Magid Mildenthal went around the house, shutting windows. The year had advanced to the point where her family slept with their windows open to allow the cool night air to circulate through their stuffy rooms, but already the hot morning sun was making the air over the window sills shimmer. Her children were playing outside, all four girls giggling and tumbling about each other on the meadow. Some of the neighbors' children were also over, and spending their time, as they often did, on the Mildenthals' pleasant estate.

The Mildenthal household was situated on the edge of town, on a generous piece of property that Helod Mildenthal had inherited from his father, and that his family had handed down from father to oldest son for a dozen generations. The property consisted of a main building, clean and beautiful, a large haybarn, an outbuilding for livestock, and several acres of meadows and kitchen gardens. It was a comfortable place, and if the neighbors didn't envy Helod his good fortune it was because he was a friend to everyone, sharing generously with those in need.

Magid had arrived at the room of Helod's oldest child, a boy from a prior marriage. He would not be playing with his sisters. Magid knocked at the door.

"Duane?" she called. There was no answer. After a moment she eased the door open, and looked about her stepson's room. The bed was tossed in a heap on the floor, the blankets in a tangled knot. The eiderdown coverlet lay crushed in a corner of the room, as if someone had lain there, sleeping on the floor. A desk strewn with what Magid supposed were the boy's possessions stood against the near wall. The chair was shoved under it. There was a cloak crumpled on the seat, its stained edges trailing to the floor. Magid sighed.

They had servants, but she and Helod had decreed that the servants were not the children's caretakers. Each child was expected to keep their room picked up. Duane had expressed resentment at this arrangement on more than one occasion. He was unmanageable in many other respects, as well, but Magid supposed that this was due to her inexperience.

She went and closed the window. Carefully stepping over a mud encrusted boot, she left the room again. Past the girls' rooms, she paused at the top of the stairs again. "Duane!" she called. She didn't expect that the boy would appear.

Duane was sitting in the cloakroom, off his father's study, pretending to read a book. He hoped his father had not noticed him there, but in case he did, Duane buried his pale sullen face in his book, hoping to convey a convincing appearance of being engrossed in his studies.

Helod was entertaining a guest. Yarmin, his oft-time trading partner had come to exchange jokes and tips. Duane sat, his body tensed, straining with every fiber to hear the old men's words.

"He sold it all?" his father's voice communicated incredulity. "Didn't anyone warn him?"

"As far as I know, when Gee paid his toll at the gates the furriers' hall sent a runner to have him meet with the Head." Yarmin's voice was cool. "He must have come to the hall, because he apparently had all the necessary seals. But he didn't pay off the protection. I myself saw Gee attack the bagmen."

"The man is either a hero or a fool," Helod grumbled. "I'm betting fool."

"All I know is that Gee is poison for the rest of the hall's members. No one would touch his stock, after he didn't pay off the Organization. So he really didn't have much choice, except to sell all of his stock at court, or to pack up and leave town." Yarmin's voice changed in tone, and Duane realized that he had stood up.

But before he could move, Yarmin and Helod were coming out of the study. Helod stopped when he saw Duane sitting in the cloakroom.

"What are you doing, skulking in there?" he asked mildly.

"Reading," lied Duane. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, hoping to look innocent. But he couldn't fool his father. Helod studied his oldest boy for a long moment, taking in the incongruous combination of Duane's statuesque body, and his pale boyish face. He came to a decision.

"I think your mother was looking for you not ten minutes ago. You are apparently hiding from your chores again. We will talk later." Helod turned dismissively on his heel, and lead his guest into the hall.

Duane dropped the book on the ground. Well, if he couldn't hide in the cloakroom, there were plenty more places where no one would think to look for him. Quietly hurrying through the parlor into the passage off the kitchen, he eased open the door to the gardens and ran through the tall rows of herbs and berry bushes for the barn. Through a side door he entered into a labyrinth of stacked bundles of sweet smelling hay. Pushing one stack aside, he slipped into his secret hideout, pulling the bundles back in place behind him. He had some thinking to do.

