 
MUTT

_by_ EVAN FULLER

Book I of the Rittenhouse Saga

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any reference to actual persons, entities, or events is coincidental or is used fictitiously and is not intended as a statement of fact.

Text copyright © 2011 Evan Fuller

Cover illustration copyright © 2011 by Daniel Govar

Cover layout and text © 2011 By Evan Fuller and Justin Livi

http://www.evanfuller.net

The year of this book's composition, between the Octobers of 2010 and 2011, was an exceptionally trying time for me. I'd like to thank my friends and family—and particularly a small group of loved ones back home—for your immense support, which means more to me than I may show. This book is for you.

Contents

1. A Good Man In Rittenhouse

2. Il Collegio Classico

3. Estate

4. Coming To

5. The Good Doctor

6. The Way Out

7. Jump

8. Into The Night

9. Bargaining

10. Underwater Again

11. The Price

12. Colors

13. Complications

14. Three Dogs

15. Hunger

16. Fire

17. Reunion

18. Victory

19. A Map Of Rittenhouse

Acknolwedgments

About the author...

Visit <http://www.evanfuller.net/muttmap> to see a map of New Providence!

**1**

A Good Man In Rittenhouse

"You promised you'd take me to see the king."

The gateman regarded Timothy through narrow eyes. "Step back, kid," he said coolly. He put two fingers to Timothy's chest and gave a casual shove that sent the boy reeling. "Now, I said I'd _try_ to get you in with the king. Turns out his majesty is awful bloody busy, and there's no way I'm putting my pretty neck on the line trying to get you in there."

The gateman loomed over Timothy, his gaunt face all stubble and rigid lines. His gray eyes glinted sharp as shards of glass in the waning light. He raised his left hand to brush aside a tuft of the short matted hair protruding from beneath his filthy knit skullcap; his other arm rested inside his wrecked trench coat, suggesting a hidden weapon. Clearly he thought he could intimidate the child; just as clearly, he had no idea how motivated Timothy was. "I already paid you," the boy insisted.

"Yeah, well, not enough for this. A favor like you're asking for requires a bit more compensation." So that was what his sudden hostility was actually about. Timothy spat on the ground in disgust, but he knew he had no power here. He dug through his satchel and found half a dozen batteries inside it. With a rigid hand he offered them to the gateman.

The gateman snatched the batteries away and raised one between two fingers, squinting at it through a single open eye. "These are good, right? You better not be trying to shortchange me."

"Of course they're good," Timothy replied indignantly, craning his neck to glare at the man. "Just like the last dozen I gave you."

"That's a good thing for you, because I don't want to show you what happens to mutts who try to cheat the king's men." The gateman's greasy fingers fumbled through several of the dozen pockets of his coat; finally, he produced a flashlight from his massive backpack. He unscrewed the top and put two batteries in. The flashlight shone brightly in the gathering dusk.

"Good thing for you," the gateman repeated. "Yeah, follow me." Timothy whispered a prayer of thanks that the man had chosen two of the working batteries; three of the six were dead. The gateman would be outraged when he discovered that he'd been cheated, but one way or another, Timothy counted on being long gone by then.

He followed the gateman through a labyrinth of alleyways, skipping over chasms where centuries of neglect had left the pavement impassable, until at last they reached a desolate street. Timothy waited for the gateman to lead the way, but instead the man sat down at the roadside. "Here we are," he said. "If it's on schedule, the palace should be here within the hour."

The last rays of red sunlight slowly bled out, rendering the sky a deep gray overhead. The gateman muttered and swore in low tones; Timothy waited in silence. After half an hour, a pair of round yellow lights was suddenly visible in the distance. The gateman rose as he saw the lights, and Timothy did the same.

"Here she is. A real wonder of the world, gracing your measly eyes." The gateman drew another flashlight from his backpack. Its light was a cool green, and the gateman directed it upward, casting its eerie pall on his own chiseled features. He stood illuminated by the roadside, and the headlights began to slow.

The palace was a massive double-decker coach bus, and it towered over Timothy and the gateman as it groaned to a stop before them, its tired brakes protesting the effort. With the gateman's formidable height, it took him only a step to reach the bus's entrance, but Timothy fairly leapt from the curb. He entered to find a host of two dozen people mingling in a dark cabin as soft lights of various colors danced over them. The passengers nearest the door tensed as Timothy and the gateman climbed aboard, but when they recognized the man, they greeted him and returned to their conversations.

The gateman led the way to the back of the bus, where they climbed the staircase to the second level. This floor was different than the first; it was dark at the top of the staircase, but a sea of golden light beckoned from the far end of the cabin. Timothy fell into step, and when the gateman bowed, he did the same. "Raise your heads," a smiling voice answered their arrival.

"Majesty, this child of yours asked me for an audience." The gateman's speech was more eloquent in the king's presence. As Timothy's eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the king for the first time. Like Timothy, his breeding was clearly mixed; his wide nose and lips contrasted near-white skin. The deep ridges of his face were surrounded by a mane of dreaded hair, each gray-tinged lock adorned with a different bead or ornament. He was dressed in what only the homeless would call finery: mismatched, flamboyant clothes and necklaces recklessly hewn from scrap metal. He peered back at Timothy with acute interest.

"I see," he said. "Indeed, you are my child, for I be the father of every starving mouth in New Providence." There was a strange rhythm to his speech that Timothy could not decipher. "So, son, what brings you here?"

"I'm dying, your majesty."

The king laughed softly. "Indeed," he said, "we all be dying in some way."

Timothy lifted his tattered shirt to reveal the bloody sores that covered his abdomen. The king's deep hazel eyes widened. "I see," he said. "You come here for medicine, I presume. How old are you, child?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"I go blind before I see another die so young," the king said, his brow creasing along its ancient lines. "We have no medicine for this illness, but I know someone who will help you if he can. It will not be easy to find him, but you will do anything you can, I think."

Timothy nodded. "Where can I find this person?"

"That is the tricky thing," the king said. "This man, he live in Rittenhouse."

"Rittenhouse?" Timothy asked incredulously. "If I was allowed into Rittenhouse, I wouldn't be sick to begin with. Do I look like I have proof of my bloodline?"

The king laughed again. "If ever I see a mutt, son, you are surely a mutt." His face grew somber. "I know this is no easy thing. There be ways into Rittenhouse, ways not many know. They are hard to find, and if you go the wrong way in, they will kill you the moment you get inside. But you keep to the secret way, you follow the directions my gateman give you, and if you lucky, you will find the only kind man in Rittenhouse. He will give you food, medicine, a place to sleep as long as you need it."

"What will he want in return?" Timothy asked.

"He is a good man," the king said. "He ask of all only what they can give, and he give what they need, as best he can. When your sickness is gone, he might tell you stay, to help look after the other strays I send him."

"The purebloods will tear me apart if they find me in Rittenhouse." Timothy's voice quivered. "Is this the only way you know?"

"This be the only way there is," the king said. "You go to Rittenhouse now, you may die there. But you die here for sure if you don't go. My gateman, he will lead you as far as he can. After that, you're on your own."

"Thank you," Timothy said with another bow.

"I am like my friend in Rittenhouse," the king said. "I take from every man what he can give. A healthy man come here, he pays for my council. But you, so young and so close to death, I ask nothing from you but your thanks. I pray you find my friend in time."

The gateman, clearly annoyed by his assignment, dragged Timothy from the palace almost before it had stopped moving. He led the way wordlessly through the overgrown slums of New Providence. By the time they reached their destination, the lights of Rittenhouse shone above them, striking haughtily through the night sky. "Here it is," the gateman said, motioning to the mouth of a tunnel and the small pool of filth that lay before it. "You'll be going in through the sewer system. It's a maze in there and you'll be swimming through a lot of rich purebloods' leavings, but once you're in, you're less likely to get caught going this way than any other. Here," he grunted, handing Timothy a small map. It had been drawn on a crumpled piece of paper, its original contents too faded to discern. "Follow this exactly. A lot of times people get lost going this way and never make it out. They wash up out here weeks later. You have a flashlight?"

Timothy nodded.

"Good," the gateman said. "Whatever happens in there, you follow that map." With a muttered phrase and gesture, the gateman dissolved into ash and was carried away by the wind.

Timothy looked at the mouth of the wretched little tunnel, a circle of pure black amidst the near-black that surrounded it. It looked to him like a hole in the world; in the darkness of night, what might otherwise appear merely repulsive became as foreboding as a den of wild dogs. But the stinging pain of his sores reminded Timothy of his errand's urgency, and slowly he began his descent.

**2**

Il Collegio Classico

The sound of his shoes against the floor of the collegio's corridor turned heads. Emery ran faster, ignoring the harassed expressions that followed him. A jagged pang pierced his side. He was going to be late. Emery cursed his negligence. Finally he reached the door of the classroom; he staggered to a halt and almost tripped over himself. The door was already closed, and the maestro had begun his lecture. Damnit.

Breathing heavily, Emery fumbled with an impassive doorknob and entered the lecture hall. "...you will hear me say throughout the term that—" the maestro turned to address the interruption, smiling brightly when he saw its source. "Thank you for joining us today, sir Esposti. Please," he said through a thick Chukwu accent, "take a seat."

The ten other students were seated on crimson floor cushions arranged in a half-circle facing the maestro. Emery crossed the classroom and took a seat. This was his second term with Maestro Oburumu; the instructor had been his Gateway tutor when Emery had entered the collegio in the spring. This term's course was on...Emery found himself too flustered to remember the subject. Well, he said to himself, I'll figure it out at some point in the lecture.

"Where was I?" M. Oburumu asked. He pondered his question for a moment and seemed about to find its answer when another late student stumbled into the room, looking even more embarrassed. At least Emery had the fortune of knowing the instructor. "Well," M. Oburumu said, "Now that everyone is here, I suppose I'll give another introduction. Welcome to Introductory History of Rittenhouse. I am a Chukwu of the Ibo clan. My people are from a nation called Nigeria. I love Jehovah God, I love my family, and I love to teach." M. Oburumu was just as Emery remembered him from last term: his head was shaven, his smile was perpetual, and he visibly displayed the Unity necklace that indicated his citizenship rather than tucking beneath his shirt like most people did.

A mousy-looking Farsi boy raised a hand. "I don't know if it's an appropriate question," he said shyly, "but why do the Chukwu divide their circle into clans? None of the other circles have a similar division."

"A very good question, sir...?"

"Bhatt," the boy replied quickly. "Amir Bhatt."

M. Oburumu grinned. "A very good question, sir Bhatt. And while I'll give you a much more thorough answer in our section on circle formation later in this term, suffice for now to say that it is of paramount importance to remember one's history—" his eyes scanned the twelve students in the room "—which is why I hope you all are here."

Emery smiled inwardly. M. Oburumu was among the most punishing maestros at the school, and those who fell short of his very high standards would be begging their parents within the week to permit their withdraw from the class. A request, of course, that the esteemed sirs and madams would not grant, for none of them wanted their child to be the one who failed at the rigorous collegio. Emery let his wild dark curls fall down the side of his face, concealing an eye so he could observe his classmates' expressions unnoticed. A Vorteil girl, beautiful as a glacier, seemed to catch his eye and glared back. Carla, he thought her name was. Or Chelsea. Emery was horrible with names. He remembered that her uncle was someone important.

"Another key focus of this course that sir Bhatt so astutely brings to our attention," the maestro continued, "is that Rittenhouse's four circles are, of course, social constructions, amalgamations of innumerable races that existed before extinction. At one point in time, there was more cultural and ethnic variation between the various groups that now comprise the Farsi people than there is between the Farsi and, say, the Roccetti today." He motioned to Amir and then to Emery for emphasis. "Today, these two circles coexist peaceably in Rittenhouse. But before extinction, individual factions of what is now the Farsi race waged war upon each other. Of course, we Chukwu embrace peace and the principals of Unity as much as anyone in Rittenhouse, but we also like to take pride in our traditions." He turned to the boy who had come in after Emery. "What clan are you, sir?"

The boy's accent was thicker than the maestro's; he murmured something unintelligible. "In Modern, please," Carla or Chelsea muttered impatiently. The boy spoke more loudly: "Tikar."

The instructor grinned. "Cameroon, then. Cameroon was a great nation, almost as great as Nigeria. _That_ is the joy of knowing one's heritage." Emery found himself smiling again. M. Oburumu liked to toy with his students, but he was a good man, a passionate man.

The maestro's smile continued to shine. "I believe," he announced, "that I now remember what I was saying before the interruptions. I was speaking on the trouble of discerning Rittenhouse's pre-extinction history with any certainty. 'Extinction' itself is something of a misnomer; whatever caused it, the human species ultimately survived. But nations, cultures, perhaps entire races have been lost to history. You will hear me say throughout the term that there are numerous obstacles to our knowledge of the world before extinction or the causes of the catastrophe that we believe reduced the global population to one ten-thousandth of its previous number. Can anyone name one of these obstacles?"

"Decay of records," Chelsea said quickly.

The maestro nodded. "That's correct, Carla." Emery vowed to remember her name this time. "For decades or even centuries after extinction, this region was completely uninhabited. It's worth noting that while some of New Providence's inhabitants are called natives, even they migrated here from communities hundreds of miles inland. Most pre-extinction writings were made on paper, not intended to withstand the passage of time, and we consider ourselves very fortunate when we find even fragments of writing intact. Someone else..."

"The language barrier," offered the Tikar student.

"Aha. This is one of the greatest challenges we face as historians. As I'm sure you all know, the Modern spoken in Rittenhouse and throughout New Providence is a synthesis of various parts, much like the people who speak it. There are vestiges of pre-extinction English in Modern, and historians such as myself have been able to translate large parts of our recovered works. But these texts are filled with innumerable words we cannot begin to translate, because they describe things—nations, technology, social dynamics—that existed in the old world and for which we have no standard of comparison today. And the task of discerning fiction from history with these constraints is all but impossible. All we can do for now is seek out more surviving literature and try to solve these puzzles by placing them in their proper context."

"Has anyone ever thought about using the Yankees to translate?" a girl asked. "Some of them speak old English."

"You show me a Yank who can read," Carla replied, "and I'll show you the mutt king of Rittenhouse." The fingers of Emery's left hand drummed against the polished hardwood floor.

"Please," M. Oburumu said, raising his hands, "Epithets are unbefitting of your blood." A few of the students suppressed a retort; their parents, of course, had taught them the words. "As miss Engal pointed out, there is a very low literacy rate among the natives we have encountered—and I stress that this is only the best of our knowledge. The truth is that we know very little about the various native populations; the popular stories in Rittenhouse are the most sensational, the tales of cannibalism or the rituals of the Washington Circle tribe. Most of the native groups keep to themselves, so of course they are underrepresented in the popular gossip. But I digress. There is a third limiting factor in our knowledge of the pre-extinction world, and this is perhaps the most important...anyone?"

"Decline of existing records in the decades preceding extinction," Emery offered.

M. Oburumu's ever-present smile grew wider. "I hope everyone was paying attention," he said. "We believe this to be the main reason that we have been able to discern nothing of value regarding the cause of the epidemic itself. There is a sudden and rapid decline in the quantities of recovered books over a period of roughly three decades, following which there are virtually no writings for several more decades preceding the disaster. Now, how do we know that this decline does not represent extinction itself? Sir Bhatt."

"Um..." Amir faltered for a moment before finding words. "Other artifacts. We—we've recovered technology that we think is more recent than the last writings we've found."

"Exactly. And the increasingly enigmatic nature of the last pre-extinction technologies leads us—"

A struggle with the stubborn doorknob cut M. Oburumu's sentence short, and in the next moment an aide burst into the classroom carrying a square stone tablet. The maestro's eyes swept over whatever message was written on the tablet, and his countenance darkened for the first time since Emery had entered the room. A distracted hand wiped the writing from the tablet and waved the aide out of the room. "I'm very sorry," he said to the half-circle of youth, "but I'm sure you won't be disappointed to hear that today's class is cut short. I'll see you tomorrow for—" he paused for a moment— "our discussion on post-extinction ethnic group formations. I'm sure you'll use this extra time wisely. Have a blessed week." With that he strode briskly from the classroom.

The students looked at each other in confusion for a moment, but none of them chose to question providence. Most rose hurriedly and left the room; Emery waited for a moment, rising slowly as the others filed out.

The corridor wall opposite the classroom door was floor-to-ceiling glass. Emery stood before it, gazing westward past Rittenhouse's walls. Beyond the electric city, New Providence sprawled as far as he could see, a labyrinth of swamp and forest dotted by newly formed shanties and the time-worn highrises of centuries past. As those structures slowly gave way to nature's tireless advance, the towers of Rittenhouse were rising anew; even at this very moment in the collegio, parts of the ancient campus were still being restored. Emery could discern the faint tapping and tearing of construction echoing through the corridor as crews reclaimed room after room of the building, cutting through the old growth.

**3**

Estate

It was only afternoon, but the sun was already disappearing behind the towering wall that encircled the estate. The man who had restored the ancient mansion had enjoyed his privacy: the plot of land it occupied had once been shared by half a dozen such palaces, decrepit but certainly not beyond salvage. He had been rich enough to purchase them, but rather than increase this wealth by renovating them like his residence and selling them for far more than the price of their acquisition, he had commissioned their destruction and incorporated the land into his own property. Around the expanse was constructed the wall, fifteen feet high in the same stone that had been used to rebuild the mansion. When he had died three years ago, the man had left an estate of which it could be said that, though there were some more extravagant in Rittenhouse, there was certainly none more vast.

"Did you really sleep in my room before?"

Lydia smiled. "Before you came, I lived here for a long time, and yes, I slept in your room."

The fact was enough to spark the nine-year-old's enthusiasm. "You should come back," Geneva decided. "If we shared a room, that would be fun."

"I have my own home now," Lydia laughed, "and that room isn't big enough for the two of us."

"Yeah, but Oliver says you just got a little 'partment." Geneva wrinkled her nose in disdain. "This house is big. You can sleep in another room. 'Sides it's only boys here now."

"I'm here every day anyway," Lydia said. "And if I took another room, what would we do when we picked up more strays?"

Geneva considered this for a moment. "But we don't know when we're goin' get more. You could stay here now and go back to your 'partment when they come."

" _A_ partment, Geneva," Lydia replied, emphasizing the first syllable. The younger girl shrugged. "And I like my _a_ partment just fine. Who knows? Maybe the next stray will be a girl to keep you company."

"When I'm as old as you, will I get an uh—partment?"

Lydia paused. Her present situation had been almost impossible to arrange, and she had at least the advantage of being Farsi. A new surname and a forged note of transit from Ambler had been sufficient to establish her as a newcomer in Rittenhouse. Geneva was a native of the outside, and her Slavic features were clear enough to distinguish her. Perhaps her look would change as she grew and in a few years she'd be able to pass for a Vorteil. But there were no Vorteil coming from Ambler anymore.

"We'll see," Lydia said at last, forcing a smile. "Maybe you can share my apartment."

The girl's eyes lit up at that. "Can I? Please?"

"Ask me in eight years," Lydia said.

Geneva skipped ahead, exuberant. Lydia slowed in her walk around the wall's perimeter, lost in thought, until Geneva's sudden call shook her from her reflection.

"Lydia!" Geneva had doubled back and was running towards her. "I heard something over near the hole." Geneva had always been told to listen to sounds from the pipe when she was outside, and she was clearly excited to have heard something.

"I'm coming," Lydia replied, quickening her pace to a jog. The mouth of the pipe was at the back of the property. It was a manhole, its inside coated with aluminum, that led downward into Rittenhouse's sewer system. The system, which had been constructed by clearing out and rebuilding the pre-extinction sewers, was labyrinthine. It spread under Rittenhouse like roots beneath a tree, reaching for miles beyond it in every direction. It was a deadly path to navigate, but it was a way in.

As Lydia approached, she heard it too: a metallic echo rattling up the walls of the pipe. The echo repeated, three abrupt bursts—coughing?—which were followed by a much louder noise, the sound of a hand striking the wall of the pipe. Then, silence. Lydia gazed down the pit into blackness. "Geneva," she said softly, "go get Oliver."

Geneva's eyes were wide; Lydia's tone had stilled her, and she was no longer smiling. "Okay," she said, and turned towards the house.

Lydia removed her overcoat, folding it neatly and setting it on the ground. The autumn air chilled her bare arms. She hesitated for a moment, trying to estimate the length of the descent, but the floor beyond the pipe was all but invisible. Lydia slowly climbed down the ladder, wincing as flakes of rust broke off the rungs and cut into her palms.

The floor was maybe fifteen feet beneath the mouth of the pipe. Lydia's feet were submersed to the ankles in rancid water; her legs quivered at the contact. The sewer was ink-black except for the circle of shallow water illuminated by the distant sunlight above, but Lydia could hear the sound of a strong current rushing beyond the small platform on which she stood. She took a tentative step and almost tripped over him: the boy lay doubled over, trembling on the floor of the tunnel. Lydia wondered how many hours he'd been lying there, too weak to ascend on his own.

Lydia bent over the child, gagging as she drew closer to the sewage. He was almost naked; he had likely shed his clothing as he traveled. "Can you hear me?" she asked, touching his side. His skin was as cold as the water; he'd been in the sewers for too long. He appeared to be conscious, but just barely, and he was heaving too violently to respond. Lydia put her other hand on his side, trying to pull the boy to his feet. "You're almost there, but we have to get you up this ladder."

