, indeed.

The rats did not even pause, but scooted past the guttershanks, glaring. Five men stood in the hallway, the three who drove them from the alley and two of their buddies, leaning against the wall opposite each other, arms crossed, looking lazy and mean. She did not notice a guard, even the ones that peeked in earlier. Cowards.

The one Rin called Seft took her measure. He wore soaked brown pants with ragged bottoms and a sodden brown shirt that looked threadbare in places. His clothing and hair dribbled rivulets to the tiled floor, making a shiny puddle about him. He scratched at his scraggles, drawing attention to a thick scar that ran from his temple to his lip, and leered. “Lady, huh?” he asked. “What you a lady of?”

“Many things,” she replied as she turned sideways to slide past.

It did not take a genius to know, one would grab her.

Idiots.

She whacked him in the privates; the closed area made certain he could not react in time to protect himself. He howled and bent over while she dodged the manic punch of his companion and rolled to the far side. She flipped to her feet and readied the throwing knife; Seft went down like a bar of lead as Sir Armarandos took advantage of his distraction and decked him in the temple with a nightstick. The top, made from some sort of milky glass, glowed a soft yellow. Tech. Did knights use them as official weapons? She had never noticed him with it, but her previous experiences with him had taken place at guardhouses he felt comfortable visiting.

She nailed the puncher in the head with the blunt end of her knife, and he wobbled about and lost his footing, sliding to the floor. The knight made certain he stayed there.

The last two guttershanks did not do more than turn before Sir Armarandos slammed the top of his weapon into their backs; they arched and jerked around before falling, twitching. He tapped the one she had hit, a precaution, and straightened.

“Nice stick,” she murmured. She noted the rats stood in the doorway, which meant more men waited for them outside.

“My father insisted on it, when he realized Nevid planned revenge,” the man told her, a smile playing on his lips. “He bought it in Dentheria before I was born and used it on his share of rivals and guttershanks before my grandfather sternly told him to stop. I, at least, have a lawful reason to wield it.”

She chuckled.

The rain drummed harder against the roof as she halted next to Scand and peered into the fog-filled yard; Superior Nevid stood there, backed by a dozen guards, a maniacal, gleeful smile lighting his face. Far too much stubble coated his chin for it to be uniform-compliant, and by the heavy glaze to his eyes, he took an excessive amount of drug before gaining the gall to confront the knight. His men kept glancing about, nervous rather than expectant, as if they thought this a very, very terrible idea but supported their superior anyway.

It would earn them a jail cell. Sir Armarandos would not fall so easily.

She smiled and stepped forward, just far enough to stand before the tense rats but still be under the awning. “Well, now, don’t tell me those guttershanks drove you from the house.”

Nevid grinned, his lips pulled too tightly over his teeth. “And why did you pay a little visit to the house tonight?” he asked. “Word is, you’re a snitch.”

“A snitch.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a guttershank scrounging for a few bits, Superior. I’m a chaser, and chasers earn their stakes.”

He blinked at her, as if he expected her to admit his proclamation. “We all know, your partner does all the work.”

“You all know, huh?” She cocked her head at the man as he flexed his fingers and gripped the hilt of his short sword; his hand trembled, and the skin turned white at the pressure. He had definitely taken something before the confrontation. Hopefully it impaired him into the dirt. “He’ll be quite surprised to hear that.”

“And what stake brought you out tonight?”

“One that Mama’s presence made possible.” She shrugged. “Or would have, if a couple of rats hadn’t interrupted. I got location info, that’s all.” She hopped down the stairs, Sir Armarandos behind her, his step slow and steady.

“I sent for you hours ago,” the knight told the man in a calm voice as he strode down the walk. Lapis fought for that much control over her fear. “And now you arrive to do what, exactly?”

Nevid laughed, a high, fast sound, a contrast to his normal deep, mocking rumble. “I’m moving up,” he told him. “Over you. I’m going to be a knight.”

Well, at least he did not bother to hide his intent. The short walk was slick, so she stepped off it, to the left. The grass squeaked under her boots, and the blades squished down into the soft mud. She would need to fight on the graveled turnaround, where she would have less chance of losing her footing or stepping into a deep puddle. Sir Armarandos confidently stopped at the edge of the walk, the stick held loosely at his side, and she moved to stand at his back; a few guards snickered.

“Think your daddy’s going to pay for a proper burial?” Nevid asked, a hint of his nastiness in his tone.

“If you do down me, my burial will not be your most pressing concern,” he said, as if Nevid should already know. “My father has sent his share of wounded nobles over the bridge and into the Pit. He isn’t a pleasant or forgiving man, and there’s nothing about your family that will make him change his revengeful streak.”

Lapis expected it, but the tech shot to the chest still frightened her. Her heart beat fast enough she fought for breath, but nothing happened other than a dance of red lightning across his chest. Sir Armarandos stood, resolute, and planted his hand on his hip, as if being hit by the attack a normal, everyday occurrence. Nevid immediately stopped smiling as his men babbled in aghast disbelief. A few fled while voices rose from the fog, protesting and making excuses. How many more surrounded them?

She gave the finger sign to run.

The rats raced past, into the fog, following the fleeing guards. Rin looked back, worried but not afraid. He should be. He should use that to propel his feet faster as he sped to the Eaves. A couple of guards turned as if to follow; knives to the arms kept them in place and howling. She dropped her cloak and slid her blades from the gauntlets; Nevid eyed them with a deep grimace while his men shuffled backwards, then they all looked wildly about. The wind shifted, and the unmistakable scent of berry-scented carrion lizard filled the air.

Lapis knew, from experience, that the stench of incense and rotting flesh could reach blocks away from its origin. Mama might be nowhere near the guardhouse, or she might be munching on one of the fleeing guards; the rats had enough mobility to outmaneuver the large animal.

She stepped onto the gravel and adjusted her stance. “Guess those marching shirts are worth the metgals they charge for them.”

Sir Armarandos chuckled. “Random tech in unskilled hands is never the winning throw they expect.”

Even so, this would not be fun.