Duane knew that several local trades were beholden to the Organization. One of these happened to be the fur trade. Duane further was quite aware that Red Stumpkin would be a bit put out when Gee sold his entire stock to the Duke, the Organization's only real source of competition. Most trade in town was executed in a careful ritual of give and take, involving pay-offs, bribes, and other methods of getting your goods to their intended recipient. Gee must have been new in town, and must not have guessed at the city's intricate network of corruption. But Red Stumpkin would not leave it at that. Twice this year already he had flexed his muscle. Gee would not leave town alive.

But it wasn't likely that the death of this wealthy merchant could go unpunished, so someone would have to take the fall. Since the Finn had embarrassed the Organization a few weeks ago, Duane was willing to bet that he had been picked.

Duane thought this was delightful. If he played his cards right, this would be to his benefit as well. But he needed more information.

Carefully listening for his sisters or his parents, he crept out of his hidey hole. The barn backed onto a neighbor's property, and Duane had long ago loosened a couple of boards in the back wall to allow him to leave the barn in that direction. The neighbor, a fruiterer with a wildly overgrown orchard, had little chance of seeing Duane slipping through his hedgerow, and a few minutes later Duane was well on his way into town.

There were several inns in town that were frequented by traveling merchants. The Reinhold was the biggest of them, however, and Duane judged from Yarmin's reports of Gee's arrogance that the merchant would not be content with anything less than the best.

Duane walked up Court Street, which crossed Main Street at the market. The Reinhold was a huge building, occupying with its outbuildings and courts the greater part of a city block. It was just back from the market, close enough for convenience, but far enough so that guests would not feel importuned by the noise and smell of a full market day. The inn's courtyard opened onto Court Street via a pair of huge wooden gates, which stood wide during the day.

Duane entered the courtyard and looked around. The stables were well guarded, and even a clean looking youngster would be chased off. But near this entrance the wash kitchen was in full operation. Several charwomen were working their way through the day's laundry, sweating over a boiling kettle of soapy water. Duane put on his brightest smile, and casually walked over to them. A small stool stood by the doorway to the wash kitchen, and Duane perched on that to listen to the women.

For a few minutes he listened to their gossip. Apparently their names were Mara, Sal, Loren, and Bretta. Bretta, an older woman who apparently enjoyed seniority, was instructing Mara in certain wifely duties, and Mara was blushing furiously, while Sal and Loren were giggling. But Duane did not remain unnoticed for long. Mara saw him first, and, glad for the interruption, called out "Hi!"

"Hi!" Duane smiled in reply. He remained sitting. He knew that he was too tall to pass for a young boy anymore, but sitting down his face could still fool most people. Bretta dropped the stirrer into the kettle and came bustling over.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I've come to deliver a message to one of the merchants, but I'm just resting a bit from the heat," replied Duane. He wiped his forehead with his hand. Bretta nodded.

"That is fine with me," she said. "It's a wonder you youngsters don't drop in this heat."

"I only hope that the fellow I'm taking this message to isn't too excitable," offered Duane. Sal looked up from her wringer.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Gee." Duane shrugged. "He's in furs, I think."

"Ooo!" Mara offered. "I wonder if ..."

"Now don't you go speculatin' on your Robar's wedding present again," scolded Bretta. Turning back to Duane she said, "If you are concerned about that, maybe you should rest after you've delivered the message."

"Oh, no," Duane said. "If I go and find him now, he'll give me a reply, and I'll have to hurry right back with that. But if I rest now, I can always say that I couldn't find his room."

"I suppose that might keep you out of trouble," said Bretta, frowning at the boy. "But won't you have to look for him anyway?"

"Well, if you'll tell me which room he's in, then I won't have to look for him at all!" Duane reasoned, putting on a conspiratorial grin.

"Oh, that's easy!" said Sal, working the wringer with Loren so that the water sprayed from the sheets. "He's in room 35. That's the third floor, up the front steps and the second door to your right. I'll be sorry to see him go," she added. "He was a very good tipper."

"He's leaving then?" asked Loren.

"Oh, he's paid up 'til tomorrow morning, is what my Sherl says," Sal replied. "He tipped me a silver penny for fresh sheets this morning."

"If he's such a great tipper, maybe I better not keep him waiting!" cried Duane. "Thanks for your help!"