The child rose, staggered towards the wall, and caught himself with an outstretched hand. He heaved again and lost balance; Lydia caught him and wrapped her arms around his chest. How long had he gone without eating? He was sickeningly thin. Lydia walked him towards the ladder; he was smaller than she was, but it took all her strength to carry his sagging body without tumbling over. She inhaled deeply and felt bile rise to her throat in response to the putrid air.

"Lydia?" a voice finally called from the mouth of the drainpipe. "I'm here," she shouted back. "Please tell me you brought a rope!"

Oliver's silhouette filled the disc of light overhead, and moment later she heard a small splash as the end of a cord was dropped into the water beside her. Balancing the boy with one hand, Lydia bent and groped blindly for it. Her fingers were numb from the cold, and then—there!—she found the cord. She tied it around the boy's waist, her hands trembling so violently that it took three tries to form the knot. "Alright!" she called to Oliver. "We're coming up, but he's not in great shape. Whatever happens, don't let go of that rope, okay?"

Oliver's affirmation echoed down. "Listen," she said to the boy. "I'm going to try to help you up, but you have to work with me. Can you do it?"

The child nodded, his teeth clattering.

"Okay," Lydia said, "I'll come up behind you." The boy slowly began his ascent. Lydia followed him up the ladder. The pace was agonizingly slow, and sewer water rained on her from the boy's soaking cotton pants as he climbed ahead, but they rose the first ten feet without event. Then, suddenly, the child's trembling leg slipped off a rung. The cord jerked, giving about a foot before holding steady. A tinny "Damnit!" resounded off the walls of the pipe, and a moment later a flailing leg collided with Lydia's head. She nearly lost her hold as well. At last the boy found his footing again, and a minute later the two of them reached climbed out onto the grass.

Oliver relaxed his hold on the rope. "You smell—"

" _Don't_ say it," Lydia gasped.

"I helped hold the rope!" Geneva announced importantly.

"Yeah," Oliver said, "I really thought we were going to lose it for a moment there."

Geneva got her first good glimpse of the newcomer and began to pout. "You said I'd get a girl to play with," she told Lydia accusingly, "but it's just another boy."

"Guys." Lydia twisted her hair with both hands, wringing some of the filth from it. "Could we just—" Cough. "Just give me a moment. Please." She glanced at the boy, who was laying, apparently unconscious, on the grass beside them. It was a good thing his energy hadn't expired a moment sooner. In the light, Lydia saw him clearly for the first time: he appeared to be a mulatto, with a freckled face and short, tangled hair. He looked even thinner than he had felt in her arms. But most noticeable were the lesions that pockmarked his skin. The infection was advanced; it appeared that it had been developing for months. The sewer water hadn't improved them: the mouths of the open wounds were coated in a slimy greenish gray. Well, Lydia thought, if there's any hope for him, it's here. Aloud she said, "Let's get him inside."

**4**

Coming To

Timothy thought he awoke several times, but he was never certain; the shapes of his caretakers played over him as though he was underwater, looking at objects beyond its surface. He wondered several times if he was dreaming, wondered once if he was dead. No, he told himself at last, I made it out. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into bottomless sleep.

When he finally stirred, the lamp in the room was out and the shades had been drawn. The nearest window was within reach of the bed; Timothy groped weakly for the drapes until light poured into the room. There was a glass of water on the little table next to the bed, half-consumed, and an open bottle of pills. Had he already been given medicine? He was feeling remarkably better than he had before. Timothy wondered whether this was the medicine he'd come to find. Though they'd been cleaned out, he saw that some of his sores were beginning to fester with infection from the filthy sewer water, but that he could live with that if the condition that had caused the sores in the first place was beginning to recede. Maybe his search was over and he was already on his way to getting better—he tried not to get his hopes up.

A chair sat by the bedside with clothing he didn't recognize awaiting him in a neatly folded pile, and Timothy realized that he was naked. Whoever had put him in the bed was probably washing the sewer water out of his clothes. Timothy wondered how long he had been down there, and how long he'd been asleep. He dressed slowly—the clothes were like nothing he had seen before—and walked to the door, placing an unsteady hand on the knob. The door had been left cracked, and it opened wider at his touch.

He was greeted by a shout of "The boy woke up!" and the questioning gaze of a beaming, platinum-haired young girl. She looked maybe ten years old, stick-thin, but her green eyes and enormous smile seemed to brighten the hall.

"Leave him alone, Geneva," another voice responded from somewhere down the corridor. A boy stepped into view, perhaps a year or two older than Timothy. His face was day and night in one: black hair, longer than Timothy's but by no means long; stark white skin, and gray eyes that seemed to balance the two extremes. His features were soft, his expression reserved. Unlike the girl, he didn't look like he smiled much.

"It's okay," Timothy said. The girl, Geneva, looked at the other boy with an air of vindication; he stuck his tongue out at her in mock hostility. "You can come this way," the boy said to Timothy. "I'm sure you're hungry."

Timothy nodded. He didn't bother to guess how long it had been since he'd eaten. He supposed he'd receive as much food as he needed here; for a moment he felt abashed by the idea.

After a staircase and a series of wide, decorated corridors—the size of the house was almost as stunning as its extravagance—Geneva and the boy led Timothy to the kitchen. The floors were made of white, polished stone, and the silverware the others set before Timothy shone in the glow of electric lights. He had never seen such wealth. "I'm goin' find Lydia," Geneva announced. Timothy wondered who Lydia was.

The boy, who introduced himself as Oliver, gave Timothy a meal of bread with meat and something called cheese. The meat was different than any Timothy had tasted; he didn't like it, but he assumed he would learn not to mind it in time. When he asked Oliver what cheese was, the boy shrugged and said, "It's made from milk."

Timothy would happily have found himself a gull instead, but he didn't want to refuse the hospitality. Besides, he'd lost his slingshot in the sewers, along with the rest of the items in his satchel. Oliver retrieved the bottle of medicine while Timothy was eating, and Timothy unquestioningly swallowed the pills Oliver gave him.

Timothy had finished his meal when Geneva came back into the room, accompanied by a woman who he guessed was twenty years old. She was petite, but her body was curved and soft, not like the women back home. She had bronze skin and big dark almond-shaped eyes; Timothy thought she was very pretty, but more than anything, he found her appearance intriguing. "Are you a pureblood?" he asked her.

The woman's laugh sounded a little forced; she seemed uneasy. "You could say that," she said. "My name is Lydia. Do you remember me?"

Her question gave him pause, and after a moment a memory leapt back into his mind: in the blackness of the sewer, a voice. She had been with him in the tunnel. Timothy nodded.

"We had a bit of a hard time getting you out of there," Lydia said. "But we're glad to have you with us, sir...?"

It took him a second to figure out what she was asking. "Timothy," he stammered in reply. "And you don't have to call me sir; I'm a...I mean, you're—"

"A pureblood?" Lydia smiled. "I'm called a Farsi. We're actually one of four races here in Rittenhouse. But you'll figure out pretty soon that things like that that don't matter in this house."

This was another revelation; Timothy wondered what, then, did matter here. "Are you the owner of the house?"

"No. The owner should be here shortly, and I'm sure when he gets home, the first thing he'll want to do is meet you. I do have a few questions, though. How did you find your way through the sewers?"

Timothy noticed that the others' attention grew more acute as they listened for his response; the boy, Oliver, leaned in slightly. "I had a map. I—I lost it in the water, though," Timothy stammered, hoping he wasn't saying something wrong. "I met a man called the king, and he gave it to me when he told me to come here. He said if anyone can help me, it would be the person here."

Lydia nodded, her expression hard for Timothy to discern. "Do you remember anything specific that this king said about the owner of the house?"

Timothy closed his eyes for a moment, straining to remember. He clenched his hands to still their soft trembling. "Um...the king said he was the only good man in Rittenhouse—the only kind man," he corrected himself quickly.

There was visible relief in Lydia's answering smile. "In that case, you're welcome," she said. "We have to be careful who we let into the house, but we trust the king's judgment."

"So if you're not the owner," Timothy asked, "what do you do here?" He realized a moment later that he might have sounded rude. "I mean—"

"Don't worry about it." Lydia smiled again. "The story of how I got here actually isn't that much different from yours. I used to live in a city called Ambler; have you heard of it?"

Timothy had. "Like Rittenhouse, but way up north."

Lydia nodded. "There were some problems there and I had to leave," she said. "I was lucky enough to meet the king, and he sent me here."

"What kind of problems?" Timothy asked. "I mean, I wouldn't want to leave a place like this if I was allowed there."

Lydia paused until Geneva chimed in, "I met him too! He was a funny king."

"So do you think he'll be able to help me find medicine?" Having woken to find himself already bathed, Timothy knew that these people had discovered his ailment. They seemed unafraid; they must be immune. He had heard that, once treated, people didn't catch the sickness again. He shot a hopeful glance at the bottle of pills on the table.

"Those pills should have you feeling better," Lydia said, visibly relieved by the change of subject, "but they're not the cure for your sickness." Timothy tried not to let his disappointment show in his expression. "Getting our hands on that will be harder. I don't want to promise you anything up front, but if there's any way to get you the medicine you need, you've come to the right place." She sat in a chair opposite Timothy and rested her elbows on the clear glass table. "Most of the people who come here are sent by the king. He and the man of the house, who should really be here by now, are acquainted. In the meantime, why don't I give you a tour?"

"Okay."

"Normally we all wash our own dishes, but since you've had a long day climbing out of the sewer and everything, we'll have Oliver handle yours."

"Thanks, Lyd," Oliver said dryly, snatching Timothy's plate.

She smiled and gave a little bow. "Don't mention it." Lydia turned back to Timothy. "There aren't too many rules here," she said as she led him from the kitchen, "but the few we do have are important to remember. First, we're allowed in the back yard, but not the front. There's a wall surrounding the property, but the gate out front leaves a bit of the front face visible. I'm sure you realize discretion is very important."

Behind them, the light in the kitchen was turned off, on, off again. "Oliver!" Lydia called. "You know he doesn't like it when you do that."

"My hand slipped." When the excuse garnered no response, he added, "I...okay."

"Just don't get caught doing that when he's home." To Timothy she said, "That's another important rule. Our host has an aversion to witchcraft. There's no curses or charms or anything of that nature allowed in the house, and if you do anything that might seem like a curse, any little rituals or other strange behavior, try your best to stop it while you're here. Call it a—"

"Phobia," Oliver interjected from the kitchen.

"—strong preference." Lydia waved a casual gesture in Oliver's direction. "The last thing you should know is that the top level is entirely off-limits. The current owner's second cousin lived here until he passed away three years ago, and a lot of personal documents and family possessions are stored up there. Besides that, you can go anywhere you'd like in the house. The first two levels and the basement are all open to you."

Timothy nodded; everything sounded reasonable. And even if the rules had been much more stringent, he was in no position to bargain.

Timothy followed Lydia down to the basement, which he noticed was decidedly less pristine than the first floor. The vast central room, which he thought must span more than half of the house's total layout, had no carpet, nor was it adorned with the gleaming hardwood or stone of the rooms upstairs. The bare cement floor that ran from one brick wall to the other was decorated only by countless marks from spilled paint. Beneath the tables and easels that stood in the room's center, white paper had been lain in a rather feeble attempt to catch further spills, but the paint had escaped it in several places. "The house's new owner is a painter," Lydia explained, "as I'm sure you can tell." Timothy had never heard of such a profession. "When he's home, a lot of his time is spent down here. He inherited the house only a couple years ago, and he says the upstairs is gaudy." Timothy couldn't disagree.

Both ends of the enormous space were occupied by furniture which, though it appeared expensive to Timothy's sensibilities, was nothing compared to the pieces upstairs either in its extravagance or the care that had been taken to preserve it. Paint spills were fewer on the chairs and couches than on the floor, but only by a small margin. One cluster of furniture was positioned around a low table, and what looked like a small kitchen had been set up on the wall behind the space. Timothy saw a large white box that he recognized as a refrigerator.

The rooms on the first floor, it turned out, were much less varied. There was a study with three walls of bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, a drawing room for entertaining company, and a vast dining room that led into the kitchen Timothy had already seen. All of these rooms were in immaculate condition, and it appeared that none of them, save the study, received any use at all. "The bedrooms are on the next floor; you've already seen yours. Feel free to open the blinds; all the windows in this house have been refitted with glass that's impossible to see through from outside." She smiled. "Two years ago, we knocked the old windows all out during a bad storm so we'd have an excuse for the replacement. _That_ was fun."

"You've lived here for two years?" Timothy asked.

"I came here two years ago," Lydia said, "but I actually don't live here anymore." She paused to make sure Geneva wasn't within earshot: the girl could be heard in another room, asking Oliver a question. "This isn't possible for most people who come here, but I got a bit lucky. Since I'm a Farsi, we were able to make an alibi for me. I reentered the city with a fake name, saying I was from Ambler but not that I was exiled—kicked out," she added, in case Timothy was unfamiliar with the word "exile."

"Anyway," she continued, "I'm employed here as a housekeeper, which gives me some income and an excuse to be here every day. My real job is to help out with looking after the other strays who come here—and now you, too." She lowered her voice again. "I don't know what we're going to do for the others. They both came from situations where they probably wouldn't have survived, and at least they're safe and healthy here. But they'll never be able to integrate into life here like I have...they'll never even be able to go out into the streets safely. Oliver's caught onto this, but Geneva still has no idea."

"I have parents outside," Timothy said. "They sent me to find the king when I got sick, since they couldn't do anything to help and they have five other children to look after. This place seems really nice, but I'm really only here to get medicine. After that, I have to get back to my family. I'm old enough that I'd be finding food for my brothers and sisters if I was well."

Lydia nodded, her expression one of sympathy mixed with relief. "I don't like the idea of sending you back out there," she said, "but yours is at least a problem we can hopefully solve. The other two don't have anything to go back to. Geneva's parents were poppy gum workers, which is bad enough, but they were both killed while they were transporting a harvest. And Oliver—"

Lydia was interrupted by the sound from the other room; the front door had opened. "Sounds like he's finally home," she said. "Let me go talk to him for a minute to let him know you're here. He'll want to meet you."

Lydia walked out of the study in the direction of the foyer, and a moment later Timothy heard her voice conversing with a stranger's. He couldn't make out most of the words, but he had a sudden feeling that his fate was being decided. Did this man ever turn people away? Timothy tried not to think about it, so of course it was the only thing he could think of.

After an interminable minute, Lydia reentered the study, smiling. She was followed by a much younger, slighter man than Timothy had imagined. He stood taller than either Timothy or Lydia, but he was certainly not tall; form-fitting clothing revealed slender limbs and an almost immaterial torso. Even his pale face was thin; he had regal cheekbones and a long nose, knotted where it had apparently been broken and never healed correctly. His eyes, sharp and nearly black, shone beneath thick brows, and his head was crowned by dark, chaotic hair that hung almost to his shoulders. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Timothy," he said, stepping forward to offer a bony hand. "I'm Emery Scott Esposti, and this is my house."

**5**

The Good Doctor

The new arrival took a tentative step forward and shook Emery's outstretched hand. The boy looked to be about twelve—no, emaciated, fourteen—and his face was a compelling arrangement of features, a blend of Slav and Chukwu blood that was blasphemous here in Rittenhouse. Emery tried to read the boy's expression, wondering as he always did whether this stranger would pose a threat to the estate. His illness certainly provided him incentive enough to cooperate with the rules of the house, and besides, the king had sent him here. But how well could the king possibly know any of the outsiders he sent? Emery tried to summon a smile. "Did the king send a letter with you?"

Timothy's eyes went wide. "No," he said. "Did I need one to come here?"

Emery laughed at the boy's timidity, but it made him nervous that there was no letter. Was all well at the palace? "Not at all," he told Timothy. "I just correspond with the palace every now and again, so I wasn't sure whether they'd send something. I'll probably forget your name a few times, so just bear with me on that; I do it to everyone. How have Lydia and the others been treating you?"

"Very well," Timothy said as brightly as he could seem to manage. "They fed me as soon as I got here. Lydia even came down into the sewers to help me climb up." His speech was more precise than Emery had learned to expect from newcomers.

"Well, I'm sure they've already showed you around. The house was my second cousin's," Emery said, "and it's a bit too much for me. It's not really even mine; he had no direct descendants to manage it when he passed away about three years ago, so my family sent me here from Ambler to manage the property until we decide what to do with it. I spend most of my time here painting or studying in the basement. I'm a bit scared of all the marble and expensive furniture, actually."

Timothy laughed anxiously; Emery could only guess he felt the same way.

"Lydia tells me the king sent you," Emery continued. "She said you're looking for medicine you can't get outside of Rittenhouse. Can you tell me what kind of sickness you have?"

Wordlessly, the boy lifted the hem of his new shirt to reveal his stomach and chest. The disease was in its advanced stages already; lesions pockmarked his skin, some so deep that Emery could only assume they had eaten their way through Timothy's muscle mass. Several of them were gray-green with infection; Timothy's journey through the sewers had clearly left its mark.

Emery's stomach swam; the muscles in his belly clenched. "It's a bacterial infection," he said. "A lot like leprosy, but more aggressive." Emery had seen seen it before. "We have medicine here that will slow its progress and make you feel stronger for a while—I'm sure Lydia has already given you some?—but finding an actual cure for this is going to be a bit tricky. See, the medicine for treating this sickness is different than the medication we use to prevent it, and most people in Rittenhouse receive the latter when they're young. The hospital keeps a small supply of the treatment for emergencies, but if you try to get your hands on it, people start asking questions."

Timothy's face sank.

"Fortunately," Emery said quickly, "I know the person who can get some for me, if anyone can. You've truly come to the right place."

"Do you think he'll help us?" Timothy asked.

"Well," Emery replied with a little smile, "he doesn't think very highly of me. But we've always been able to...reach a settlement...in the past. I'm sure my late cousin would be aghast if he knew how I was spending his wealth, but truth be told, anyone else in the family would probably have invested it in a new wing for the estate. You can never have too many square feet, you know."

Timothy nodded at this, Emery's irony clearly escaping him. "I'll do anything I can," he began, but Emery raised an open hand in reply.

"Right now, there's really nothing you can do," he said, "and you're going to have to be okay with that. Part of the reason I do what I do is because I have the resources to do it. I didn't do anything to earn them, I stumbled into them because I was born into the right family. The least I can do is be the first person in this damnable town to put what I have to decent use."

"Thanks," Timothy said.

"Well, I'm going to sit down for a cup of coffee before I go down to the hospital to talk to our iatric friend. Care to join me?"

"Actually," Timothy said, "I think I need to lay down for a while. I'm feeling a bit better, but I'm still very tired from getting here." Emery guessed that Timothy was as much overwhelmed as he was tired, so he bade the boy rest well. Oliver and Geneva, who had gathered silently at the doorway to the study during the course of the conversation, parted to make way for Timothy, and Emery watched him out of the room and up the stairs.

"I put a press on," Oliver said.

"Jehovah bless you, child," Emery replied emphatically, clasping his hands in thanks as he made for the kitchen.

The coffee press was steaming when Emery entered the room, and Oliver had had the foresight to set three mugs beside it. Emery filled them while the others filed into the kitchen behind him. Geneva went to the refrigerator in search of something more to her taste while Oliver and Lydia seized their mugs. Emery reached up to touch his brow, rubbing his temples with his fingers and thumb while he waited for the coffee to cool; it was always too hot for him to drink right after pouring. Oliver blew at his own cup in three distinct, rhythmic breaths before glancing up to see if Emery had noticed; Emery decided not to bother with starting an argument.

Geneva made her way from the kitchen into the dining room and Oliver followed. "Try not to spill anything on the carpet," Emery called after them.

"Okay," Geneva piqued.

"I'm really trying to sound like I give a damn," Emery added in the same tone.

Oliver laughed. "We can tell."

Lydia sank into the seat opposite Emery at the small glass kitchen table. It hadn't been there when Emery had come to look after the property—he still hated to think he had _inherited_ the estate—but Emery had figured that having a table in the kitchen made things a lot simpler than using the cavernous dining room for everything.

"Timothy seems like a good kid," Lydia said.

"Hmm," Emery replied, still thinking about the kitchen table.

"Do you think we'll be able to get him what he needs?"

Emery looked up at her. "I'm honestly not sure," he replied quietly. "Hanssen's really not very fond of me. This will be my second time coming to him for medicine he knows I don't need myself, and last time he was definitely suspicious. I'm not sure _what_ exactly he suspects, but I get the impression that he thinks I'm up to something devious."

Lydia smiled. "If only he knew."

"If he knew," Emery said, "he'd lead the mob that chased me out of Rittenhouse. He's that kind of man, I think." Emery sipped his coffee and found that it was much hotter than he had expected; he gulped it down as he felt a burn forming on the tip of his tongue. He touched the burned spot to his teeth, which only made the pain more intense. Emery glared daggers at the pool of infernal brown liquid in his mug.