He jumped from his stool, and not pausing to see the effect his height had on the women, he hurried back out the courtyard's gates. Following Sal's information, he entered the front doors of the inn, marched past the desk without a pause, and ascended the steps before the man at the desk could draw breath. He was on the third floor landing before the clerk's "Hey!" of protest could be heard.

The second door to his right had the numerals "35" nailed to the wood. This room would front on Court Street, and the windows were just above the street. A bit of a climb, allowed Duane, but nothing he couldn't handle. He turned around, and left the premises as quickly as he'd come, hurrying home for dinner.

On his way home he contemplated his new information. Since Gee was planning to leave on the morning, that meant that tonight he would die. For a moment Duane wondered if he should warn the merchant of his doom, but decided that with one thing and another he would be putting himself in needless danger with no guarantee of reward. Besides, how else could Duane obtain his first chance at really rubbing Red Stumpkin's nose in it? With a sigh Duane turned the last corner up the street to his home.

Magid had been checking on the progress of dinner preparations. Something caught her attention, and she turned to find her stepson standing in the hall behind the kitchen. Looking up at his handsome face, she wondered why he always made her feel so ill at ease.

"I've been wondering where you were," she said.

"Dad says you wanted me," was the extent of Duane's explanation. His eyes seemed to challenge her.

"I called for you hours ago. Your father says that he told you so. Hours ago, "Magid felt herself getting angry. "I was in your room, and found that you haven't been cleaning it again. Your father and I have agreed that you will not be allowed to join us at dinner tonight."

"Whatever. " Duane shrugged. Magid felt that she needed to press her point.

"You know what is expected of you. Go to your room until you're called. Clean up while you're waiting!"

Duane turned without another word, and slouched off. Magid watched his retreating back, a fist knotting in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't get love from him, nor respect. When she asked for compliance, his response wasn't a direct rebellion, but an aimless inaction that made it difficult to confront him. She wasn't sure how to explain her misgivings to Helod; her husband would not take her description of Duane's constant low-level defiance very seriously.

On his way, Duane passed his sisters' rooms. All four of the girls were in Amilee's room, playing some silly kids' game, and giggling and laughing. He passed their doors without being noticed, and entered his room. Everything seemed to be untouched. The heat of the day had made the room stifling, and Duane threw open his window to let in fresh air. The evening Sun was still high in the sky, slanting through the leaves of the trees in front of his window. A blackbird was singing its evening song from a branch nearby.

Duane turned to his desk. He picked up the muddy cloak and tossed it into a corner. Sitting down, he pulled open his drawer, took out the four-tumbril lock he'd stolen from Barten the master smith, and proceeded to continue his studies.

When he heard his father come up to his door, Duane returned his work to its drawer. It was dusky outside, and he had lit his lamp some time ago. His father knocked briefly, and opened the door. Duane got up from his desk.

"You have not cleaned your room."

"I've been busy," replied Duane.

"You were told to clean your room. Don't bother coming down tonight. You will go to bed without any dinner at all." Helod stepped back into the hall and closed the door. Duane could hear his sisters laughing.

"Duane is going hungry!" they sang, and then quieted down as Helod scolded them. How stupid - as if he ever missed a meal he didn't intend to miss. But tonight he would be too busy anyway.

In fact, Duane mused, if tonight turned out as well as he hoped, he'd teach his snotty sisters and his stupid father a lesson they wouldn't soon forget!

That night the skies were overcast. But Duane had never worried about the weather when the Organization was planning something; their weather witch would take care of that. He climbed out of his window, ran down the path to the barn, and found his way into his hideout. There, he quickly donned his hood and jacket, made of black kids' leather, picked up his tools, applied the blackening to his face and hands, and left by the barn's back wall.

Brooding he slunk along alleys and backyards, climbing fences and walls noiselessly. Twice nightly patrols passed, not giving him a second glance as he hid quietly in dark corners. As Duane was about to cross the street towards the Reinhold's torch lit bulk, he noticed movement at the last moment. Duane quickly drew back into the shadows, peering into the darkness down the street.

Bela Standaround! The Organization had posted a lookout! Duane swore quietly to himself. Well, it would be too bad for that smart-alecky street urchin. Duane extracted his daggers from their hiding places. Despite their blackened blades they glinted wickedly in the dim light from the distant torches by the entrance of the hotel.

Two quick and silent pull-ups had Duane standing on a window ledge above him. A few quiet steps, and Duane was directly above the hapless boy. A moment later he thudded into the ground, his daggers buried deep in Bela's back and neck.

Duane removed the daggers, quickly pressing cloth into the wounds. So much blood! He should have guessed this. Well, too late to cry over spilt blood. Duane grinned to himself. A bit of rope tied around the dead boy's neck and suspended from a sharp spike in the wall had him standing upright in the shadows in a moment. Anyone looking would see the shape and figure that the watch was still on.

Seconds later Duane was across the street, leaping for the stone post on the side of the back yard's huge wooden gates. By the time Duane had reached the merchant's window he wasn't even breathing hard - exercise in his father's barn had conditioned him well for this life! Trying the window he found that it was already open. He held his breath, trying to quiet his wildly beating heart. What if they were already in the room?

When he heard nothing after several seconds Duane carefully felt around the edge of the window. A slight snag on his fingers told him why the window had not been locked: a thin wire was rigged across the window. Who knew what that would set off? More careful probing convinced Duane that he should be able to clear the wire, now that he knew which way it ran.

Moving swiftly, but with care, Duane walked to the opposite end of the window. A tiny grappling hook fastened his rope to the top of the protruding masonry that surrounded the outside of the window. Bracing his feet against the inside of the frame Duane edged through, narrowly missing where he knew the wire lurked in the darkness. Letting his rope slide slowly through his hands, Duane allowed himself to descend to the room's floor headfirst, feet still on the window-sill.

When the sound of his own breath told him he was near enough he reached out with one hand to explore the darkness. No obstacles encountered, Duane curled his body towards the rope, and finished his descent lying silently on the floor below the window. There was still no sound from the rest of the room.

Wait! No, there was! Duane grinned with anticipation when he heard gentle and regular breathing on the room's opposite end. Duane began his crawl slowly, as his eyes adjusted themselves to the almost total darkness in the room. A dim hulk turned out to be the merchant's bed. Duane removed the garrote from around his waist, and swiftly looped it around the sleeping man's neck. There were surprisingly few kicks - it was possible the Organization had administered a sedative to keep the man asleep in anticipation of their entry.

The garrote wrapped securely around his waist again Duane began a methodical search of the bed, almost immediately resulting in the discovery of a heavy, clinking stocking sack. Confident he had found what he was looking for Duane examined the rest of the room. There was a lock on the door, but if the Organization was going to come in that way they would probably not even need to try to pick the lock - if the merchant had been drugged then it was likely that there was someone on the inside.

Wouldn't it be hilarious if the would-be murderers were caught, instead of Finn? Duane shook himself with suppressed laughter. A few steps brought him back to the window, where a close examination revealed the trap to be a commercially available security device, designed to emit a shrieking siren noise and emit a cloud of soporific gas. Duane had no trouble detaching the wire from the hook below the window, and moving the contraption to the door where he reattached the wire along the floor to the dead merchant's bed. Any intruder would now trip the wire on the way to the bed from the door. Duane congratulated himself on the irony.

A minute or so later Duane was leaping the last few feet off the gate post to the street. Another thought had germinated in his mind, and he raced across the street to retrieve the dead boy's body. Slinging the slight form across his shoulders he hurried into the darkness.

Sherl checked the bolt on the gate, rattling the pull once to satisfy himself, and continued to the hotel's side door. Everything was quiet, the air slowly cooling from the heat of the day. The dark hallway was muggy with indoor heat, and Sherl felt sweat beading on his brow again. Taking the lit candle from the side table by the door, he followed the hall to its other end by the hotel's front desk. The desk was locked this time of night. So was the front door. Sherl placed the candle in the window next to the front door, and sat on the bottom step of the stairs to wait.

A few minutes later there was a scraping sound on the door. A slight knock followed, and Sherl got up to quietly slide back the bolt. The two men outside were hooded and had scarves tied across their faces, their shapes gray in the candle light. Sherl noticed just that one of the men was very large, and then averted his eyes. The men entered and walked past him without a word. Sherl closed the door behind them, shot the bolt, and turned back down the hall. The men he'd let in were already on their way up the stairs; their business was not his. Sherl opened the door to the back stairs, closed it behind himself, and started down. He was glad that his day was finally over, and was looking forward to some quiet time with Sal.