"Well," Lydia said, "there's really no way he'd figure out what you're actually using the medicine for, right? I mean, it's mostly safe—"

Emery laughed. "Nothing about this is safe. I knew that, more or less, when I got into it, but it seems a little clearer every day."

Emery shuddered for a moment as he felt the same panic that hit him every time a new refugee arrived at the estate: how much longer could he keep this going? Sooner or later he'd make a mistake, and when the secret was out, it would be his end and Lydia's end and the end of everyone living in the mansion. Emery forced the fear back down to wherever it had come from, and in a moment he was back in control.

"Juliet came calling," Lydia said.

"Oh?" Emery's only real friend in Rittenhouse was also the only other person Emery allowed to visit the estate. "Well, I'll have to get back to her. I should probably get going," he said to Lydia. "Want to come for a walk?"

"I'd like to," she said, "but I should probably stay, with Timothy here and all. It's always good to keep a close eye on them for the first few days." Emery nodded and rose to leave. "But Emery—"

Emery turned to face her. A struggle played across Lydia's countenance before she said simply, "Please be safe, okay?"

"I will," Emery replied. He realized that they were standing inches apart; he didn't even remember rising. He wanted to say something else but couldn't think of what, and after a moment he decided that his eyes had lingered on her face for too long. "I shouldn't be more than an hour," he said quickly. Emery was out the front door before he realized that he had forgotten to wash his mug.

The hospital was a quarter-hour's walk from the estate. The evening was still bright as Emery closed the entry gate behind him and stepped out onto the streets of Rittenhouse, but the sun was steadily descending and would be buried behind the horizon before too long. The first few minutes of the route took Emery through a neighborhood of residences much like his own, massive and imposing, though set on smaller lots. Stacked so closely to each other, the homes looked awkward and uncomfortable, like bodies packed together on the train on a busy day.

Emery always tried to avoid the train if he could help it, using it to get to the collegio only when he was running late (which was more often than he cared to admit) and in the most frigid months of winter. The tracks ran a single circle around Rittenhouse, so the train was useless for short commutes like Emery's southward walk from his home to the hospital. Emery could also have waved down one of the several automobiles that patrolled the streets looking for passengers, but he found this incredibly wasteful. Taking an automobile almost thirty miles to Ambler through myriad dangers made sense; paying an exorbitant fee to avoid a bit of walking seemed ludicrous to him.

Between the buildings, which seemed to grow taller and more plentiful by the month, stood lines of trees, tall and proud. Their leaves were brushed in the reds and yellows of autumn, and as the blazing sunlight struck through their branches, they became spires of still flame. The trees were Emery's favorite part of Rittenhouse; Juliet had recently suggested to him that most of them might soon be gone if construction continued. It was a thought upon which Emery cared not to dwell. The trees were more plentiful in the residential areas; as Emery walked southward, they were relegated to single-file lines on either side of the wide cobbled road. Every now and again a breeze would blow Emery's hair into his face and stir the trees, pulling clusters of red and yellow from them to be scattered slowly across the street.

Emery could see the impressive the shape of the hospital long before he reached its doors. The building was a wonder of recovery, having been found in ruins and since restored to what the architect presumed must have been its former glory. It was comprised of two shapes: its long, low, rectangular south wing met a taller, drum-shaped section that comprised its north end. The brick that comprised the bottom of each of the building's sections was ancient; it had still been standing when Rittenhouse had been established and had provided a foundation for the hospital's rebuilding. The transition to newer materials was a mosaic, climbing upward by bits and pieces: the first patches of new brick appeared a few stories up, bright red against the deep red-brown of the original building. About halfway up the barrel, which was about ten or twelve stories high, the new brick became more prevalent than the old, and another story or two above, the only brick was bright red. Emery reached the staircase leading to the hospital's entrance, where iron lettering above the doors read:

RITTENHOUSE GENERAL

A FREE-MARKET HOSPITAL

FOR A NEW ERA IN MEDICINE

Emery inhaled deeply, pulled open a door, and stepped inside.

The cacophony of human voices struck Emery as if he'd hurled himself against the building's brick wall. The long rectangular building, through which patients without appointment mere made to enter, was the "low" hospital, where countless merchants peddled medicine for every conceivable illness. "You, sir!" one man greeted him from behind a termite-eaten wooden table. "You're looking rather pale today. I have a tonic for that, only five rai for a fellow Roccetti!"

"I'm pale every day," Emery called back, smiling.

"Cocaine pills for all ailments!" another physician shouted. "They cure poppy gum addiction, and you'll feel like a new man!"

Emery waded through the shifting mass of bodies until he finally reached the low hospital's rear doors and passed into the upper hospital. Here, in the grand drum-shaped tower, the bartering and undercutting were performed more discreetly, behind closed doors. Dr. Hanssen's office was on the fifth floor; Emery walked past the gate of the electric elevator—it was Rittenhouse's first, but Emery didn't trust the lurching platform. He found the stairwell and took the steps two at a time.

"I'd like to see Dr. Hanssen," he said to the pretty Vorteil secretary who greeted him when he arrived, breathing heavily, on the fifth floor.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

Emery shook his head. "I can wait if he's not available right now. Tell him Emery Esposti is here to see him, please." He smiled, hoping it would make her more receptive to his request.

It seemed to work: the secretary stepped into an office behind the desk, and a moment later she emerged. "Dr. Hanssen is ready for you," she said. "He told me he was busy, but he wasn't doing anything important, so I told him to take you now." She tried, and almost managed, to deliver the line with a straight face.

A much less welcoming countenance greeted Emery when he stepped into the office. Dr. Hanssen was a standard-bearer for Vorteil beauty, and his azure eyes narrowed in greeting. One could call his features chiseled, but to Emery that seemed far too mild a word: his brows and chin and nose and cheekbones were each a monument to the aspirations of his race. "Good evening, doctor," Emery began. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

No reply. The doctor's face didn't even move. Emery took a nervous glance around the room as he waited. The office was sterling and spartan as he remembered it: the long, unadorned glass desk; the cabinets at both its ends; and the chairs before and behind it were the only furniture in the room. Its sole decoration was the pair of small hawks, carved of wood and painted gold, that rested on either cabinets, matching the small gold badge the doctor wore on the pristine white double-breasted shirt that denoted his station. Emery waited another moment, but Hanssen did not speak. He cleared his throat. "My walk here was quite pleasant—"

"I was using the time between appointments to to enjoy some reading," Dr. Hanssen said, every consonant sharp enough to draw blood, "so if your interruption has a purpose, I would appreciate that you get to it. If you're here to exchange pleasantries, I'll be getting back to my tea and paper." The doctor's long fingers tapped the single-page newspaper that was distributed weekly to whomever in Rittenhouse could afford the expense.

Emery cleared his throat. "What you got for me last time. I need it again."

Hanssen was not surprised, nor was he pleased. "Sir Esposti," he said, hissing the honorific, "are you aware of some epidemic of leprosy in Rittenhouse that no one else has discovered? If so, the hospital should be made aware of it so we can deal with the situation ourselves." He made no effort to mask his disdain.

"That didn't seem to matter last time," Emery said, hating himself for the tremor in his voice. "If you want to renegotiate payment—"

"I would like nothing more, in fact, than to have you leave my office and never inflict your presence upon me again. Do you know how long it took for me, a Vorteil, to secure such a prestigious station in a Farsi-owned establishment? You're scum, sir Esposti, and your even coming into this office is an insult and a threat to everything I have worked to build here."

Emery shifted his weight as though to exit, but Dr. Hanssen raised a hand to halt him. For a long moment the doctor stood frozen in place, arm still raised, lost in thought. "But it just so happens," he said at last, "that you've come to me at the right time. The payment, however, will be of quite a different quality this time."

"What do you want?" Emery asked.

"I have a package that needs delivering," Dr. Hanssen answered, "and the recipient is a hard man to access. Whatever his name may be, he is known as Three Dogs. You've heard of him, I presume?"

Emery shook his head, trying to decipher why the doctor thought he should know the name.

"He is employed by a man named Leon Zakarova, of whom you've doubtless heard. Zakarova is the closest thing to a ruler the mutts have; among many other things, he controls all major poppy gum production in New Providence."

Emery nodded; it was a name he had heard from the king. The king's power in New Providence, such as it was, was bestowed upon him by those poor who needed what he could provide. Zakarova was the de facto ruler of most of the population: he imposed arbitrary taxes, controlled markets, and employed a loosely organized mob of enforcers that amounted to a small army. Zakarova was the reason the king was always on the move.

Dr. Hanssen's thin lips finally turned upward at Emery's acknowledgment. "I'm unsurprised," he said.

His knowing smile made Emery shiver. Damnit. He knows something.

"So it falls upon you," the doctor continued, "to find Three Dogs and make this delivery, and I trust that the package will arrive unmolested."

"How do you suppose I'm going to do this?" Emery asked. The demand was absurd. "It's not like I'll be approved to leave Rittenhouse in order to deliver a Vorteil physician's package to a drug lord."

Hanssen glared at Emery, not moving. His face was so tense Emery thought the whole assembly of muscle and skin may burst; despite his anxiety, he suppressed a laugh at the thought. "Regardless of whether you choose to take this assignment," Hanssen said, "you will be discreet concerning this conversation lest you find yourself in a very unfortunate position." He relaxed somewhat. "And a man like you, sir Esposti, wouldn't need what you're requesting if he didn't have a way out of Rittenhouse and connections beyond its walls." Hanssen was right about that, though Emery wondered just what devious aim the doctor suspected Emery had in requesting the medicine. Did he know? "I was going to send a Vorteil to do this, someone in whom I could trust, but I'd much rather it be your life and citizenship at risk than that of someone in my own circle. So if you desire whatever it is these antibiotics will earn you, you will take the risk of delivering the package and I will take the risk of securing the medication for you. Are we in agreement?"

Emery glared at the taller man, wishing his gaze alone was enough to cut the doctor down. "Where is this package?"

"Its contents are very sensitive," Hanssen replied, "so you will arrange a meeting with Three Dogs and then come back for the package when you are prepared to make the delivery."

The two locked eyes again; for a small eternity, neither of them spoke. "I'll make arrangements," Emery said at last. "Have a good evening, doctor." He was out the door of the office before the words had left his mouth.

The pretty secretary was still smiling when Emery passed her desk, but her expression grew solemn when her eyes met his drawn face. Emery waved, more curtly than he meant to, and retreated to the stairwell. He had no idea where to begin.

**6**

The Way Out

"There's no way in hell he knows," Oliver insisted. "I mean, how many other people have been caught housing mutts in Rittenhouse?"

The question would have made Emery laugh—the idea of his neighbors stumbling home from a night of forty-rai champagne bottles on Locust Point to look after the refugees in their basements was certainly humorous enough—but the question Oliver was addressing was all Emery could think of. He was nauseous with worry. "He knows something," Emery insisted. "Or at least thinks he knows."

"The second one," Oliver says. "If you asking him for the medicine is the only clue he has, then odds are he has some theory that's probably a lot less farfetched than you sneaking paupers into your backyard through the sewer line."

"Oliver's right." Lydia laid a reassuring hand on Emery's arm, and Emery wondered if he looked as afraid as he was. "What we should really be focusing on is how we're going to find this Three Dogs, if it's even feasible." Oliver had known the name: Three Dogs governed Zakarova's poppy production, refinement, and distribution. The collegio's map of New Providence specified the location of the poppy fields, but the tract of land was enormous, and Emery was more likely to be attacked for an intruder than directed to Three Dogs if he just walked into the middle of the fields.

"We don't have much of a choice, do we?" Emery laughed despite himself; it was not a happy sound. "The good doctor has essentially told us that if we want our newest arrival to survive—and we generally try to make sure all our guests here survive," he added with a glance at Timothy, "then we have to deliver this package, whatever it is."

"Doesn't this seem a little suspicious to you?" Oliver pressed. "The model Vorteil making deliveries to a drug lord? Something doesn't fit."

"I thought the same at first," Emery said, "but pride and prestige don't make someone immune to addiction. If anything, people in positions of scrutiny like that seem more susceptible to it than most. There might be something else going on, but my guess is that the esteemed Dr. Hanssen just has a poppy gum craving he's looking to indulge. And anyway, this is also totally unrelated to the question of how we get to Three Dogs."

Timothy had remained silent up to this point. "Emery," he said, "you've been very kind to me. I don't want you risking your life just for me; you've already done more than anyone else has."

"I don't think I've done much yet," Emery said. "You came here looking for medicine, and I'm going to find it for you. You're right, I might have to risk my life for it, but your situation isn't a risk. You're _definitely_ not going to make it without this medicine, and if you ask me, that definite weighs more heavily than my risk. And if you're going to feel guilty over this, I want you to remember that you told me I didn't have to, and that I did it anyway out of stubbornness." He smiled, hoping to put Timothy at ease. "There's no question that we're doing this. We just need to figure out how. So let's review everything we know about Three Dogs and Zakarova."

"Well," Lydia said, "we know that Geneva's parents worked in the fields until they were killed taking a shipment." Lydia shot a glance across the basement in Geneva's direction; the girl had been sent to play by herself, but she could tell that the others were all upset, so she had wandered over every few minutes to listen in on the conversation.

Emery nodded. "Unfortunately, that doesn't give us too much information that we can actually work with. She's too young to remember much, and regardless, I'm not subjecting her to an interrogation."

"I agree," Lydia said emphatically. "But that means we still know nothing."

Timothy leaned forward. "One of Zakarova's people collects a tax from my town," he said softly. "We aren't in Three Dogs' district, so I don't know how much that helps, though."

"Not much, unfortunately." Emery turned to Oliver, who knew more about Zakarova than the rest of them. "Any ideas?"

"Zakarova's manse is in Belmont Arbor, where his richest subordinates also live." Emery knew that Oliver had been a servant to one of the wealthy landowners in Belmont Arbor and that he had eventually fled his master. Oliver had never been willing to discuss the details of his servitude or his escape; even now, the boy's face darkened as he recalled the place. "Three Dogs owns land there too, but as far as I know, he's never actually there. He probably has another home in his own district. Besides, you wouldn't be able to get within a mile of Belmont Arbor uninvited. Is there anyone in Rittenhouse besides you who knows anything about the outside? We need someone we can ask, because we're not going to find Three Dogs by sitting here discussing it."

"There are probably plenty of people with connections," Emery said, "but they don't like to broadcast themselves. Any contact with anyone outside Rittenhouse is illegal, and most people who risk it are probably importing poppy or indulging other appetites. I don't even know how they get in and out. I can't imagine most people using the sewers, and there's never been any sign of them down there. So whoever could potentially help, we're as likely to find them as we are Three Dogs."

"There's someone," Timothy said. The other three turned to look at him. "The king," he continued, much more quietly given the sudden attention. "He'll be easier to find than Three Dogs, and he knows nearly everything that happens in New Providence. But it can take a long time to get an audience with him."

Emery shook his head. "Not for me. I have an understanding with the king; it's because of him that I got into this business in the first place." He wondered why he hadn't had the same idea; it was a more roundabout method than he'd been hoping for, but it was better than nothing. "He'll be willing to meet with me immediately, but we might have a problem finding the palace in the first place. I haven't been outside Rittenhouse in a few years."

"I know how to find one of his gatemen," Timothy replied. "He knows all the places where the palace can be, and when it gets moved, he has a charm that shows him its position. He'll want payment, though," Timothy added somewhat reluctantly, "before he gives us any help. He's not as kind as the king."

"That won't be a problem," Emery said. "I guess the only question is how we're going to get out of Rittenhouse in one piece."

Lydia laughed. "Just announce you've been sneaking us in, and you'll be out ten minutes from now."

Emery's frown cracked for the first time since he had returned home from the hospital. "I don't even know why I make you do things around the house," he said. "I should be paying you just for your great ideas."

"You're leaving?" a young voice asked. The four turned to find that Geneva had once again crept up to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Emery might have to go away, but only for a day." Lydia waved a hand towards the opposite end of the room. "Now _please_ , go play, Geneva. I'll be over in a few minutes."

"It's no fun when no one plays with you," Geneva muttered as she padded off towards the far end of the basement.

"Well," Oliver said, "there's the obvious way: you could just leave through the sewer."

"I'm not—" a wide-eyed Timothy began, his tone surprisingly emphatic, before he calmed himself. "I mean, I'll do whatever I have to," he corrected himself in his usual solemn tone. "But if there's any way besides the sewer, I'd like to not do that again."

"We're going to have to use the sewers to get back in," Emery said, "so I'm afraid you will have to put up with them at least once more. But the sewers are a much better entrance than exit: when you came through the first time, you nearly froze to death, but Lydia was here to give you a meal and a change of clothes. We wouldn't last long out in the wastes after being chilled to the bone."

"I'm out of ideas," Oliver said. "You could always magick yourselves out—" Emery shot him a stern look. "What, you have something better?"

"I do," Emery said. "It's a bit dangerous and I was hoping we wouldn't have to, but here it is: we'll use the train that carries food from Fairmount to Rittenhouse."

"I see," Oliver replied with a condescending smile. "And this is better than my idea...how?"

Emery took up the challenge: "For one thing, I don't think anyone here is adept enough to whisk us out of Rittenhouse even if I gave the okay, so my idea is better than yours in that it's not smartass."

To Timothy he said, "I don't know if you're familiar with Fairmount Farms; it's the agricultural land north of here that provides Rittenhouse with almost all of its food. There's a train that goes from the city to Fairmount and back to take workers out and bring harvests in. The loading platform is near Powelton Market, where most of that food gets sold. Incoming trains are closely monitored to ensure that there are no stowaways, but I don't think the outgoing ones are subject to the same scrutiny. If we wait until it's a bit darker, we can hopefully get from here to there without anyone noticing you, and getting on the train shouldn't be too hard."

"Which leaves just one small problem," Oliver said. "Lots and lots of guys with rifles."

"Oliver's right," Lydia said. "The Fairmount guards are armed to the teeth, and they're looking for people fleeing the fields. If they see you running off, they'll mistake you for thieves from the wastes and shoot you before they can tell otherwise."

"You're both right," Emery said, "which is why we just won't go all the way to Fairmount." He turned to Timothy. "Have you ever ridden a train before?"

Timothy shook his head.

Emery grinned devilishly, as much to suppress his own terror as to convince the others. "Then I guess you've never jumped off a moving train."

Lydia's eyes widened. "Emery, you're going to get yourself killed—"

"I figure that between navigating the wastes and finding this Three Dogs, we're not going to be able to avoid danger, so why not start this lovely outing in the right spirit?" Lydia glared; Emery tried a softer approach. "Look, I'm not too happy about this either, but none of our options are very attractive at this point. I told Timothy I'd get him his medicine, and I'm going to do it."

"Are you sure?" Timothy asked.

"I'm sure," Emery said, "and not another word about it. You're not going to change my mind, but it looks like you might change Lydia's. She really worries about my health, for some unfathomable reason. She probably knows her paycheck is out the window if I break my neck jumping off a locomotive."

He felt terrible the moment he had said it; he had meant it to sound gentler than it had. He shot a glance and a little smile her way. Lydia was looking at her hands, and Emery couldn't tell if she was more worried or hurt.

"I'm not conceding that this idea was better than mine," Oliver said, "until I see you both back here in one piece." There was a note of genuine concern beneath his usual sarcastic tone. Oliver must have realized this, for he felt inclined to add: "Even then, I might just chalk it up to dumb luck."

"Deal," Emery said. "Now, I've only been on my own in the wastes once. It was very brief and a long time ago. So I'm going to ask the three of you: what do you think we need?"

"Flashlights," Timothy said immediately, "and some way to attach them to us. I dropped mine in the sewer coming here, along with my other things, and it would have been the end of me if I hadn't already been within sight of the exit when it happened."

"That should be easy," Emery said. "We should also take a map. I'm sure there are parts of New Providence you know better than others, and we'll want to be able to find our way to somewhere you recognize."

"I'll pack a bag with some dry food and bladders of water," Lydia said. She stood up, clearly grateful for something to do. "Geneva, would you like to help me get some things together?"

The young girl, bored almost to tears, looked brightly up at Lydia and fairly ran across the room to assist her.

"You'll also want some kind of weapon," Oliver said. "You don't know what you'll encounter once you're out there."

"If I bring a weapon," Emery said, "I'm more likely to find a reason to use it. I'd rather—"

"Emery," Oliver interrupted, "don't be an idiot. Trying to save Timothy's life doesn't do him much good if you both get hacked up and harvested for your organs." With a mind for Timothy, he added, "Don't worry, as long as you're sick, they won't want yours." Oliver turned back to Emery. "And don't give me some inspirational speech about how Jehovah God will take care of you. He already has; you inherited your paranoid cousin's house and all the fun toys in it."

"He wasn't paranoid," Emery countered. "He worked as a fisher, and if there's one job in Rittenhouse where you need weapons, it's on a fishing ship."

"You told me Michael never took half this stuff aboard," Oliver said. "He rounded up most of this arsenal after the war in Ambler because he was convinced the same thing was going to happen here. Besides, fishing might have been the most dangerous job in town until just today, but tracking down a poppy king makes fighting raiders on a boat look downright cozy."

Emery couldn't argue that point. "Fine, but I'm not taking the revolver."

Oliver smiled. "Or the rifle?"