A piercing whistle rang out in the upper parts of the building. Sherl turned and stared. That was a commercial burglar alarm - it was impossible that the two men he'd let in would have been clumsy enough to trip one. Was someone else in the house? He hurried all the way down the stairs, and rushed up to Ben's door. Just as he was about to try and raise him, Ben opened the door and looked out.

"Sherl - what's going on?" he seemed a bit sleepy. Sherl gestured at the stairs.

"I don't know. I was just going to check, but I think I'd feel better if I were not by myself," he explained.

"Let me get my boots." Ben closed the door in Sherl's face. Sherl stared for a moment, then turned and hurried on to his own apartment. The whistling was continuing upstairs, and some of the other doors were opening, his curious coworkers' faces staring out. Sal opened his door to him just as he got there.

"Get me my walking stick," Sherl demanded. Sal turned, reaching into the tall pottery vase that stood by the door, and handed Sherl his knotty shillelagh. With a stick like this at his side, Sherl felt reasonably confident, and returned to Ben's apartment, to arrive just as Ben emerged. Ben had put on a pair of boot, and he was holding a long blade in his hand.

"Was just sharpening it," he grunted. Sherl nodded. Many of his friends kept a scythe blade handy for occasions such as this. They weren't covered by the Duke's laws against weapons in the hands of commoners, and were as effective as a sword in most circumstances. Together the two men mounted the stairs, Ben in the lead. Sherl sensed a number of people following them, staying well back. As Ben opened the door at the top of the stairs, Sherl became aware of a pounding. Shouts from the street hastened his steps as he hurried to the hotel's front door, and ran back the bolt. Two guardsmen who were carrying a heavy battering ram stepped aside to let several of their fellows past. These pushed Sherl aside, and ignoring Ben, who was trying to hide his scythe blade behind his back, they rushed up the stairs. Sherl heard their steps continuing to the third floor landing, where they stopped. The splintering sound of wood signaled a door kicked in.

Several voices started coughing. Sherl heard some swearing, which quieted a bit, and decided that it was safe for him to follow the constables.

At the top of the third floor landing, room 35's door hung open. The lock was burst from the frame. Several of the men were bent over a couple of bundles on the floor. Sherl could still smell the odor of sleeping gas in the air. No doubt the bodies on the floor were not dead, just slumbering. The officers had finished their work, and hoisted their loads to their shoulders. Sherl stared when he saw what they were carrying. The man's face was not one he'd soon forget. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in unconsciousness, but Sherl knew that once this man awoke, he would be furious! Nattier might take out his anger on Sherl himself, even though Sherl had done nothing to get him into this fix. This was starting to look very bad.

The second pair of men followed the first out of the room. Sherl felt his throat dry up at the sight of Tarl, Red Stumpkin's oldest son. The man was huge; people whispered that his mother had been a giantess. The hair of his red beard stuck out at all angles. Two braided pigtails dragged almost on the floor as the constables manhandled their cargo down the stairs.

When Sherl finally tore his eyes away from that terrible sight, a tap on his shoulder made him turn around. Two more men were standing behind him, carrying a bundle wrapped in a bed sheet. Its size and shape were ominous, and Sherl staggered back from the head of the stairs. The officers shifted their load, and started down the stairs.

As a stunned man, Sherl walked slowly into room 35. This was supposed to be routine. Now there'd be questions. Even if Sir Reinhold decided to believe whatever story he could concoct, the Organization would suspect betrayal. Sherl knew that he was in serious trouble. There was a commotion from the bottom of the stairs. Loud roaring drowned out the shouts of several men, and there was the crash of smashed furniture. Sherl hurried to the stair's breasting and looked down. In the flickering light of several torches he saw a knot of men. A body flew aside and smashed into the already crushed front desk to reveal the shape of Tarl, swinging his fists in devastating circles, and roaring like a beast. Several men closed on him, swinging clubs. Tarl took most of the clubs on his arms, but some found their mark. More blows rained on the giant, whose roar had stopped, moving more and more feebly as he tried to evade the blows. Finally he stopped moving altogether, and several men bent over him, wrapping him in ropes.