"I thought that went without saying considering how much of a pain in the ass it would be...forget it." Emery sighed. "What did you have in mind?"

Oliver stepped into one of the basement's spacious closets where, much to Emery's discomfort, the boy had insisted on collecting and precisely arranging the various implements of violence that Michael Garis, Emery's late cousin, had left scattered throughout the estate. He came back holding an item in each hand. One was a collapsible baton, the other was a machete in a leather scabbard.

Emery looked back and forth between the two. "I'll take the baton."

"You mean you'll take both." Oliver's tone was even bolder than usual. "You might not want to kill anyone, Emery, but have we told you about the dogs? They're not the cute little things the women in Rittenhouse keep as pets. They hunt in packs, they probably weigh as much as you do—no offense—and they're generally unmoved by acts of kindness."

"I'd be willing to bet no one has tested that theory," Emery said, begrudgingly taking both items. He laid them atop the heavy wool overcoat he had selected to wear for the outing. He crossed the furnished area to find a few of his schoolbooks scattered on an end table; he opened one and carefully tore the first page out. Oliver gasped at the destruction of such a precious possession.

"What's that?" Timothy asked.

"A map of New Providence," Emery said. It's a copy of the larger one we have hanging in the collegio." Emery folded the paper into quarters and slid it into the pocket of the coat.

Lydia and Geneva came down the stairs a minute later. Lydia was carrying a black, heavy-looking backpack. "I found the flashlights!" Geneva announced.

"Good job, Geneva," Emery said, smiling. He crossed the room to relieve Lydia of the backpack. It wasn't quite as heavy as it looked; granted, he probably had less trouble with it than Lydia did. "I packed the antibiotics we have here, which I gave Timothy some of while you were at the hospital. They should fight the infection off long enough to keep him going for a while, at least. There's also food and water enough for three days," she said, "if you don't eat too much at once."

"I can't imagine we'll be gone that long," Emery began.

"Good," Lydia interrupted, "then you'll have more than enough." She edged a bit closer. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" Emery set the bag on the floor; Lydia grabbed his arm and led him back over to the staircase.

Emery noticed as he sat down beside her that Lydia's eyes were rimmed with red; she was more upset than she had let on. "What is it?" he asked.

"This whole trip is too impulsive," Lydia whispered urgently. "Don't you have class tomorrow? What are you going to tell your instructors if you're stranded outside the city and miss it? If you wait until tomorrow night, you'll have the whole weekend to work with, and we'll have more time to plan."

Emery shook his head. "We don't know how long it's going to take for the king to find this person we're looking for. What if our best chance is over the next couple of days, and what if we miss it because we waited too long? Timothy is only going to get sicker every day, and we don't know how much time a day's waiting could cost us. It has to be now."

"You're doing that thing you do," Lydia replied. "That stupid savior thing—"

Emery sighed. "I'm doing my job, Lyd. I'm doing what I told the king years ago I'd do. Would you be complaining if the medicine was for you?"

Lydia drew back, looking wounded; Emery realized that had probably been the wrong thing to say. Again.

"Idiot," she said. "You know I didn't mean it like that. I just want you to be safe, and it's going to be dangerous and—" Her eyes pooled with tears again.

"I'm going to be fine," Emery said, rallying all the certainty he could muster. "We'll probably be crawling up the drainpipe this time tomorrow—" he forced a smile—"and you'd better be waiting with a change of clothes for me."

"You can't get hurt," Lydia managed. "I need you."

Emery couldn't help but chuckle at that. "It seems everyone does recently."

She locked eyes with him. "I mean it. I—"

Emery was sure she hadn't planned it; the hand that seized his collar seemed to move involuntarily. Her lips met his in a lingering kiss. He reciprocated the gesture for a long moment, then slowly pulled away. He was sure the smile that twisted his lips this time was a pitiable one. "You can't keep doing this to me, Lyd."

"I'm sorry, I just—"

"It's okay." Emery rose dizzily to his feet and stood there, cheeks burning, until he couldn't bear to be next to her anymore. He walked back to the ring of couches where the others were waiting; Lydia followed him, but not too closely. "I'm sure it's almost dark enough," he announced. "Timothy, let's gather our things."

"I don't want you to leave," Geneva said.

"I don't want to leave either," Emery replied, "but I'll only be gone for a little while. Lydia told me you were the one who heard Timothy down in the pipe. Be listening for us; you'll hear us down there sometime tomorrow." Geneva nodded somberly, somewhat comforted.

The sky was the deep gray-brown of city night when they emerged from the basement. Emery donned his gloves and overcoat; Lydia gave Timothy a similarly heavy coat that was far too large for him. "Here," Emery said, seeing that it reached almost to the floor, "take mine. I'll wear that one, and then we'll both have something that sort of fits."

Emery unzipped his own coat and offered it to Timothy—he was unsurprised to see that it was somewhat more suited to the boy—and put on the larger coat himself. Its massive sleeves gave Emery that all-too-familiar feeling of being a child wearing adults' clothing. Emery's frame was so slight that whenever he cared to have an article of clothing that fit properly, he was forced to have the garment tailored. Normally this frustrated him; at the present moment, his mind was on other things. "We should get going before we miss the last train out," he said.

Lydia approached him with alarming haste and wrapped her arms around his abdomen. "Be safe," she whispered.

He offered her a chaste kiss on the cheek in parting. "I will," he promised. Lydia reluctantly released him.

"Don't burn the house down while I'm gone," Emery said, smiling, and he and Timothy stepped out the front door into the autumn night.

**7**

Jump

He had never taken one of the outsiders past the gates of the manor; only Lydia with her forged documentation had seen the rest of Rittenhouse. Each of the city's myriad streetlights threatened to reveal Timothy's mixed features. He was wearing a hooded jacket under Emery's overcoat, but Emery still feared that some passer-by would see that Timothy looked markedly different than any of Rittenhouse's populace. "What's your village like?" he asked Timothy, as much to distract himself from his worry as out of curiosity.

"It's called Manoa," Timothy said, "for one of the old roads that ran nearby. A bit of it's been restored, but for the most part, all that's left of the road is signs and rubble. It's all overgrown with forest around there now, and Manoa was built in the trees."

"In the trees?" Emery echoed. "You mean beneath the trees, or actually _in_ the trees?"

"In," Timothy repeated. "All the houses and other buildings are above the ground, with walkways connecting them. It can be a bit dangerous for the young kids, but it protects us from dogs and most thieves, and there's good hunting up there. With a slingshot and a few bits of asphalt from where the road used to be, you can hit a couple squirrels or pigeons pretty easy."

"Do you have a school there? You speak more fluidly than most of the people I've met from outside."

"No," the boy replied, "but we have a few books. Our parents try to teach us at least a bit of reading. They say it's one of the things that sets Manoa apart from a lot of the other nearby villages. We pay Zakarova's men a tax to keep peace with them, but we don't do any work for them, and we don't let things like poppy gum into our town." He smiled. "I'm the oldest of five," he said. "Before I left, I was teaching my sister Esther to read. I wonder if she's still learning..." He trailed off. "My mom and dad did everything they could for me, but when it came to leaving the village to find medicine, they had to stay with the younger kids. Otherwise I'm sure they'd be here now."

Emery's worry grew more and more pronounced as he and Timothy moved southwest towards the market. The trek was thankfully short; in just a few minutes, the commercial district's hive of electric lights shone before them. But this was the part that worried Emery the most: how were they supposed to pass through that brightly lit place without being noticed? Invisible fingers tightened their grip on his gut.

"Damn." Emery peered at the market, hoping it might reveal to him some way to reach their destination safely. "I'm not sure we're going to make it if we go straight through."

Timothy shrugged. "Why don't we just go around? We'll find the tracks and then trace them back to the station."

Emery felt a tinge of embarrassment that this boy five years his junior was managing to stay calm while he was handling himself so poorly. "Yeah. Okay."

"What did Lydia say to you before we left?" Timothy asked. "You know, when the two of you stepped out of the room."

Emery glanced at Timothy, taken aback. His expression was apparently an unpleasant one; Timothy shrank. "I'm sorry, I know it's none of my concern. I didn't mean to upset you—"

Emery made a conscious effort to rearrange his features in a less intimidating way. "The question does upset me, but that's my fault if it's anyone's." Emery had gone as far towards the market as he was willing to venture; he turned, and the two headed northwest toward the tracks.

"Since you asked," Emery said, "and since it will distract me from the imminent possibility of our being caught by the Unity guards, the story goes something like this." Another shade of apprehension contorted his stomach. "Lydia and I knew each other, but only in passing, before either of us came to Rittenhouse. I left Ambler in the conventional way, sent here by my parents to manage my cousin's property and correspondence after he died. There was a bit of a disruption with my journey, which is how I met the king, but I'll leave that part of the story for another time. But anyway, a few months after I got here, Lydia was exiled from Ambler."

Emery paused, trying to think of how to phrase the next part, until Timothy asked the obvious question: "Why was she exiled?"

"Well, you know that people in both Rittenhouse and Ambler think very highly of pedigree. And I'm sure you noticed that while both Lydia and I are purebloods, we look totally different from one another. That's because there are four distinct groups of purebloods; we call them circles. The circles all coexist amicably, but there are certain lines you can't cross with someone of another circle." Emery realized that he was sweating despite the cold wind; he raised a gloved hand to wipe his forehead. "Lydia was exiled for...well, for an inter-circle indiscretion."

Timothy nodded, clearly knowing better than to pry. "But someone exiled from one city isn't allowed in the other either?" he asked instead.

Emery shook his head. "There's a bit of a precedent for that. Several years back, a Vorteil faction in Ambler tried to overthrow the four-circle government and take full control of the city. After that, all the Vorteil from Ambler were exiled, not just the ones who had participated in the coup. They came here, but after intense debate, it was decided that it would be too great a liability to let them come in. That decision caused a lot of tension..." he scratched his head. "What were we talking about?"

"Lydia?" Timothy suggested helpfully.

"Oh, right. When the king found her, he sent her here," Emery continued. "She was the first refugee to seek haven with me. We spent a lot of time together and grew close quickly, but she was still raw from what she'd left behind in Ambler, so neither of us was consciously pursuing the other like that. There was always that element, though, but I guess we never really addressed it..." he shrugged as if to shake off the mounting frustration and confusion that surfaced with the story's retelling. "I'm really not sure what happened. When I tried to turn it into something, she wasn't ready; when she was ready, I was ambiguous. I got scared that it would get in the way of the work I'm doing, so I hesitated. I guess for a bit too long. She's seeing someone in town now. A Farsi." A scumbag, he wanted to add. "Of course, it's kind of doomed, since he'd need approval from Ambler to marry her or anything, and then her forged documentation won't get her very far. I guess we'll see how it plays out." Emery sighed.

"Hey, look." Timothy motioned ahead. "Tracks."

Emery had been so absorbed in telling his story that he'd forgotten where they were. He realized that Timothy had intended this in posing the initial question. "I like how you did that," he said.

Timothy allowed a rare smile; Emery took a moment to admire the younger boy's perceptiveness. "Alright," he said, we're going to have to be methodical about this."

To the right of the direction they were facing, Emery could see Rittenhouse's north wall in the distance. Unity guards with rifles patrolled the wall, but their focus was beyond, outside the city. The land immediately inside the wall was one of the last undeveloped areas in Rittenhouse, a graveyard of ancient structures half-standing among scattered trees. Emery noted that it would be an interesting place to visit under other circumstances; he wondered how long it would remain untouched before some mogul planted a housing development upon it. To Emery and Timothy's left, about a hundred yards down the track, they saw the engine of the train they were to board. The platform on either side of the train tracks was awash in electric light and teeming with motion as workers ferried packages to and from the cars of the train.

"I don't know how we're going to be able to get to the platform without alerting someone," Emery began. "Maybe there's a way to—"

A deafening horn cut his sentence short, and the circular light on the front of the train engine ignited. With a groan of weary metal, the wheels began to spin.

"I'll be damned...okay, change of plans. How fast do you think that thing will be moving by the time it gets to where we are now?"

Timothy was bewildered. "How should I know? I told you I've never ridden a train."

"Well," Emery said, "I hope your parents taught you how to pray." He grabbed Timothy's hand and ran in the opposite direction of the train, towards the ruins that stood before the city wall.

"Where are we going?" Timothy shouted.

"That train isn't taking cargo, not at this time of night." Emery gasped for breath as he strained to run and talk at the same time. "It's moving the night shift guards to Fairmount. So if that light shines on us..." He inhaled deeply. "...we're done. We have to take cover in those ruins, and when the last car is about to pass, we make a run for it."

"Why does this sound like a bad idea?"

They were finally to the ruins; Emery doubled over with his hands on his thighs. "Everyone is so damn critical today," he panted.

They ducked behind the wall closest to the tracks. It trembled as the roaring train drew closer; Emery added to his anxieties the chance that it might fall and crush them. At least then, though, they wouldn't have to take the suicidal leap onto a moving train. But there was no such luck; as the first cars flew by, the wall held.

"Alright," he called to Timothy over the din, "Ready...Go!"

They rose from their hiding place and sprinted straight for the wall of motion and sound before them. Emery saw that now, at least, their luck was good: the last car on the train was a flatcar, designed for transporting large containers but presently unoccupied. With any luck, they should be able to—and then they reached the train and there was no more time for deliberation. Emery leapt toward the great moving mass and felt the sickening impact of the metal surface against his stomach. He pushed himself upward and rolled onto his back, dazed and bruised but uninjured. He lay there until he heard a shout of "Help!"

Timothy was still dangling on the side of the train, unable to lift himself onto it. Emery grabbed Timothy's hand and laboriously hoisted him onto the platform. Timothy tried to stand, but the torrent of wind moving over the flatcar nearly knocked him off it. "Stay down," Emery yelled, motioning for Timothy to imitate his position.

The two of them lay on their backs, trembling in the deafening motion and cold, and Emery looked upward at the sky: the thick brown haze of Rittenhouse was gone, replaced by a lucid black infinity housing countless pinpoints of light. The gate through which the train had passed closed behind them with a thunderous crash. The riflemen on the walls continued their patrols, oblivious to the two small figures that, from their vantage, could just have easily have been inanimate cargo. The train picked up speed; by the time it moved beyond the snipers' range, it was moving far too quickly for anyone to attempt what Emery and Timothy had just done. The displaced air rushing around them drowned out the sounds of their voices, so Emery lay silent on the platform, watching the stars. But after less than a minute, far sooner than Emery had expected, the familiar sludge of light pollution entered his field of vision again.

Emery rolled onto his stomach and touched Timothy's arm, motioning to him that it was almost time. Timothy's eyes widened slightly, but he did not hesitate. The two of them edged towards the side of the flatcar until Emery could see the train's destination. In less than a minute, the train would pass inside the razor-wire fence that divided the denizens of New Providence from Rittenhouse's food supply. They would have to jump before it got that far...but the train was still moving at a terrifying speed. The line of trees that bordered the track appeared to be a solid wall; Emery was sure that they would not survive if they struck them.

"There!" Timothy shouted. The headlight of the train had illuminated a small pond. It would break their fall, but it was far too close to the fence. Emery shook his head. "We don't have a choice!" Timothy called back, his voice all but lost between the sounds of the wind and the train and Emery's lightning heartbeat. They were drawing so close to Fairmount that the floodlights illuminated Timothy's face; if a guard happened to glance this way, doubtless he would see them now.

"Okay," Emery said. Timothy nodded. "Ready?"

"Jump!"

A gunshot split the night as they plummeted into blackness.

**8**

Into The Night

The deafening sound of rifle fire, the stinging impact on the pond's surface, and the chill of frigid water all greeted Emery's senses in the same second. His body collided softly with the muddy bed of the pond, and for a moment he drifted stunned in the water. Then he shook off his paralysis, broke the surface to gasp for breath, and half-swam, half-stumbled to the water's edge. Timothy had landed short of Emery, so it took him longer to reach land; each of them in turn threw himself onto the ground, shuddering and heaving.

"What was that sound?" Timothy managed.

"A rifle." Emery raised his arms to wring the water from his hair. "They know we're here, but I'd be shocked if they try to pursue us beyond the fence—"

"Shh." Timothy held a finger to his lips. "Listen."

Emery heard the moaning of the train's brakes as it came to a halt inside Fairmount, but as the noise subsided, voices could be heard amidst it. When the train had stopped completely, it was clear that orders were being shouted. Emery slowly climbed to his feet for a better look, and he swallowed back the shock of what he saw.

"The gate didn't close behind the train," he said. Where the gate into Rittenhouse had closed the moment the train had passed through, this one was still ajar. "I can't be sure, but I think they're going to come looking for us. We need to move _now_."

Timothy rose, and the two of them, still shivering violently, began to creep as quietly as possible away from the glow cast by Fairmount's floodlights. "You know," Emery offered through clattering teeth, "if we just let them shoot us, it would be a hell of a lot faster than freezing to death."

Looking bewildered, Timothy offered no response.

"It was a joke," Emery said. "I guess I'll take it under advisement that it wasn't a very funny one."

Timothy had started to offer a polite response when another gunshot rang out behind them.

The sudden noise caused Emery to stumble; as he regained his footing he broke into a sprint, seizing Timothy's hand and dragging the boy behind him. "You're right," he gasped, "not very funny. We need to run."

Shouts and footfalls chased them through the forest as they ran. Emery and Timothy had something of a head start, but they were drenched to the bone and their pursuers had numbers and firearms at their disposal. Emery felt a stabbing pain in his side as he reached the limit of his stamina, but fear and adrenaline carried his feet. The farther they ran, the darker the woods became, and soon their only light source was the starlight half-obscured by the trees overhead. Emery continued blindly forward until suddenly an unexpected barrier met his shin and he tripped. Emery spun and landed back and shoulders first on the ground; he felt something in the backpack break under the force of the collision. He lay immobile, disoriented, until he felt Timothy's hand tugging on his.

"What the hell just happened?" Emery whispered.

"Brick wall," Timothy replied softly. "You have to look out for those. In the old days, this whole forest was part of the same city that Rittenhouse was rebuilt on. Come on, we have to keep going."

The sounds of Fairmount's guards were indeed growing louder behind them; Emery pulled himself to his feet again and they began more cautiously. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could see that they were standing on the crumbled cornerstone of what had once been a house. The crumbling foundation and the wall over which he had tripped were all that were left of it, but some of the surrounding buildings had fared better over the centuries of neglect. Many walls still stood taller than Emery himself; a few houses were standing almost entirely, with trees peeking out where their roofs had collapsed. "We could hide in one of those," he suggested.

"We shouldn't stay in one place," Timothy said, "but we can move a bit more slowly now. They won't see us in the dark until they're almost on top us, but if we run, we'll give ourselves away."

Emery nodded; it seemed like good sense. As they crept in relative silence through the labyrinth of flora and abandoned homes, Emery's heart slowed, and his outright panic ebbed. The hunters were close enough that he could make out fragments of their communication; they were shouting less enthusiastically now, each reporting that he had found nothing yet. As Emery and Timothy pressed forward, the terrain seemed to grow denser with houses and fragments of houses, and soon they were all but sure they would not be discovered. "They have to turn back soon," Emery whispered. "They can't afford to weaken Fairmount's defenses for much longer. Whoever took the first shot is probably wondering right now whether he actually saw anyone on the train."

"Do you think they know we came from inside the city?" Timothy asked.

Emery shook his head. "They probably can't fathom why anyone from Rittenhouse would be dumb enough to do what we just did. I'm sure people who leave the city regularly to smuggle poppy gum and other goods have a more sensible way of coming and going. They probably think we're some thieves from the wastes who magicked ourselves onto the train."

"I don't even think that's possible," Timothy shivered. "Transportation magic is slow and not very precise; you'd probably kill yourself trying to land on a moving train."

"But they don't know that," Emery replied, "and until you told me just now, neither did I."

For a few minutes, was calm. But as his fear of the guards dissipated, it gave way to a deeper terror. It was a fear that had hung for years at the edges of everything, never quite presenting itself but never remitting entirely. There was no true night in Rittenhouse, with its streetlights and eternal procession of familiar sounds. But in the darkness of the wastes, memories of his last venture outside the city returned. The years peeled back and he saw himself sitting in the warm backseat of a sleek black automobile, its headlights cutting through the night. He remembered watching lazily as the car carried him from Ambler on the road to Rittenhouse, never suspecting the disaster a moment away. He yawned, asked the time. Then an explosion, a crash, the chauffeur's last cry, and rough hands dragging him into deeper dark.

Even as Emery tried to force the memory from his mind, his vision began to distort. Each dim-lit shape that met his eyes twisted into an ominous face or figure; the hallucinations had come in Rittenhouse during the moments when he was most afraid, but never so vividly. His lips trembled as he tried to distract himself, to think the apparitions away, but they would not relent.

"Do you have the map?" Timothy asked; Emery jumped at the sound of the boy's voice. "What?"

"The map," Timothy repeated. "The one you took out of your book. It would be good to figure out where we're going before we wander much further."

"Right." Glad to be distracted from his thoughts, Emery knelt and swung the backpack off. "Hopefully I didn't break too much when I fell back there." He unzipped the main compartment. He couldn't see what was broken, but the contents of the backpack were damp. Its water-resistant fabric had fared somewhat better than his clothes, but when Emery found the map, he saw that the paper was damp. "It's still legible," he announced as he slowly unfolded the sheet, "but we'll have to be careful with it."

Timothy leaned in to get a better look, pointing a flashlight at the paper. "Here are the tracks," Emery said, pointing with his free hand. "I think we've been heading southwest, but we might have gotten a little turned around in the chase."

"The palace is moved every few hours," Timothy said, "but I don't think it goes too far west. There are specific places it usually comes to a stop, and the king leaves gatemen behind at those places in case the palace itself isn't there when someone comes looking."

Emery nodded. "So we're going the right way, right?"

"This map is hard to read." Timothy glared at it for a moment. "But I think we should be about halfway there already, if you're sure we're going southwest."

"Well, that's good news," Emery replied. "If our success is predicated on my certainty, we can't fail." Another blank look from Timothy; Emery sighed inwardly. "Let's keep going."

Emery's fear and the accompanying images had receded while they spoke, but as they resumed their trek in silence, he was assailed again. He drew several deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm himself, but his efforts were to no avail. They were using their flashlights now, and the lights' narrow beams only made things worse, as figures danced at their edges. Emery fixed his gaze on the ground directly before him; this allowed his eyes fewer liberties and, he hoped, would have the added benefit of keeping him from tripping over another wall.

"You seem anxious," Timothy said after a while.

This time Emery managed to keep himself from jumping at the sound of Timothy's voice. "What makes you say that?"

"You're tense." Emery looked up and saw concern, or perhaps just curiosity, on the younger boy's alert face. "Does being out here make you nervous?" Timothy asked.

"A bit, I guess." _That's_ an understatement, Emery told himself. "I had a bit of a bad experience last time I was out here. What Oliver said before we left, about getting harvested for our organs, that was very nearly my first visit to New Providence. I managed to escape, and one of the king's gatemen found me, but it wasn't a pleasant twenty-four hours. Being out here again is stirring up a lot of memories." He paused before deciding to entrust Timothy with more personal information. "Ever since that incident, I...I see things sometimes when I'm in the dark. I guess it's a bit crazy."

"What kind of things?" Timothy asked.

"People, mostly," Emery managed. "Nothing too specific, just vague figures, looming..." he trailed off, unsure of what else to say, and waited for Timothy's response.

"Yeah," Timothy said after a moment, "that is a bit crazy." It was too dark to be certain, but Emery didn't think he saw any trace of humor in Timothy's expression. A mutual decision passed between them to reinstate the silence.

Embarrassment provided another distraction from paranoia, and Emery enjoyed a half-hour of silent walking without another descent into terror. There was a strange majesty to this endless expanse of forest, bejeweled as it was with its countless relics of past human life. Emery could only imagine what such a place would look like in daylight, observed from a good vantage; while he rarely painted landscapes, he would love to capture this one. He couldn't help imagining who might have lived in each of the ruined houses upon whose cornerstones he presently trod, and countless speculations sprang to life in his mind. He would have been content to walk for hours, lost in thought, but at last Timothy announced, "This isn't right."

"What's that?"

Timothy stopped walking. "If the map is right, we should be in a more populous area by now. We should have passed by a village or two, at the very least. I haven't even seen a campfire yet. I think we're walking the wrong way."

"Well," Emery said, "that's going to be a real problem. Because if we are walking the wrong way, I have no clue what the right way is. You haven't seen anything you recognize yet?"

Timothy shook his head. "Everything looks the same in the forest," he said. "As soon as we get anywhere where people are, I'll be able to get us where we're going. The problem is, I don't even know how long that will take us."

Emery took a moment to consider this. "I guess we can either hope the map is wrong and keep going, or pick a random direction and strike off that way. At this point, I think it might just be better to just press forward and hope we get somewhere soon. Maybe we just misread the scale on the map."

Timothy agreed only reluctantly, and he felt it necessary to voice a series of protests as they ventured in the same direction. The two continued for twenty more minutes, Timothy becoming more and more insistent that they turn around, before Emery spotted firelight visible in the distance. "Told you so," he said aloud, but Timothy hushed him.

"We don't want to let them know we're here until we get a good look at them," Timothy whispered. "I don't want to be sold for my organs either. We should turn our lights out."

Again they began silently on their trajectory, but whereas an hour before they had been fleeing danger, this time they were possibly heading into it. They drew closer until they could see the fire distinctly, but no one was visible in its vicinity. "Maybe they're stretching their legs," Emery suggested. "We could look around and see if anyone's home."

"It could be a trick of some kind," Timothy said. "We probably shouldn't get any closer. If these people are hiding from us, I'm not sure we want—"

It happened so suddenly Emery could scarcely believe his senses. One moment the campfire was blazing. The next, it was extinguished entirely; the flames vanished into ink-black night. It was as if several gallons of water had been poured over the flames, but no source was present. Emery's eyes had adjusted to the light, and presently he was blinded. Timothy breathed a curse beside him. Neither dared talk to the other, but their silence was moot: they had been discovered. The beams from three flashlights, their bearers invisible in the night, were trained on Emery and Timothy's faces; forcing Emery to shut his eyes. His hand dived into the pocket of his overcoat and he thanked Jehovah for Oliver's insistence that he not travel unarmed.

"No way in 'ell," came a voice from behind one of the flashlights. "Two purebloods right on our doorstep. Spirit Above, we'll have enough to eat this winter."

"I'm not a—" Timothy began.

"Shh." The lights all fixed on his face. "True, he ain't no pureblood, but look at those rags. And the other one sure is."

"Hand us that coat," the first voice said to Timothy, and "and ye' can go. But ye'—" the lights shone on Emery again—"What's the going price for a pureblood ransom in Ridden'ouse right now?"

The others' responding laughter sounded nervous, not malicious. These three wouldn't take any pleasure in robbery or kidnapping, Emery knew, but he was just as sure guilt wouldn't stop them, not when it made the difference between food and starvation. "I'm on important business," Emery said, his chest shaking. "You can have both our coats...take my bag, too. But I'm not going to let you detain us."

"Sorry, friend, but ye's the one who stumbling into our home. In a few days, ye'll be home safe. But if ye' want it to come to blows, we can oblige." The lights began closing in; Emery knew he would only have one chance. He slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, and as the flashlight before him entered arm's reach, he lunged forward, pressed the button on the baton, and swung. The impact sent a sickening jolt up his arm; there was a scream, and the flashlight fell to the ground. Emery leapt past the fallen man and turned to face the other two. "I told you," he managed, "I can't let you detain us."

The man on the ground moaned. "Well," one of his companions replied, venom in his tone, "we need ye' alive for the ransom. But we'll send a finger or three with the note."

Emery drew the machete without thinking. Damnit, he told himself frantically, this is going wrong. Timothy had managed to get to Emery; they stood glaring into the two flashlight beams. "Please," Emery said, "just let us go."

"Not an option," his assailant spat. Emery saw the glint of weapons as the flashlights drew closer, followed by the glimmer of furious eyes. Emery clutched the machete in his left hand and the baton in his right, trying not to imagine how the former would feel in his fist as it collided with its target. "Last chance," he said, trying to sound imposing.

"Ye' already had yours," the man responded. He shifted his weight, and Emery knew that whatever he held in his other hand was raised overhead, ready to strike. And then, a moment before the blow, a spire of ash descended in their mist.

Emery was too bewildered to be glad that the conflict had been disrupted. The pillar swirled, touched the ground, and with a flash of light from somewhere deep within, the dark mass began to solidify. Cinder and dust rolled off whatever was taking shape at the center, and Emery saw that it appeared to be a man. When the cloud about him dissipated, Emery could make out his features in the glow of the flashlights: he was very tall, clad in a filthy trench coat and wearing an enormous backpack. His face was hard, and with eyes like razors he regarded the light.

"By order of the king," the gateman declared, "you dogs will let these two go free."

**9**

Bargaining

The assailants were clearly as startled as Emery was by the gateman's appearance, but they were not so frightened that they were willing to comply immediately with his request. "Not so fast, Green," said the one closest to Emery. "Did ye' see what he did to our brother's head?" He motioned at the man writhing quietly on the ground.

"I'll give you a balm for that," said the gateman, "but these two have business with the king, and I'll be damned if I put your revenge before my job."

"There's rules out 'ere, Green," the other said. "King knows that. Stranger jumps one of our own, in _our_ camp, we'd 'ave to bloody 'im up, even if he wasn't a pureblood."

The gateman smiled. "If you insist," he said, "you have your little fight. But I'm with the pureblood and the boy. You beat all three of us, I'll go on home, no hard feelings." Both men's eyes widened at this. "Or how about this?" the gateman continued, smiling. "They can even sit and watch. Just you two against me. If you win, hell, I'll hogtie the pureblood myself and hand him on over."

Emery wasn't sure why they were so frightened: the gateman certainly looked imposing, but not enough to fight two men unarmed and unassisted. He shot a glance at Timothy, who looked too relieved at present to be confused. "Ye' tell the king," the first man said, "that he can't go rulin' by threats and strength of arms. There's a reason we don't cast our lot with Zakarova's boys, ye' know."

"The king, and his servants, honor that choice," the gateman said. "But the man you're trying to hold for ransom plays a bigger part than you, that's the hard truth of it." The two men scowled; the gateman reached into a pocket in his huge, threadbare coat and retrieved a two-ounce glass bottle, its label long since worn away. He approached the man closest Emery and handed it to him.

"Made it myself," he said. "Put a few drops on the wound every hour till the bottle's gone, and it'll heal up in no time." He looked down at the injured man. "Just don't blame me for how he looks afterward. Near as I can tell, he was ugly to begin with."

"Get these two out of 'ere before I knock their 'eads off," the man who had received the salve replied, his tone resigned.

One minute prior, Emery had been ready, if reluctant, to go to work on the two men who were still standing; now, as the adrenaline drained from his bloodstream and his perceptions returned to their normal state, he felt awful that he had injured their friend. Upset, but unsure of what to do, he reached into his backpack and dug out the bag of dry food Lydia had packed for him. He tossed it at the nearer man, whose eyes widened as he caught it by instinct. "Take this," Emery said. "I— I'm sorry..."

The man scowled, but Emery knew he was in no position to turn down a gift of food. "Let's get going," the gateman said, and Emery and Timothy turned to follow him. Emery felt the men's eyes on their backs until they were out of sight.

"Why'd you do that?" the gateman asked.

Emery was still thinking of the fight; he looked up, surprised. "What?"

"You didn't have to give them your food," the gateman said. "If you were counting on me to replace it for you, you're outta luck."

Emery had certainly not been counting on the gateman to replace it. "Oh. No, I just felt awful about what happened."

"Why would you feel awful? They jumped you, and you kicked some ass." The gateman paused. "'Course, I guess you did show up in their back yard uninvited, and they had no clue who you were, and they have to worry about feeding their kids..." he trailed off. "Yeah, I guess it was pretty awful. But what else could you have done? Rotten world, rotten choices."

Emery wanted to reply, but he could think of no way around the gateman's assessment. His heart had finally slowed, and he was suddenly aware again of the cold night air and his damp clothing. He shivered.

"Look," the gateman said. "It's a good thing you didn't let them have you, because you're doing work for us that no one else can do. But you should remember what this looks like."

He directed the beam of his flashlight into the trees to their right. Amidst them was a small cluster of hovels, many of which were braced against the tree trunks. They looked to Emery like a herd of sick livestock, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. They were built on the foundations of pre-extinction homes, wrought from the remains of those older dwellings and held together by sticks and mud. Holes in the flat roofs were patched with branches and other plant matter; Emery could hardly see the point in using such an abode for shelter.

"Now, you're a damn saint in my book," the gateman continued—Emery wasn't sure how much irony the man meant to convey in his tone—"but don't forget that when you get home, you have four walls and food and probably silver bricks to wipe your ass with. Those guys back there are honest people, trying to find a way to feed their kids without going to work in the poppy fields."

"That's why I tried to leave them with something," Emery said.

The gateman nodded. "Good. Don't ever stop thinking like that."

"How did you find us?" Timothy asked, breaking his silence.

The gateman grinned. It wasn't a pleasant sight. "Pureblood here doesn't want to know the answer to that."

"Actually," Emery said, "I would have been wondering that myself, if I hadn't been caught up with trying not to get kidnapped. I'm a bit surprised you even recognized me."

"I saw you in the palace a few times on your last holiday out here," the gateman said. "You didn't speak much, but I never forget a face. I heard you're not a big fan of the talents we have out here, but his majesty didn't want to lose track of you. You gave him a silver ring when you first met, right? Well, we did some work on it, and now it lets him know when you're in the neighborhood."

Emery's eyes narrowed. "You put some kind of spell on me?"

The gateman's grin widened: he was enjoying this. "Worst thing it'll probably do is make you sprout a few new fingers," he said, laughing when Emery blanched. "Calm down. The spell is on the ring, not on you. It's developed a, how do you say...hypersensitivity" (he pronounced each syllable of the word meticulously, as if the shape of it felt strange in his mouth) "and it burns a bit when you come around. Once the king sent me looking, it was just a matter of following the pureblood stink till you turned up."

"I'm glad it was so easy for you," Emery said. "Next time, try to arrive three minutes sooner."

"I'd like to see you magick yourself ten feet without keeling over," the gateman said. "No, actually, I'd like to see it just so I'd get to watch you keel over. There's a cost in blood for every spell worth doing, what I just did would kill most people. Even most of the king's people can't whisk themselves as far as I did, as fast as I did, without passing out." He held up his left arm and pulled his coat sleeve back with his right hand, revealing a fresh cut.

Emery tried not to let his queasiness show; magic that required bloodletting always upset him. "What's your name?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Names are for people you trust," the gateman replied; Emery was surprised at the edge in his voice. "You can call me Green. But none of that 'sir' nonsense you purebloods like; the only 'sir' out here is the king, unless you work in the poppy-and-stabbing business."

"Can all of the king's gatemen transport themselves magically like you can?" Timothy asked.

"Most of them, Green said. "None as well as me, of course. All the king's men have their own talents. Mine are transportation and, erm, preemptive defense tactics."

"What?"

"Setting people on fire," the gateman said, grinning again. "With magic." Emery was quickly learning that it was never a good sign when he smiled.

As they walked, it occurred to Emery that Green had other talents as well, ones that he apparently didn't find worthy of mention but for which Emery was grateful. He realized very suddenly that his clothes had dried at an unnatural rate, and the night, while still brisk, seemed far less cold than it had before the gateman had joined them.

"Alright," Green said when they had emerged from the seemingly endless forest onto a dirt road, "we're almost there. I was going to be friendly and provide my services for free today, but since I had to give your friends back there a good balm, I'm going to need a bit of compensation." His tone was suddenly more imposing; his eyes glistened in the moonlight. Emery had prepared for this, but the gateman's casual demeanor until this point had made him forget that, for Green, this was a business arrangement.

Emery straightened his back. "Does the king know you solicit payment from his subjects?"

The gateman scowled, straightening his back to rise to his formidable full height. "First, last time I checked, you wasn't the king's subject," he said. "Second, you can feel free to rat me out when you see him, but good luck doing that without my help. Third, remember those mudholes back there? I have a family too, and my accommodations only look any better 'cause of gratuities like these. If there's one rule for surviving out here, it's that you don't question Providence. You take what you can get. And last," he said with a sudden hint of humor, "I charged your friend here, and he certainly doesn't got nearly what you do. We wouldn't want to set a bad example for the boy by being unfair, now would we?" The muscles in Green's jaw tensed visibly. "And speaking of which—"

His tall body lurched forward, and his arm shot out like a whip. Almost before Emery realized the gateman had moved, Green had seized Timothy by his coat collar and hoisted the boy into the air. With alarming ease, Green's single hand held Timothy so the two were at eye level, their noses almost touching. "That was a cute trick you pulled with the batteries," the gateman hissed; flecks of spittle collided with Timothy's cheeks. "You're lucky you're not alone, you little prick, or I'd leave you to rot."

He dropped the boy to the ground; Timothy staggered but did not fall. His fists were trembling, but his face was impassive. Green turned to Emery, who had been too taken aback to intervene. "I'm doin' business with you," he said, "but don't think you're gonna pull one over on me. Your little friend ripped me off good the last time we met, and I never forget a bad deal."

"Okay." Emery shot an ugly glance at Timothy; part of him was impressed by the courage it must have taken to shortchange the gateman, but presently, it wasn't making the bargaining process any easier. Emery reached into his backpack and produced a small, heavy bag. "How's four hundred rai sound?"

Green opened the bag and fished one of the small stones out from it. It was a flat disc, perfectly circular, with a smaller circle hollowed out in the middle. The gateman held the rai close to his face between two fingers, squinting at it with one open eye. Then, abruptly, he burst out in uproarious laughter. "So it _is_ true," he wheezed. "You Rittenhouse types deal in pieces of rock like they mean somethin'!" He gasped for breath, then continued laughing.

Emery sighed. "It's a medium of trade—"

"Oh, you don't have to explain it to me. With walls all around you an' more food than you can even eat, you all can afford to be stupid!" Then, even more abruptly than it had appeared, his humorous expression vanished. "You're going to have to give me something I can _use_ ," he said, casting Emery a deadpan gaze. "How 'bout that nice coat you're wearing?"

Emery thought about this for a moment; the coat wasn't even one he generally wore, being was far too large, and anyway, it would be easy enough to obtain another. "I'll freeze to death before I get back into the city," he told the gateman. "If you want this, you have to at least give me something to replace it."

"Not a problem," Green said. "You can have mine."

It was the best deal Emery was likely to get, and it was really no trouble to him. He hesitated long enough to appear as though he was conflicted about the decision, making a show of staring at the gateman's ruined coat. He wasn't sure when he'd require Green's assistance again, and the easier he made the barter this time, the more Green would feel inclined to ask for then. "This is a good coat," Emery said. "It'll last you forever, even if you put it through hell. You have yourself a deal, but this counts as two payments. Next time we have this conversation, I don't owe you anything more. And you're settled with my friend, too."

The gateman's eyes narrowed. "Deal," he said. "Stingy son of a whore."

Green's hands in their fingerless gloves darted faster than Emery could track them; Emery wasn't sure how many pockets they entered or how many trinkets they extracted, but soon Green was hold a veritable trove of strange objects. Emery spotted vials like the one the gateman had given the injured man, as well as artifacts Emery hadn't the slightest idea what to make of. The gateman dropped these into his enormous backpack and shrugged off a coat that Emery found himself wearing a moment later. It reeked of sweat and ash, and its fabric was so deeply stained as to give no indication what its original color had been beneath the present green-brown. "Pleasure doing business with you," Green hissed as he buttoned the black wool peacoat that might never have been worn before Emery had selected it for this journey. "Now hurry up. Can't keep his majesty waiting for your sorry hides."

***

Emery felt a thrill of excitement as the headlights of the palace approached. It was just as he recalled, yet no less spectacular than it had appeared the first time he had laid eyes on it. It was more massive than any automobile in Rittenhouse, taller than a train engine, and the light emanating from its windows bathed the road on either side in a cascade of dancing colors. The gateman reached into the wool coat to retrieve his identifying light and directed the beam at himself. The brakes squealed as the palace came to a stop before them, and Green led Emery and Timothy aboard.

Inside the cabin, Emery squinted and tried to identify a face he knew from his previous visit to New Providence. He saw several people he was almost sure he recognized, but those wolfish eyes, that fierce blend of Chukwu and native features, was nowhere to be found. Emery peered at every stranger he passed; a few glanced back at him in wonder, stunned to see a pureblood here. Emery remembered the resentment and shock that had greeted him when he had first arrived in the palace almost three years ago. Today, the people around him didn't exude the same hostility, but perhaps that was simply because this time he was merely passing through.

He was still glancing over his shoulder at one of the strangers he had passed, so he almost tripped over the cot that had been laid out in the rear corner of the bus. Catching himself, Emery turned to see a girl laying on it, two, maybe three years younger than he. Her face was white with pain, and Emery could see lesions on her arms that looked like Timothy's. The girl's illness appeared more advanced; her body was eating itself, and below her swollen cheeks, her face was sunken. Then she turned her head to meet his gaze, and Emery saw her eyes: he could only think that these must be someone else's eyes. This was an enchantment the likes of which he had never encountered; the palace seemed to peel back from his perception until he could no longer feel his feet securing him to the floor. Emery had only ever seen the ocean in pictures, but he was certain he knew in this moment precisely how it must feel to be immersed in that infinite blue. The sick girl opened her mouth as if to speak; Emery stood paralyzed.

In an exercise of masterful timing, Green chose that moment to give Emery a rough shove toward the stairs. "Move it," he barked. Emery felt himself snapped abruptly back into the present, and the girl on the cot swallowed whatever word she had been about to speak. Damn you, Emery caught himself wanting to say to the gateman.

At the top of the stairs, Emery's eyes were greeted by the familiar golden light of the king's chamber. He was speaking to another of his gatemen, and Green held up a hand to halt Emery and Timothy's approach. But when the king noticed their arrival, he said, "That is all for now. Thank you, Violet."