Sherl hurried down the stairs. As he pressed through the crowd, he saw Tarl being carried away, trussed like a Yuletide ham. Embedded in the ruins of the front desk were two still shapes in uniform. On his way to his apartment, he feverishly tried to work out what to say to Sal. This town was no longer safe for them.

Helod turned over in bed. Even though the windows were open the night seemed to be getting warmer, and he couldn't sleep. Outside he heard the rooster crow. Almost morning - and he hadn't slept a wink. The rooster crowed again. Helod decided that if he couldn't sleep, he might as well get up. He pushed off his covers, and stretching stepped to the window to look for the dawn that the rooster was announcing.

It was quite dark outside; only a light from Duane's room was shining in the night. But even as he looked, flames burst from the window. The leaves on the tree in front of the window shriveled, and its twigs caught fire.

"Fire!" he shouted. "Magid! Fire in Duane's room!"

Helod rushed out of his bedroom, still dressed in his night shirt and bare footed. Smoke met him coming down the hall to his children's rooms. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled along the wall as quickly as he could. At the first door, he found the handle, and pushed the door open.

"Fire!" he shouted. "Fire! Get out of the house, Rosie!"

Not waiting for an answer, he hurried on to Janee's door. As it swung open, he saw a small shape standing in the darkness.

"Janee, it's a fire! Hurry out of the house. Take Rosie with you!" Sobbing, the child ran past him. He continued to the next door, on his hands and knees. Little Magid's door swung open at his touch. In the distance he could hear someone ringing the fire bell.

"Fire, Magid!" he shouted. "Get out of the house!"

Then he crawled to Amilee's door. Pushing it open, he wanted to shout, but smoke filled his lungs, and a paroxysm of coughing stifled him.

"Daddy?" It was Rosie's voice. She must have come to sleep over in Amilee's room, as she so often did.

"It's a fire, Rosie!" came Amilee's voice. "Quick, we must get out of the house!"

Helod's relief was almost too much to bear. These two children were sensible and intelligent. As they hurried past him, he struggled to continue towards Duane's door. The fire had charred the door to the point where Helod could see flames licking on the outside of the door. In desperation, Helod held his breath and kicked at the door with his bare feet. The door burst in a fireball of devouring heat, flattening Helod to the ground. He could feel the skin blister on his back as his shirt caught fire. Raising his head to peer into the conflagration beyond the door, he knew that it was too late.

"Duane!" he tried to shout, but the smoke took the words from him and left him choking and gasping. It seemed that he could not get a breath of fresh air anymore. He struggled to his knees again, but darkness crowded in on the edges of his vision, even as his eyes were seared by the brilliance of the conflagration around him. The ringing of the fire bell was all around him, buzzing in his ears. As his thoughts faded, he thought he could hear shouts in the distance.

In the morning, the embers of the Mildenthal family holdings still smoldered. Magid stood on the path to what once was her beautiful home. Her face was crusted with soot and tears. "Come, Magid," Helod took her by the shoulder and turned her gently around. Jaren, the fruiterer down the lane stood waiting for them.

"The girls are already asleep. Dame Asrel gave them a potion, and they'll be fine when they awaken," he assured them. "Let's take care of you now. Dame Asrel saved your life from the flames, Helod, let's not ask her back to cure you of catching a chill."

Helod nodded. He wrapped the borrowed cloak around his aching body, and followed Jaren, Magid on his arm.

No one knew how this fire could have started, and it had burned most of the main building to the ground by the time the fire-brigade had arrived. They had confined their task to keeping the flames from spreading to the neighboring buildings, and had then investigated the ruins. Magid and the girls had escaped. The servants had heard the alarm of the fire bell, and were safe, as well. But Duane's body had been found in his bed. It had seemed strangely small as the firemen carried the huddled shape under a sheet from the smoking ruins. If it hadn't been for Jaren and his other neighbors, who braved the flames under the protection of Dame Asrel, Helod's body would have been carried from the flames as well.

It was time to look ahead. The girls were safe. The house would be rebuilt. Helod thought he might miss Duane.

Duane happily shouldered his rucksack. A young fellow could indeed get far in this world. He turned to wave farewell to the pretty girl who had talked to him the entire time he had ridden in the coach, and then walked across the street towards the nearest inn.