"Thank you, your majesty." The woman bowed and backed towards the staircase, turning and nodding to Green as she passed. Beyond her long, dark hair, Emery could discern little about her; she appeared out of focus, as if she might dissolve into air at any moment. When she had gone, Emery turned back to the familiar man seated on the throne at the far end of the chamber. "Emery Scott," said the king, his smile permeating his voice. "It has been too long, my child."

"Your majesty." Emery approached and took a knee, but the king motioned for him to stand. "Surely you do not bow to every royal man in your own city."

Emery rose and smiled. "Royalty has nothing to do with it, your majesty," he said. "There aren't many people in Rittenhouse worth bowing to."

"I say there be only one," said the king, "and he stand before me. I would bow to you, Emery, but my old knees might give way." He turned to Timothy. "And you, child. I see you did not drown on your way to my friend."

Emery couldn't help asking, "How often does that happen?"

"I think you have burdens enough, Emery Scott, without that knowledge." The king turned to Timothy again, then back to Emery. "Did you find this one what he need?"

"Well," Emery said, "that's actually why we're here, your majesty. Timothy managed to find me, but I'm having trouble getting him what he needs. Specifically, the doctor I've relied on in the past wants another favor this time, and it involves finding someone out here."

"I see," said the king. "Most men seek only their own gain. And if a man in Rittenhouse seek a man in New Providence for his own gain, the man he seek be a dangerous one, I think. What is his name?"

"Three Dogs," Emery said. "Arvid Hanssen, the doctor, wants me to find Three Dogs and deliver a package to him. I don't..." Emery trailed off: at his mention of the name, the king's expression was instantly devoid of his usual joviality.

"Three Dogs," the king said, "is not a good man. Leon Zakarova, he do many things in New Providence, but like all men, he like to be known only for his good deeds. Three Dogs be the devil at Zakarova's right hand, he do all the things too filthy for Zakarova to do himself. Use caution, Emery, if you must find this man."

"I will," Emery replied, "but right now I don't even know where to look. That's why I came to you."

The king smiled, a bit less convincingly than he had before Three Dogs' name had met his ears. "I thought you broke out of your city just to come say hello."

Emery laughed. "It's good to see you, and I wish things were ever that simple."

The king said nothing for a long while; his thoughts turned inward, and Emery wondered if this errand would end in disappointment. "I think I can help you," the king said at last, "but it take time to prepare. Zakarova, he has tried for years to put an end to me, he be the reason I am trapped in this moving cell. But he and his soldiers do not know all my servants, or even all my gatemen. We will find a way. It may be days, but you are welcome to stay with us if you like."

"I'd be honored," Emery said, "but Hanssen wouldn't give me the package until I had a plan in place. I'll have to go back into Rittenhouse to retrieve it."

The king stroked his knotted beard with one hand; Emery noticed the silver ring, an old Esposti heirloom, on one of the man's fingers. "This is a problem. How will you know when we have our way to Three Dogs?"

"I can just enter to retrieve the package and comes out as soon as I have it. We'll meet back up and wait until you've found a way in."

"Your majesty," the gateman said, "If I may." He turned to Emery. "Finding a way could take days, even weeks, and I'm sure your pureblood pals will notice your absence if you're gone that long. Besides, once you get out here, we can't use the same methods to find you this time. The charmed ring is bloody great and all, but if I have to spend hours trying to figure out where the hell you are, we might miss our shot. We need a bit more, how do you say, specificity." To the king he said, "I can make a charm that allows us to reach them inside the city. The moment we have a way to Three Dogs, we signal them to meet up, and with the charms we'll find them in a wink."

"I'm sorry," Emery said, "but no. I don't like talking about this out here because it's not my place, but I don't let anything enchanted into my own house."

"Well, that's real nice." Green tapped his ear. "Now let's hear your idea."

Confronted with the argument (which he himself had employed several times in recent memory) that any idea was better than none at all, Emery fumed but said nothing.

"Then it's settled," Green said. He produced a vicious-looking implement: a shank made from part of an ages-old steel signpost, beaten flat and sharpened at one end, with a wrapping of discolored cloth forming a rough hilt at the other. Before Emery had time to react, the gateman claimed a lock of his hair, then repeated the process on Timothy a bit more slowly, as the boy's shorter hair was harder to get a hold of. "I'll be right back with these," he said merrily, and with that he disappeared down the staircase.

"Emery Scott," the king said, "I must ask one more thing of you. There be a child in my palace, I am sure you saw her downstairs. She suffer from the same illness as this one. When you return, I want you to take her with you. She will survive only another month without medicine. I know my charges strain you already, but I ask you to take this one too."

Emery knew that the king was talking about the girl he'd seen on the cot on his way up. He was torn: an overwhelming guilt at the thought of leaving her here clashed with the certainty that there was no way he could transport her into Rittenhouse in her present condition, much less care for her when they got there. "I..." Emery swallowed. "I don't think I can."

"Can you find no more medicine?" asked the king, and his piercing eyes asked, Can you truly refuse?

"Th—that's not it," Emery stammered. "I mean, that won't be easy, but I think I can demand it for the job I'm already doing. It's that I don't know how much longer I can keep this up before someone realizes. I buy more food than I can eat but don't entertain company; I almost never leave the estate. Rittenhouse is a small place, and people ask about these things." The fears and uncertainties he had repressed since beginning this endeavor more than two years ago had at long last grown too numerous for him to contain, and Emery knew no way to stop them as they poured forth from his mouth. "I don't have time or energy to do the things people my age do, to even pretend to be normal. And I know how important this work is and I'm not complaining about that, but sooner or later, I'm going to screw up and someone will notice and then I'll just be another hungry mouth trying to survive out here." His hands were trembling. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to back out of our deal, it's...it's just a lot."

To his astonishment, the king responded not with a reprimand but with a smile. "There be many boys in this world," the king said gently, "and few real men. I know this is hard for you. Take this one girl, Emery, and then I wait before I send another. When the ones I send already are healthy, ready to help you in this work, I send more, and then only if you wish it. But she is here and she will die soon, so I ask you for this one last favor."

Emery's agreement was a foregone conclusion, and the king knew him well enough to know this. "Can she even walk?" Emery asked wearily.

The king nodded. "I have one of my servants make her a drink. It will give her strength enough for the journey back. I would let her stay here until you have the medicine, but Emery, she die soon unless you feed her. We give her what we can, but when we have nothing, we have nothing to give."

"I don't envy you your kingdom," Emery said. Already he felt horrible for his outburst; the abundance of hardship here made a mockery of his own troubles. "Alright, I'll take her, but only if you're sure she'll make it back. We're going through the sewers, and it'll feel like a waste if all of us drown because we have to carry her."

They were interrupted by Green's voice as he reentered the chamber: "Well, that's taken care of."

Each lock of hair had been affixed to a small stone, joined, apparently, by some foul-smelling liquid whose origin Emery had no intention of discerning. The gateman snapped them in two one after the other, putting half of each of in his pocket. He tied the other halves to pieces of twine and handed them to their respective owners. "Wear them around your necks," he said. "Don't ever take them off. Sleep with them on, and don't bathe because for all I know they could stop your heart if they get wet." When Emery produced the expression Green had been hoping to see, the latter added, "That was a joke. I'm almost positive they won't stop your heart."

Emery reluctantly put the amulet around his neck. The stone rested uncomfortably against the rings of his Unity necklace; he had forgotten until now that he was even wearing the latter beneath his shirt. "How will we know when you send the signal?"

"They'll get warm," Green said. "Or vibrate, or something—hell, I don't know. I guess I could have spent more time on them, but I thought you'd prefer the suspense."

Emery felt a fleeting disappointment at the realization that he could not strike the gateman dead with a glance. He turned back to the king. "Your majesty," he said, ignoring the strong feeling that he didn't want to hear the answer, "How is Manuel these days? Timothy is the first arrival from outside who didn't bring a letter from him, so I was wondering if he was okay."

Timothy stirred at his side; he didn't ask for details, but Emery was sure the younger boy was curious.

The king paused, and that moment of silence confirmed his suspicion. "He perish," the king said. "Just a month ago." Emery slumped. "Until the day he die," the king continued, "he always spoke highly of you. Always told everyone he was the one who found you, who led you to me. He took great pride in you."

"Actually," the gateman said, "he never shut up about it. You were Blue's pride and joy. We were all just damn grateful he never had kids of his own, the way he went on about you after only a month."

"Thanks, Emery said. Do...do you know how it happened?"

"Stabbed to death," the king said, and his face darkened. He paused again, looking conflicted.

"Stabbed?" Emery asked, knowing the king would hear: stabbed by whom?

The lines in the old man's face seemed to grow deeper. "By Three Dogs."

Emery closed his eyes, wishing he could undo his having heard the name. The mission before him had appeared hard enough without this complication. He inhaled deeply and forced himself to look at the king again. "I'm sorry," he said.

"As am I." The king bowed his head slightly. "But do not forget the living for the dead, Emery Scott. Were Manuel still here, he not ask for vengeance but for you to keep saving lives."

Emery nodded. "I won't do anything rash. Your majesty, do you ever fight back against these people?"

"Outside your city," the king replied, "my sons and daughters lose their lives to dogs every day. There is in Rittenhouse an animal called the dog, but he is small and timid, and your rich keep him as a pet. You yourself told me this."

Emery nodded.

"Why do you think this dog is so kind to his master?"

"I'm not sure, your majesty."

The king smiled, more darkly than before. "Because he lack the strength to be cruel."

Emery nodded again, unsure of what to say.

"We will see each other soon," the king said. "Take care, Emery. When we find you a way to Three Dogs, we let you know. Be ready."

"I will." Emery bowed again. "It's always a pleasure, your majesty."

"Well," Green said, "Come on. Time to meet your travel buddy."

**10**

Underwater Again

She was the most beautiful girl Timothy had ever seen.

"We all call her Leaf, since she just blew in here from nowhere." Green shot a glance at the girl, who was sitting on her cot sipping a foul-smelling concoction from the bottom half of an old water bottle. "Mum's the word on where she actually came from, and good luck getting it out of her. If five people have asked, you can bet she's told seven different stories."

"Thanks for letting me know," Emery said.

The gateman started to say something else, but Timothy was barely listening. He couldn't peel his attention from this strange girl who had come from everywhere and nowhere. Every time her glance met his, Timothy was electrified: never in Manoa had he encountered such a creature. She was undeniably a daughter of the wastes, completely unlike Lydia, but different too than anyone Timothy had met in New Providence. Green's warnings aside, Timothy was positive that meeting her was a blessing equal to the chance of finding a cure for his sickness.

"You'll want to leave as soon as she finishes that," he heard Green saying to Emery. "It should last long enough for you to get back, but not much longer, and it'd be a damn shame if she passed out halfway through the sewers."

"Thanks for that," Emery said, pursing his lips. "I don't guess it's every day you find a superstitious young pureblood to torment."

Green smiled. "You can't imagine how much fun I'm having. Speaking of which, I suppose you'll get plenty wet going through the sewers, so by the time you get into the city, you should know whether it's safe to bathe with those charms on."

"Delightful."

"Also," Green continued, "this probably won't be much of an issue for you, but if you know anyone who likes magic better than you do, stay away from them for a few days. If somebody casts a spell near near an enchanted trinket, it can react in all sorts of surprising ways."

"Believe me," Emery said gravely, "I know."

"We're as close as we can bring the palace to the entrance. You remember the way to the hole, kid?"

It took Timothy a moment to realize the gateman was talking to him. "Oh. Um, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to remember. I don't know if I'll remember my way through the tunnels, though."

Green sighed loudly and rummaged through his backpack for another copy of the map, this one drawn on what looked like a scrap of old newspaper. "Try to be more careful with this one, will you?" he said, thrusting it into Timothy's hand. "These things are expensive. Paper doesn't grow on trees, you know." Timothy decided it would be ill-advised to contradict the man.

The girl who the others called Leaf squinted and swallowed the rest of the fluid in a laborious gulp. "Alright," Green said, "it's time for you to get outta here. I'm sure I'll see your lovely faces soon."

The girl climbed shakily to her feet and walked with Emery and Timothy to the front of the bus. The palace guards tensed as the door slid open, always ready for whatever threat may assail them in the night. The constant motion and excitement had kept Timothy alert, but as he hopped from the palace steps to the ground, the dark and quiet reminded him how exhausted he was. "Spirit Above," he murmured, "I think this is my second time doing this in just over a day. And I told myself the first time that I'd never have to do it again."

"More and more these days," Emery said with a distasteful glance downward at his new amulet, "I find myself doing things I swore I never would."

"So you can get into New Providence through the sewers?" the girl asked. "Why don't more people do it?"

"Two reasons," Emery said. "First, unless you know exactly where you're going, you're more likely to drown than to get anywhere. And second, Rittenhouse isn't generally friendly to outsiders who come crawling up through the pipes. I can't think of a single good outcome for the unlucky soul who emerged soaking wet in the middle of Walnut Street. We have the advantage of knowing the one path that ends in my backyard." He extended a hand to the girl. "I didn't have the chance to formally introduce myself in the palace. Emery Scott Esposti; it's a pleasure."

Somewhat bewildered, the girl took Emery's hand. "You can call me Leaf," she said.

"Yes I can, but I don't think I will," Emery said. "I realize that people don't give their real names out as freely here as they do in Rittenhouse, but I'm placing a good deal of trust in you by taking you into my home. In return, I ask that everyone who comes to stay with me gives me a name, not just an alias."

Timothy didn't think the girl had been expecting such a direct approach. "Vera," she said, glancing away.

"Vera," Emery echoed. "It's a good name. In my college, we spend a lot of time on linguistics, which is basically the study of the Modern language and how parts of older languages contribute to it. The name 'Vera' comes from a word meaning 'truth.' And you're not telling it." Emery's eyes looked colder than the night air. "Last chance, miss."

Timothy was glad that he wasn't the one on the receiving end of Emery's stare, but he wanted nothing less than for a fight to break out between Emery and the beautiful girl. If that happened, would Emery leave her here? Timothy wasn't sure.

The girl whose name was neither Leaf or Vera cleared her throat. "Miren," she said. "My name is Miren. I'm sorry, I—"

"I understand all the reasons," Emery said. "It's rough out here. But I have my own reasons for wanting honest answers to my questions. Every time I accept a new guest from outside, it endangers me and everyone in my house if that person isn't honest and doesn't follow the rules. Would you tell Miss Miren the rules, Timothy?"

Timothy swallowed; it was his first chance to address the girl directly. "I'm Timothy," he said, extending his own hand. "It's nice to meet you." A thrill ran through his body as Miren's fingers met his. "Um, the rules are..." He strained to remember; it felt like forever ago that Lydia had outlined them for him. "No poppy gum or other drugs, no magic, stay out of the front yard, and you can't use the top floor."

He breathed a silent sigh of relief that he hadn't embarrassed himself in front of Miren or disappointed Emery. "You're allowed anywhere else inside the house," he said, trying to sound welcoming.

Emery wasn't done pushing. "Will any of those be a problem, Miss Miren?"

Miren looked at her feet. "No."

"I have your word?"

She looked up, but at Timothy, trying to avoid the chill of Emery's gaze. "I promise."

"Good," Emery said. "This is normally the point where I show you around the house, but this is my first time meeting a new resident out here. When we get to the estate, there'll be a warm meal and a bed waiting for you." He motioned for them to resume walking. "I just hope that elixir Green gave you will keep you on your feet long enough."

Miren looked slightly put off by Emery's stern introduction. "You don't like magic," she said, "but you seem fine with the gateman giving that drink to me."

"In my house," Emery told her. "Out here, I go with whatever the king says. Inside, it's different circumstances and different rules." Miren nodded, seemingly content with the answer, or perhaps just choosing not to argue.

The walk from the palace to the tunnel entrance was much shorter than it had been on Timothy's previous trip; the palace must have been closer this time when they exited. Tonight, they could see the tunnel after only ten minutes.

"Here it is," Timothy said, motioning toward the circle of black before them. He had thought he'd be able to play brave to impress Miren, but as he edged toward the tunnel, he felt his knees beginning to tremble. He remembered the rush of rancid water that had charged suddenly down the chamber and immersed him, felt the stabbing pain as his lungs were flooded. He had made it to safety, but almost at the cost of his life: had Lydia and the others not found him when they did, Timothy was sure he would never have emerged from the drainpipe. And though he was trying to put on a good show, Timothy was weaker by the day: the illness they had set out to cure was eating a little more of him every hour, and with every passing hour he was more aware that his sores were festering with infection from the sewer water. The medicine Lydia had given him at Emery's instruction had helped, but it did little to restore the strength Timothy had already lost. The pain was omnipresent now.

"Flashlights," Emery said. "Timothy, you have the sewer map?"

Timothy fished his light and the scrap of paper from warm pockets. "Emery," he said. "I'm sorry, I should have thought ahead. This is going to ruin your good coat."

Emery laughed. "We didn't take anything on this trip that I really intended to keep in one piece, besides ourselves. If it keeps you from freezing to death in there, it's served a bigger purpose than it ever did before today."

"I don't have a flashlight," Miren interjected.

"There won't be any other light in there," Emery said, "so stay close to one of us no matter what." Timothy hoped it would be him, and his wish was fulfilled when Miren took his arm. He supposed Emery had intimidated the girl.

They waded delicately through the ankle-deep refuse that surrounded the tunnel's entrance and stepped into blackness. Timothy gagged as the too-familiar odor assailed his nostrils. "It's funny," Emery said. "Some people inside will spend fifty rai on a single dish, yet either way it ends up here."

Timothy found himself too weary to converse as they journeyed through the bowels of Rittenhouse, but nevertheless, he was immensely grateful for the company this time. He knew the eyes behind Emery's roving flashlight beam were more vigilant than his own. Emery jumped every time they rounded a corner or heard some unfamiliar sound; in response to Miren's questioning glance, Timothy explained, "He's a little bit crazy."

"Thanks for that," Emery said dryly. "From now on, I'll be sure to tell you everything."

Timothy's feet were soon numb from the water that ran over his boots, but the warmth of the body beside him distracted him from his discomfort. Whenever he felt Miren shiver, he smiled and pulled her closer. The rational part of Timothy's mind told him that a creature this magnificent—and years older than him, besides—would be unlikely to return the adoration he felt for her, but this was almost beside the point. Miren was radiant, and Timothy felt fulfilled just being in her presence. He smiled at the feeling of her hand on his arm, and something in him was sure that Miren too was smiling.

Time was lost in the labyrinthine sewer system. Timothy was not sure how many hours had passed when he handed the map to Emery, who reported, "We're more than halfway there. It should be another hour and a half a most—"

And then Miren staggered, reached for Timothy's arm, pulled him off balance. Timothy plummeted, falling face-first into the water. The impact and the cold stunned him; for a moment, all he could think that he was underwater again, just like last time. He took a panicked breath before he could stop himself, and the freezing water surged into his body. The filthy cold stung the open sores on his chest and stomach and legs.

He felt something pulling him up by the collar of his coat: it was a moment before he realized it was Emery, crouched in the water, holding Miren by the waist in his other arm. "Are you okay?" he shouted.

Timothy coughed, sputtered, and managed a feeble nod.

"The elixir gave out," Emery said. "She's unconscious."

Timothy shook himself from his stupor and was by the girl's side in an instant. "Is she going to be alright?"

"I don't think she's hurt," Emery responded. "Not severely, at least. But we're going to have to carry her out of here. Damn, and this whole holiday was going so smoothly."

Timothy struggled to recall any part of their journey that had gone smoothly. He knelt next to Emery and inspected Miren, who was, as Emery had reported, mostly unscathed.

"I'm soaked," Timothy said. "Miren too. We're going to freeze if we're down here for too long."

"I know." Emery looked at his own clothes, which had also been covered in sewage. He motioned at the jacket he had inherited from Green. "I think I ruined my lovely new coat."

For some reason, perhaps because it was a momentary distraction from what had just happened, Timothy found this rather funny. Emery looked relieved to see him laugh.

"Alright," Emery said. "This isn't going to be easy, but we can do it." His voice quivered a bit, detracting from his tone of command. The beam of his flashlight traced the walls of the tunnel slowly, scanning. "All we need is—" he abruptly fell silent. "Oh, no." He reached down into water, frantically feeling for something he did not find. "No, no, no."

His sudden fear was contagious. "What is it?" Timothy asked softly.

"When I reached to catch both of you, I dropped the map."

**11**

The Price

Cold black water burst through Emery's lips as through a broken dam, conquering his defenses and rushing triumphantly into his lungs. He gasped for air, but the request was met with more water. His chest screamed as he flailed blindly, unsure which direction would lead to the surface. Somewhere beyond his grasping fingers, Miren and Timothy were sinking further—

Emery awoke with a violent start that did not go unnoticed. "Sir Esposti." M. Oburumu had stopped the lecture and was looking at him, prompting the rest of the class to do the same. "I apologize if I am boring you."

"Not at all, Maestro," Emery managed. "I'm sorry, I didn't sleep well last night."

It was an outright lie: in fact, Emery had not slept at all. How many hours he and Timothy had spent in the sewers, dragging Miren between them as they tried to find their way, he did not know. A wrong turn had found them neck-deep in rushing water, which Emery was still not sure how they had survived. And when at last they reached the pipe that led to the estate, he had no time for the meal and rest he had promised the others: it was broad daylight already, and Emery had time only to change and shower before sprinting out the door to school. Lydia had tried to make him stay, and he would gladly have done so, but the collegio did not tolerate absence without explanation. Emery's excuse, while certainly significant enough to warrant missing a day of class, wasn't exactly admissible, being as it was highly illegal. He rocked back and forth on his cushion, praying that the momentum would keep him awake, but every muscle in his body whispered mutiny.

"I hope your nap in my lecture hall has you feeling better rested," M. Oburumu replied. There was concern on the maestro's face, but he wouldn't coddle Emery in front of the other students. "The question I posed to your classmates was this: why did both the circles of Rittenhouse and New Providence's other ethnic groups come to America after extinction, rather than rebuilding in their home countries?"

Emery whispered a prayer of thanks that the subject of the discussion was one he knew. "Well," he said groggily, trying to buy a moment to wake up and bring the information to mind, "it's kind of a trick question. A lot of the survivors did stay where they were, and we think it was at least a generation after extinction that the first immigrants crossed the oceans. The reason that some people came here, though, was hope, I guess." The facts were coming back to him as he spoke. "The American nation was one of the world's leaders in technology, so our ancestors thought that whatever had happened, maybe the Americans had found a way around it. Some of them even thought the Americans had caused extinction, either by accident or intentionally."

"Very good," M. Oburumu said, and Emery hoped he was back in the maestro's good graces. "Based on what we know from our ancestors, the American nation was thought specifically to be a leader in both weapons technology and defenses against other nations' weapons. When the immigrants arrived here, of course, they found no explanations and no other inhabitants except those to whom we now refer as the natives, who knew equally little about what had happened. As you all know, early interactions between the natives and the new arrivals were almost entirely hostile..."

From the corner of his heavy-lidded eye, Emery saw Carla Engal staring at him with what was far from the friendliest demeanor. Emery got on far better with his professors than his fellow students. To most of them, he knew, he was an outsider and somewhat of a threat, the underachiever whose effortless performance in the collegio belittled their hard work. In truth, Emery was no underachiever but rather perpetually distracted by his unusual home situation; had he the concerns of the other students, he would love to pour himself into his studies. And with those few who were neither envious of his high marks nor put off by his eccentricities, Emery could still only pursue the most casual of association: he enjoyed a drink after class with these most accepting of his classmates on occasion, but he had to keep his distance lest he betray himself by some slight mistake. He was isolated, surrounded by a veil of secrets, and the only classmate he could call a friend was the one he had told everything.

He had been dangerously close to dozing again, but Carla's voice cut through the fog gathering around his mind: the maestro had said something to injure her pride. "My uncle said it was the Vorteil who helmed the first ships from the old world," she said. Emery wasn't sure who the man was, but he had often heard Carla brandish the line "my uncle said" before: presumably he was one of the Vorteil elite.

"To the best of my knowledge," M. Oburumu said cautiously, "your uncle would be mistaken in this. First, remember that there were technically no Vorteil at the time: the circles we acknowledge in Rittenhouse formed generations after coming here. And while there were many attempts to cross the Atlantic after extinction, our records show that the first successful, large-scale effort was orchestrated by Captain Gino Gullini, an ancestor of what is now considered the Roccetti circle."
Gino Gullini was a household name in every circle; Emery wondered what narrative the Vorteil had spun to undermine a significant achievement by a man of another race. Their nautical background was a key part of the Roccetti heritage, from Gullini to their current role as Rittenhouse's sole provider of seafood. Rex Gullini, Gino's descendant and the first Roccetti sovereign in Rittenhouse, had made his name battling the pirates who had controlled the waterways at the city's west boarder. With their swift little ships and sinister craft, the pirates still roamed the bay and ruled the Scattershot Isles, and at dawn the towering shadow of their Cloud Throne reached from its submersed foundation to blanket Rittenhouse's eastern wall. But since Rex Gullini's day, the Roccetti fleet had held the Schuylkill River and the open waters between Rittenhouse and the pirates' Sunken City, sailing freely even in the skyscraper's looming shade.

"Of course, on their arrival, Gullini and his fleet found a much different America than they had expected." Emery had to remind himself which Gullini was the subject of the maestro's lesson. "The voyage itself was far longer than they had planned; the ships' resources were depleted, and many died in the passage. Those who lived long enough to reach the shore were met with scarce resources, a harsher climate than they had anticipated, and skirmishes with the natives. Families and clans departed the group, and the colony of New Providence broke into dozens, then hundreds, of individual tribes and factions."

Emery knew the story well. Generations passed, but eventually the pilgrims' descendants remembered what had brought them to this continent in the first place, and they banded together to establish a bastion of civilization in the heart of rapidly deteriorating New Providence. The four circles, in their earliest incarnation, were born not of perceived superiority but rather the need for government: central leadership had given way to clan autonomy, and each of the member groups of the newly founded Rittenhouse was required to demonstrate not only its ability to contribute to the whole but its capacity for self-government. In those days, the circles still traded with the outside world. But as the recovery and reconstruction of pre-extinction technologies made Rittenhouse the envy of surrounding tribes, walls were erected, and relations with the outside world eventually ceased entirely. Unity, Rittenhouse's only inter-circle governing body, was eventually established to keep the peace and manage disputes between the circles, but most authority was vested in each circle by its own system of government.

When at last the class was dismissed, Emery fairly leapt to his feet, hurrying out before M. Oburumu could deliver a reprimand that Emery did not have the energy to receive. Outside the lecture hall, Juliet was waiting with her back turned to the door and her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. "What's up?" Emery greeted her.

Juliet turned and swept a wisp of straight black hair from her face. Emery's best friend was slight of stature, not as bony as he, but certainly slim for a girl. She was quite pretty, though like Emery, she was somewhat unkempt and her face bore a distant expression as often as not. "Nothing much," she answered. "Are you free to work on stuff this afternoon?"

"Work on stuff?" Emery echoed vaguely.

"Um, yeah...did you want to do some painting?" Juliet and Emery were frequent collaborators; Emery was rather abashed that Juliet's question had required explanation. Juliet looked at Emery more closely: "You look like hell. How are you feeling?"

Emery rubbed his temples with his fingers. "I'm surviving, which I guess is an accomplishment at this point." He leaned in and said in a lower voice, "I went out last night."

Juliet looked surprised. "You should have invited me. Where did you go?"

"No," Emery said, well aware by this point that his exhaustion was impeding communication. "Look at me. I went _out_."

Juliet stared in consternation for a moment, then her dark eyes widened. "Oh," she said. "Oh." She grabbed Emery's arm and pulled him further away from the clusters of other students wandering the halls. "Why? What happened?"

"I'd love to catch you up on it," he said, "but I'm dead on my feet." He struggled to formulate an idea and accompanying sentence. "I'll tell you what, I'm free tomorrow. We can meet up whenever you get out of class and ruin some good canvas. I'll tell you the whole story then."

"Alright. You going to be okay?"

Emery nodded slowly. "Yeah. I have to stop by the hospital; I'll see if Dr. Hanssen can give me something to remedy inhaling half a gallon of sewage. Then I'm going home to hibernate."

"Okay," Juliet said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Take the train; don't try to walk too far."

Emery nodded; at the moment, the thought of walking was only slightly more appealing than the prospect of burning to death. Or drowning, which he could very nearly compare from firsthand experience. Emery dismissed himself with a weak wave and stumbled down the corridor.

Unfortunately, a fair deal of walking was unavoidable in traveling from the collegio to the hospital to the estate. For the first time in Emery's life, the idea of traveling such a short distance by automobile seemed more appealing than impractical, and he would have waved one down if he had seen it. He was not so lucky, and by the time he reached the hospital, he was feeling as nauseous as he was exhausted. Bracing himself against the brick wall of the building, Emery leaned over and vomited into the hedges. Apparently he'd taken more of the sewer with him than he'd thought. As he stumbled to the entrance, Emery prayed that one of the vendors inside would have a fresh pair of legs for sale. He hurried through the low hospital, and when he reached the upper hospital, he actually took the elevator to the fifth floor. "Could you please let Dr. Hanssen know I'm here?" he said to the pretty secretary, forcing a smile.

"He should be free," she replied. "Just a moment..." She disappeared into the doctor's office. She was probably gone for only a minute, but Emery felt himself falling into unconsciousness by the time she emerged. "He'll see you now." He jerked slightly at the sound of her voice; the secretary cocked her head and regarded him for a moment. "Are you feeling okay?"

Emery smiled. "I've been better," he said. "But that's why I'm at the doctor's, I guess." The secretary, knowing nothing of drug lords and contraband packages, was content with this response. She sat back down at the desk and began writing in her log. "Your name is Emery, right?"

He nodded. "Esposti. And you?"

She smiled. "Chelsea. Chelsea Engal."

Emery extended his hand, which the secretary met with a surprisingly vigorous handshake. The name sounded more than a bit familiar, but each thought that passed through his mind seemed to derail before it reached its destination.

"I trust that you've done what we discussed on your last visit," Dr. Hanssen greeted him, rising to his formidable full height as Emery entered the office. The doctor was no less imposing than he had been the day before—had it really only been one day?—but Emery found himself too weary to be intimidated. He felt like he was watching this room and this exchange from far away, and its outcome was of only trivial concern to him. "I made the arrangements," he said, "but I don't know precisely when my connection will be ready. I need to be prepared to leave immediately when he signals me, so I'll need the package now."

Hanssen nodded. "And how does your connection intend to contact you when his preparations are made?"

"Sorry, doctor, but I prefer to keep my means to myself. Things are less complicated that way." Emery took a step towards Hanssen's desk: this was the part of the exchange that would either go well or disastrously. "There's one more thing. Getting to Three Dogs isn't easy, and I'm sure it's as much a challenge for you as it is for me. I can do it, but some vital people needed convincing. My price has doubled. I need antibiotics for two people."

The doctor's steel blue eyes narrowed until they were razors. "You insolent little—"

"If you don't like my price, you're free to take your business elsewhere. But my connections are already moving into place, and people like Three Dogs don't take kindly to sudden changes of plans."

Emery was unsure whether this was actually true, but the hostility on the godlike face told him he had the doctor cornered. If Hanssen had any alternative, he would meet Emery's demand with derision, not rage. The doctor stood impassive, weighing his options. "Enough for two," he said icily, "and no more. If you try to renegotiate the terms of this agreement again, I promise it will not end well for you."

Hanssen sat at his desk and scrawled a brief note on a slate of beige paper. Emery tried to glance its contents, but the doctor glared up at him and shielded the paper with his other hand. Hanssen produced the package from a cabinet beside his desk and put the note inside it; whatever else the package contained was wrapped in protective material. "Do not open the package," he said, not looking up, as he closed the wood box and affixed a seal over the opening. "Do not handle it roughly, do not drop it, and do not submerse it. Following these instructions will ensure, among other things, your own safety, though that is certainly not my foremost concern." Now he met Emery's gaze. "I have my own means, sir Esposti, and I will know whether this parcel reaches its intended destination long before you find your way back into the city. I advise you to return only upon the successful completion of your errand."

"I honor my word," Emery said curtly.

Dr. Hanssen emitted a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a snort. "I've known addicts of every circle and station, sir Esposti. When there's gum on the line, they rarely honor their word."

Emery's indignation seized his tongue before he could restrain himself. "Really?" he asked incredulously. "You think I'm a poppy addict?"

"Have I offended you?" Hanssen taunted. "I don't care to debate semantics, if you prefer to term yourself an _enthusiast_. I find you despicable whatever name you choose, and if you were, or claimed to be, a Vorteil, I'd have dragged you before the Council months ago. But if you other circles choose to destroy yourselves with vice, I certainly will not stand in your way."

This, Emery tried to tell himself, was a benefit: whatever Dr. Hanssen thought of him, misleading the man would keep his true secret from being revealed. "All I'll say is that the package will get where it's going."

"I'll believe it when my sources affirm its arrival," Hanssen replied. "Now, may I finally be rid of you, or is there some reason you're still in my office?"

Emery's exhaustion had finally pushed him to the point of delirium, and much to his own surprise, he smiled. "Actually, doctor, my trip outside to arrange all this beat the hell out of me. If you would be so kind as to recommend some remedy to ease this pain in my back—"

The doctor's fist slammed against his desk involuntarily, cutting Emery's sentence short. "Get out."

Emery picked the package up from the desk. "You're the one who told me to be careful with this," he said, unable to resist antagonizing the proud man. He had the vague fear that he would never address Hanssen so recklessly if he had his wits about him, that this Vorteil was dangerous and might punish his irreverence at the first opportunity. He ignored the thought and exited the room with a little bow. "Good day, doctor."

**12**

Colors

His sleep was dreamless and deep. Drifting gradually back into consciousness, Emery peered through one eye around his bedroom: by the darkness around the edges of the window drapes, he judged that the sun had set. He attempted to rise to a sitting position, but almost immediately the nausea surfaced again. Emery whispered a prayer of thanks that he'd thought to set a basin beside the bed. After that, he surrendered himself to unconsciousness again. When the sun's rays slithered through the tiny gaps between the windows and drapes, he was feeling no better. He managed to rise this time and stumbled down the stairs. When he found Lydia, he learned that the others were bedbound as well, their lesions festering with infection. Leaving them in her care, Emery found the telephone and pulled four of the little numbered levels in sequence. He was greeted by the voice of Alan, Juliet's father. Emery asked him to inform his daughter that he'd taken ill and would have to cancel their engagement. Alan promised to pass the message along. Emery wished him a good day, then crawled back up the stairs to his room.

The next few days blurred together, an endless procession of the same recurring hour. The sunlight made Emery's splitting headaches worse, so he kept the curtains closed, but then day and night were almost the same thing. By Sunday evening he could keep food down, and then Monday morning arrived and he forced himself to rise and attend his classes. It was all he could do to stay awake through the lectures; on the other hand, he was growing restless spending so much time at rest. Every day he waited fretfully for some change in the amulet around his neck, hoping he'd find his strength before it was time. Slowly he started feeling better, and Lydia reported that Timothy and Miren were both improving as well, doubtless thanks to their steady diet of medicine from the low hospital.

A full week after his visit to Dr. Hanssen, Emery woke in the evening with a ravenous appetite. He hadn't been able to eat much even once he could eat. But now, though he was still weak, he thought the illness must be behind him. He lazily donned the first shirt he could find, hiking up the sleeves and not bothering to do the buttons. Foraging through the kitchen refrigerator, he was delighted to find that someone had prepared some peppers and steak over rice and stored the uneaten portion in a lidded glass bowl. He was debating whether to put it on the stove when a voice behind him said, "You want some help eating that?"

Emery turned, startled: the kitchen had been dark when he'd entered, so he'd assumed he was alone. Miren was sitting at the glass table with a glass of wine, the bottle half-empty beside her. "We can trade," she continued, motioning to a second, empty glass.

It took Emery a moment to recover from the surprise. "You're not supposed—"

"You made Timothy tell me all the rules, remember?" She gave a little shrug. "I'm not breaking any of them. Besides, Oliver says being seventeen makes me an adult in Rittenhouse."

Emery sighed; apparently, he was going to need to make some new rules. For now, he sat down at the table and filled the other glass. "Where'd you even find this?"

"In one of the rooms downstairs," Miren replied. "The one next to the weapons closet." At Emery's nervous glance she added, "don't worry, Oliver wouldn't let me take anything from there if I tried."

Emery couldn't argue with that. "Are you feeling much better?"

"Yeah. The medicine is helping, and everyone here has been nice. Lydia's putting the little girl to bed now." The sores on Miren's arms were bandaged now. She gazed out the kitchen window for a long moment. "Today's the equinox," she said. "They'll be celebrating outside Rittenhouse."

Emery took a sip of the wine, then decided he was more hungry than thirsty. "Some people inside Rittenhouse celebrate it too," he replied. "I can't believe autumn is just now officially beginning; the leaves turned weeks ago. I think the winters are getting longer every year." He tried to follow her gaze, but the kitchen light blinded him to whatever lay beyond the window. Maybe that was why she'd been sitting in darkness. "How do they celebrate it back home?"

In the moment it took her to respond, Emery could see that his question touched upon more than Miren was willing to reveal. "Um," she said, glancing downward. "Well, back home we—"

"Listen," he interrupted. "Back before the sewers, when I said I couldn't put up with lying here, I meant it. If there's something you're not ready to talk about, that's perfectly okay. I'd much rather you say so than make something up."

Emery half-expected Miren to take offense. Instead, she smiled, looking relieved, and reached for the food. "Okay. Besides," she teased, "you wouldn't want to hear about it anyway. We're into all that witchcraft stuff you can't stand."

Emery laughed despite himself. "I'm sure my ears would melt off just to hear of it."

Miren raised her glass and took a long swallow of wine, draining half its contents. "Here's what I don't get," she said. "You say you don't like magic, but you're wearing those charms."

Emery poked at the little stone amulet Green had made him. "This is so the king can get in touch with us the moment he's found a way to Three Dogs. Trust me, I put up a fight before taking it, but unfortunately there was no other way, and we can't afford to miss the opportunity."

Miren nodded. "And what about the other one?"

Emery shot a confused glance downward to where the open shirt revealed his chest. "Oh," he said. "That's no charm. It's called a Unity necklace. Unity is the government that the different races in Rittenhouse share. Everyone in Rittenhouse wears one of these from the time they turn seventeen and swear their allegiance to Unity. The four rings symbolize the four races, or 'circles,' that make up the city."

"Four?" Miren asked. She glanced at her wine glass suspiciously, as if wondering whether its influence was deceiving her. "I only count three." She leaned across the table and tapped each of the three silver rings that hung in a chain from the band around Emery's neck. "One, two, three."

"Four," Emery said, touching the band itself. "The neck band symbolizes the wearer's own circle, the allegiance that binds him or her to Unity. My circle, the Roccetti, have silver necklaces; Lydia and the other Farsi wear bronze."

"So it's not magic," Miren concluded, downing the rest of her wine and reaching for the bottle.

Emery gave his own glass a little swirl; he wasn't too fond of reds. He took another bite of the cold steak and rice. "If it is," he answered with a smile, "no one's told me yet."

Miren nodded sleepily. With an arm on the table to prop up her chin, she returned her sapphire gaze to the night. "Emery," she murmured, "what do you think our chances are?"

For a long time Emery regarded her, wondering what to say. He realized for the first time that beneath the features of her disease she was very pretty; he remembered the strange attraction he had felt upon their first meeting. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth; he felt as though his senses had betrayed him, a feeling that always made him uneasy. Even now, he couldn't help but wonder what she might look like when she returned to health. If she returned to health. If their next foray into the wastes ended in success instead of disaster.

"Everything has come together so far," he answered slowly, glancing into his glass for an answer he did not find. "Let's just pray it keeps going this well."

When he made his way back upstairs and into the master bathroom, the visage that peered back at him through the mirror was a fatigued one. Though he was sure he'd spent almost as much time bathing as he had sleeping in the past week, he couldn't shake the feeling that after the excursion through the sewers, no number of showers could be deemed too great. He felt as though the sewage had sunk into his skin and was still sloshing around beneath its surface. He turned the temperature up and sighed relief as the stream of water seared his back.

When he reemerged into the bedroom, he found Lydia sitting on his bed. Caught off guard, Emery nearly tripped over himself backing into the bathroom. "Um, I'm not exactly decent."

"Oh. Sorry." Lydia seemed not to mind, but she took this as a cue to divert her eyes. Rather than leaving the room, she simply turned and faced the far wall as Emery nervously dressed. He donned the only pair of pants he could find without approaching the bed and fumbled for a shirt before deciding it was a moot gesture at this point. He sat down next to Lydia on the bed. "What time is it?"

"After eleven. Everyone else has gone to bed." She examined his shoulders, still red from the shower. "What did you do to your back?"

"I was hoping to melt that first layer of skin off, just in case there was still any sewage on me," Emery said, grinning. "I wish I could burn the ache out of my muscles."

"Do you want a massage?" Lydia asked. The question was probably innocent, but Emery knew better than to take the first step down that road. "I'm alright," he said, "I think I just need more sleep."

"Okay." There was a palpable shift in the room as they both remembered the boundaries between them. "Oh," Lydia said after a moment of silence, "Maestra Petrou called while you were resting. You're meeting with her tomorrow."

Emery wondered what he had done to incense his linguistics instructor. "Alright. What time?"

"Noon," Lydia said.

"Perfect. I should be out of bed by then." Emery stretched his arms and wondered if that would be the case. "Juliet is coming over to work with me for a while after she's done her classes. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

Lydia shook her head. "I'll be here. I like watching you two work, and if the others need anything, I'll be able to take care of it so you can focus."

"Bless you," Emery said. "I want you to know, though, that you're free to take a day off if you'd like. It's been a few weeks since you've done that." He swallowed and forced out the next sentence as convincingly as he could: "Why don't you and Mikul do something?"

Lydia cleared her throat. "He's busy all this week," she said quickly.

"Mhmm." Emery tried and promptly failed to stop himself from asking, "How are you two doing?"

"Fine," Lydia lied feebly. "I mean, we can talk about it later, but you're tired..."

For once, Emery didn't press. "Yeah, you can tell me about that tomorrow." He yawned. "I think I really do need to go back to sleep now." Rather than standing to leave as he expected, Lydia edged closer. He felt her hand on his forearm. "Would you like me to stay here tonight? You've had a rough day."

The tide of mixed feelings swelled. "I..." The heat of her gaze penetrated deeper than the jets of shower water, melting the cold that Emery still felt. He almost agreed, but after a crucial moment of hesitation, nervousness and guilt suppressed his longing. "This isn't what we decided," he said weakly. "You're with someone else."

She didn't meet his eyes. "I know. It's just that you had me worried. And when you were out there and I was worrying, I felt like an idiot..." Lydia let the sentence hang. "I'll see you tomorrow, Emery."

"Yeah. Be safe getting home." They embraced awkwardly, and Lydia made a quick retreat from the room, shutting the door behind her. This time, it was forever before Emery could find his way back to sleep.

The others were all glad to see him up and about when he awoke late the next morning, but Emery's appointment with M. Petrou compelled him to hurry out the door. "It's just a meeting," he said as Geneva pouted. "I'll be back in before you know I'm gone."

"You keep going away," the young girl replied. "I don't like it when you're gone."

"I don't like it when I'm gone either," Emery said, "which is why I won't be gone long this time. I'll see you in about an hour, okay?" He hugged her quickly and made for the door.

A cold front had blown in sometime in the last week; though the calendar claimed autumn had only just begun, winter was creeping into the air. Emery paid the difference for a ticket in one of the train's enclosed cars: these cost three rai, while a ride on the flatcars at the rear of the train only cost one. The three-rai ticket bought a warmer ride but required its riders to stand; yet more expensive cars toward the front of the train included seats and other amenities. Emery always bought the three-rai ticket in the colder months to avoid freezing, and he felt terrible for those passengers who could afford nothing but the open cars at the back of the train.

For once, Emery arrived at the collegio with time to spare, likely thanks to the energy granted him by a week of sleep. His back was still sore from the previous day's exertions, but he no longer felt ready to collapse. Emery entered the faculty offices to find M. Petrou's door ajar, so he ducked tentatively into the room. The maestra's suite was simple but appealing; the entire wall on one side was glass, offering a stunning view of the forest outside Rittenhouse. It all looked so serene from inside. "Maestra," Emery said, "I was told you requested to see me."

"Come in, Emery." Emery stepped the rest of the way into the office. M. Petrou's face was concealed by long hair, rich black interrupted by a single bold streak of silver, as she examined a square stone tablet containing a student's writing. On the desk beside her were stacked a dozen identical tiles of the dark stone. "These tablets," she said distastefully. "I can hardly imagine a less convenient medium for writing. It would be much easier to do everything on paper, but that's far too expensive with our current means of producing it." She looked up, and sage, clear gray eyes met Emery's. "What do you think?"

"Well," Emery said, "I think we've recovered enough books to show us that pre-extinction society had developed paper production to the point where they could do it inexpensively. If we focus a recovery effort on that technology specifically and work to refine our own methods in the process, sooner or later we'll see a breakthrough." The maestra nodded.

"But I think that would be a half-measure," Emery quickly added. "In M. Oburumu's class the other day, we were talking about old-world technologies and the decline of books in the decades leading up to extinction. Maybe there's another explanation for that, but my guess is that paper was replaced by some better technology, one we haven't found yet. We can try to streamline what we're already doing, but if we really want to solve the paper problem, we should be working to uncover that tech, whatever it is."

"That's an astute answer," M. Petrou told him. "You're becoming known for astute answers around here. Has anyone ever told you that your academic performance is above average?"

Emery shrugged, unsure of how to answer the question without sounding arrogant. He felt almost as uncomfortable receiving such direct praise from M. Petrou as he did Dr. Hanssen's insults: at least his own peers had given him some experience in dealing with the latter. "Yeah. A few times."

There was something written on the maestra's attractive features that Emery could not read. "We live in a pragmatic world," she said. "We teach linguistics at the collegio because understanding language aids us in translation, which in turn contributes greatly to the vital process of recovery. But in the old world, the study of language was of interest for much broader reasons. The skill of writing, of using words to create, was regarded as an art as elevated as painting."

It was well known at the collegio that Emery was an avid painter: the pieces he displayed in the school gallery were always praised—though, much to his frustration, always less so than his academic work. The idea of writing as art did appeal to him, but with painting, he had at least some hope of actually being recognized for his efforts. In Rittenhouse, writing was, as the instructor had said, studied first and foremost for its archeological significance.

"I mention this," M. Petrou continued, "because you have a gift for writing. I see it in the responses you've written in class. It's something I think you should work to develop."

Emery's discomfort at this statement was different than the mere shyness at being praised. To be told he had a gift carried a strange connotation, some vague responsibility that he didn't want. "I'm glad you like my writing," he said awkwardly. The irony wasn't lost on Emery: in M. Petrou's presence, his language became more pedestrian. His apprehension made him shirk the very gift for which he was being commended.

"The reason I wanted to talk to you today," the maestra said, "is that several of the faculty have noticed that you've been struggling here. The quality of your work is excellent, but you've been coming to school late, missing assignments, and even falling asleep in class. I supposed this was due to disinterest with the pace of your courses, a need for more engaging work. And if that's the case, we can make arrangements to give you assignments you'll find more interesting. But M. Oburumu insisted it was something else."

Emery was unsure what to say, so he waited silently until M. Petrou asked, "Was he right?"

Emery nodded. "It's something else," he said. I've been hiding refugees from outside in my basement and bribing the hospital for illegal medication...

"Is it about what happened when you first came here?" M. Petrou asked gently. Everyone in Rittenhouse knew about it, of course; even those who didn't recognize Emery knew the story of the boy who had been abducted while traveling from Ambler. It was the reason all transit between the cities now involved heavily armed convoys rather rather than individual cars. A single vehicle could too easily be immobilized, its driver killed and its lone passenger kidnapped to hold for ransom or sell in pieces to the Washington Circle natives for their rituals. To everyone else, Emery's abduction was a horror story. To Emery, the month after the initial trauma and injury had been eye-opening: the gateman Manuel had rescued him and taken him to the king, and the course of Emery's life from that moment on had been changed irrevocably. Of course, that part of the story had been dismissed by the residents of Rittenhouse when he had finally appeared at the city's gates weeks later: they remembered only the tale of one of their own children snatched by the barbarians outside. Contrary to his own desires, Emery's story had sparked a new wave of fury for the people of the wastes.

Emery was prepared to lie outright to M. Petrou, but he thought he had finally decoded her expression. It was concern, and he felt he could trust her, if not with the knowledge of what he was doing, than at the very least with the feelings behind his actions. "What happened back then is part of it, I guess." Emery shifted his weight in the chair where he sat. "I don't know. There was a lot of ugly stuff at home too, before I even left Ambler. When I was younger, my cousin was killed by an outsider who broke into the city. I don't know if that story made it here." The maestra nodded; apparently it had.

"Yeah. Well, I was there when that happened. I...I saw it." Emery shivered and quickly forced the memory back down into his gut. "And what happened to me outside...that story got retold a lot differently than I told it. I saw a lot of things, and not all of them were bad things. It was the good things, the good people there, that made me second-guess the way we do things in here, that made me question the significance of sitting in a classroom, no matter how much I appreciate the opportunity."

He stopped there, feeling that he had already said too much: another word, and he might betray himself. M. Petrou was quiet for a long time. Emery felt that he had crossed some invisible line, had said things a student was not permitted to say to his instructor. But no, he was sure it was deeper than that. The concern, still present on her face, met another sensation—Emery wanted to think it was empathy—and then resolved in decision. "I can't tell you what you saw," M. Petrou said, "and neither can anyone else. But what you're talking about is precisely the type of aim for which a strong basis in linguistics is so useful. If you want to change people's minds, especially on something as deep-seated as what they think of people outside Rittenhouse, you can't merely speak. You need to wield your ideas with a full awareness of how best to convey them to your audience and how to overpower an opposing argument. You need to use the art form as a weapon. That's why I'm going to ensure that you have every opportunity to succeed here. You can use what we're teaching in ways that most of our students wouldn't care to if they could."

"Thanks," Emery said. Her response was fastidiously noncommittal with regard to what Emery had told her, but she did seem genuinely interested in his well-being. He wouldn't argue with that.

"I'm recommending you to a counselor," M. Petrou continued. "I think you've experienced a lot of things that are causing you difficulty right now, and they're going to start impacting your life as well as your studies if you don't address them."

Emery cringed, suddenly feeling much less grateful. "Will I have to go to the hospital?" he croaked.

"The counselor comes to the school for meetings with individual students, so everyone will assume it's a tutoring session unless you tell them otherwise. Give me your schedule and I'll find a good time."

Emery wanted to say there probably wasn't a single student at the school who would think he was receiving tutoring rather than therapy; he was known for being academically gifted and eccentric in equal measure. Then he wanted to scream that it was illegal activity, not past trauma, that was causing his poor performance in school. He bit his tongue and wrote his schedule for the maestra on a spare tablet. "I don't think this is really necessary," he said.

"Go for a few weeks," M. Petrou said, "and if you're not getting anything out of it, you're free to discontinue the meetings. I think you'll find it beneficial in ways you can't imagine right now." She smiled and added, "Just like a linguistics degree."

"Alright." Emery stood to leave. "I'll see you next week, then."

The maestra nodded. "Have a good weekend."

Emery reached the door, then stopped himself and turned around. "And M. Petrou? Umm, thanks. Really."

"Don't mention it. And even though you'll be seeing a counselor, if you ever need someone else with whom to talk, feel free to visit me." She waved. "Take care, Emery."

"Thank you." Emery excused himself from the office, and when he reached the staircase, he took the stairs three at a time. On the first floor he found Juliet, who was just getting out of class, and the two boarded the train toward Emery's home.

"You look a lot better," Juliet said as they took their seats in the three-rai car.

Emery grinned. "Considering how I looked last week, I suppose that's not saying much."

"So." Juliet leaned in, lowering her voice. "Tell me everything."

"Not a word till we're inside my house," Emery said. "You won't believe half of this."

On the ride back, Juliet filled Emery in on the week he'd lost to sickness. Juliet had been painting tirelessly, which was nothing new, but she'd also been trying her hand at music with a new friend. Sander was a Vorteil student a year older than Emery and Juliet. Emery knew him only in passing; he had an unusually kind disposition and an affinity for the violin. "He's Carla Engal's brother," Juliet said, "but he's still pretty cool."

As soon as they had reached the estate, he told Juliet the story, beginning with Timothy's arrival: Dr. Hanssen's demand, the leap from the train to Fairmount, Green's arrival in the midst of what had nearly been a deadly confrontation, Emery's audience with the king, and at last, Miren. "She's sicker than Timothy," he said, "and the gateman had to give her an elixir to get her on her feet for the trip back here. We were coming up through the sewers—it was my first time coming in that way; I can't tell you how bad it is—and the elixir wore off and she collapsed. Timothy and I had to carry her the rest of the way; we nearly drowned getting back here."

"Damn," Juliet said, "I'm glad you didn't. So now I guess you need medicine for two people."

Emery nodded. "But I have that worked out. I dropped by the hospital last week to pick up the package, and I told him my price had doubled. He looked like he was ready to break my jaw, but he agreed."

"Be careful with him," Juliet cautioned. "I've only met him a couple times, but anyone who gets into his position is a powerful person."

"I think I have him cornered," Emery said, but the words tasted false in his mouth. He shivered, telling himself it was only the cold air from which they had just escaped. They took the stairs to the basement studio where they were did all their work, and Emery was unsurprised to see the rest of the household gathered there.

"Emery's back!" Geneva leapt from her seat on the couch and enclosed his waist in a crushing hug: Emery had long since stopped being surprised to feel such force in her thin arms. Lydia looked ready to do the same, but instead she waved and said, "Hi, Juliet." Emery's friend returned the greeting.

"I made some lunch," Lydia said, walking towards the kitchenette to retrieve beef-and-cheese sandwiches. Oliver and Geneva had been engaged in a board game before Emery and Juliet's arrival, and after Geneva unlatched herself from Emery's torso and Oliver greeted their guest, the two returned to their play. "You can't move that piece there," Oliver explained to the girl, drumming his fingers in impatient triplets.

"Timothy, Miren," Emery said. The two were sitting together on the couch; Emery wondered if Timothy had left the new girl's side all day. "This is my friend Juliet. She's the only other person in Rittenhouse who knows what I do here. Juliet, these are the new arrivals I told you about."

"It's nice to meet you," Timothy said, rising to extend an earnest hand.

Juliet nodded as they shook. "Good to meet you too." She extended her hand to Miren, who took it reluctantly. "Hey," Miren replied simply, with a nervousness thinly disguised as disregard.

"I see a future for Miren in the market," Emery said. "She's so personable, I think she'd do brilliantly in sales." With a thought to avoid damaging the fragile bond he'd established with her, he added, "But really, we're glad to have her with us."

Emery and Juliet gratefully ate the food Lydia had prepared; the others had already partaken. "What do you want to work on today?" Juliet asked.

Emery shrugged. "I've been kind of distracted with everything, honestly. Do you have any ideas?"

"I've been thinking about this color spectrum piece, actually," Juliet said. "We each compose one half of a diptych, one with cold colors and one with hots."

"Sounds good." Emery stood and began pacing. "Any ideas for subject matter?"

Juliet shook her head. "I think this could end up being a pretty involved project," she said. "Let's just do some smaller, abstract ones today and see what comes to mind, and then we can begin plotting out the finals." She made vague, airy motions with her hands as she spoke.

"Alright," Emery said. "Color preference?"

"I dunno, I could go either way."

"Okay, then, I'll take the hots. After the past few days, I'm feeling the urge to set fire to something anyway."

Juliet laughed, and they made their way to the center of the room to set up. Two stools, easels, palates, a handful of brushes, and some scraps of recycled canvas later, they sat back to back, each focusing inward. Emery was struggling to tame his scattered thoughts and emotions; he began with a single stroke, violent red, across his canvas' center. He followed it with several more bold, choppy marks, until the entire canvas was stricken through with scarlet. He painted quickly, recklessly, and found that his choice had been correct: he was much more suited today to the haphazard voices of the reds and yellows and oranges than the subdued tones Juliet wielded. They worked in silence, with no contact except the sense of the other's presence; Lydia and the others came to watch without breaking the perfect calm. Emery felt the ever-present tension in his body condense and run from his hand into the oil: it was here, on this plane, that he could loose the dread and hurt and longing that bubbled inside him, the fierce sensations he worked so hard to restrain. Every unspoken word for Hanssen, every touch Lydia would never feel, all smeared glistening and bright like entrails on the canvas' coarse surface. When his hand stopped moving, they would all be silent, never eradicated, but sinking back beneath the veil of control.

Juliet still continued long after Emery had ceased. It was the difference between them, the chief agent in the slowly-growing divide in their skill: both were talented, but Juliet possessed a bottomless reserve of patience, a dedication Emery could not match. Emery searched for something to improve on his on canvas but knew that any alteration at this point would only undermine what he had done. He turned and watched as Juliet slowly drew brilliance from her pool of deep blues and greens. Though they were both of Roccetti blood, Emery's pale skin stood in contrast to Juliet's olive complexion. Inexplicably, her arm was dabbed with paint almost to the elbow, her long slender fingers covered almost entirely. Hand and wrist moved unceasingly, as if of their own accord. "Hell," Emery said after a while, "I thought we were just sketching today."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," Juliet murmured, still lost in the motion of the brush. "I'm really starting to like this one, actually."

"Any ideas for what we should do when we come back to this concept?" Emery asked, feeling just the faintest hint of envy.

"No clue," Juliet said. "Maybe..." she trailed off.

The piece was indeed stunning, especially considering that only perhaps an hour had passed since the two had begun. The painting was abstract, so one couldn't say it was _of_ anything, but the impression was that of a long tunnel. The gentle curves were overlaid with a texture that was almost tangible: it was another thing at which Juliet excelled. Emery was skilled at capturing the form and volume of an object, but when it came to texture and detail, he was at a loss. He looked back and forth between Juliet's subtle piece and the jagged lines that comprised his own. "You're right," he said, "these really do complement each other well. Maybe we could just—"

Emery stopped in mid-sentence and looked up at Timothy, who was already returning his gaze. "What is it?" asked Lydia, concerned by their sudden solemnity.

"It's warm," Emery said, touching the pendant that hung against his chest. "This must be the signal; we should get ready to leave immediately." He turned to Juliet. "I'm sorry, but we had to wear these damn things so we'd know when the king's men found a way to get us to Three Dogs. We can't afford to miss our opportunity, so we're going to have to go now. Sorry to cut our session short."

Juliet shrugged. "It's cool. I can't really get mad at you for ditching me to go get life-saving medicine for the sick kids." She laughed. "I might just keep working on this after you leave."

"You let magic in the house?" Oliver asked incredulously. "I'm going to remember this next time you're riding my ass about it."

The remark won Miren's attention, and Emery saw at once that Oliver was to gain a new ally in dissent. "It was kind a special situation," he replied impatiently, "and I think I'm entitled to break my own rules. When we're all living in your house, feel free to play the hypocrite all you want."

"You jus' went away for a long time," Geneva weighed in, lower lip protruding. "You said you were gonna stay."

"I did come back, but I have to go away again. Come here." Geneva approached and Emery put his hand on her shoulders, wondering briefly when it was that he had become a father among his myriad roles. "Timothy and Miren are both very sick. I have to go away again to get them medicine. When I come back, I promise I won't leave town again for a long, long time. How's that sound?"

Geneva weighed this for a moment. "Okay," she said sternly, "but you hafta play with me when you come back."

"I might need a shower and a nap first," Emery said, "but after that, playing with you will be the first item on my agenda." Geneva seemed satisfied with the reply.

Thankfully, Lydia had spent this time gathering the things Emery would need for the trip. "The package from Dr. Hanssen is in here," she said. "The backpack still smells like sewer water. I washed it twice."

"I'm sure it'll be the least of my concerns once I get out there," Emery said. "Thanks for washing it, though; I can't imagine how bad it would be if you hadn't." He turned back to Oliver. "Miren is new here, and it remains to be seen how she'll handle the rules of the house. I need you to get your act together and be a good example while we're gone."

"The best," Oliver answered emphatically. His grin was pure mischief.

"I can stick around if you need me to," Juliet offered. Oliver slumped; the boy idolized Juliet, but he had doubtless been looking forward to a weekend of lax supervision.

"Lydia should have things under control," Emery replied, "but if you have some free time, I'm sure she'd love the extra help."

Timothy returned, wearing the coat Emery had lent him. "I'll find you something besides that ugly coat you came back in," Lydia said to Emery.

"I'll just wear that one," Emery said. "Better than to ruin another coat, and it won't make me stand out."

"How are we getting out this time?" Timothy asked.

Emery sighed. "You're not going to like my answer."

"No." Timothy swallowed. "My infection from last time has barely cleared up. And you said last time that if we went out through the sewers, we'd probably freeze to death in a matter of hours."

"Here's hoping I was wrong," Emery offered feebly. "We almost got shot jumping from the train last time, and that was at night. We can't afford to wait for sunset, and we simply wouldn't survive a stunt like that in daylight."

Emery was thankful he wasn't taking Miren or Oliver; Timothy accepted this unfortunate reality without argument. But despite the boy's agreeable disposition, Emery could see that Timothy dreaded the prospect of traveling through the sewers again. It was hard to blame him; Timothy had nearly drowned twice now in the past week. "Look," Emery offered, "all we have to do is get this package to Three Dogs. You've been through a lot recently, and I know you're ill. I can make the trip alone."

Emery half-expected Timothy to take him up on the offer, and that half of him was pleasantly surprised. "That's a bad idea," Timothy said, "for three reasons. First, you don't know your way around New Providence as well as I do. Second, you got into this for me, and the least I can do is come with you try to help. And most importantly—" Timothy lowered his voice, jerking his head in Miren's direction— "this isn't just about me anymore."

Emery smiled. "You're going to grow up to be a good man, Timothy, if we survive this little errand."

"With that attitude," Oliver interjected, "you're invincible."

Emery rolled his eyes. "Add your faith in us to that equation," he replied.

"But Emery, seriously..." apparently overcome by the spirit of the moment, Oliver was for once at a loss for words. "Try not to get torn apart by those dogs, okay? Three Dogs included."

"I'll do my best not to get torn apart by anything," Emery promised. He wondered how the boy might respond if he were harmed in the endeavor: Emery suspected that Oliver had stronger feelings than he ever cared to show.

Lydia had no such reservations. "This is happening too often," she said, throat hoarse. "If anything happens to you—"

"Lydia." Emery took a step closer to her, wondering how close was too close. "I'll be fine." He lifted her chin with a gentle hand, smiling. "I mean, we did alright last time. Except for almost getting kidnapped by those outsiders and almost drowning—"

" _Stop_ it," she interrupted, eyes welling with tears. Emery's attempt to lighten the mood having thoroughly failed, he simply said, "I promise I'll be as safe as I can."

"Okay." Lydia took his free hand between hers and stared into his eyes for a long moment. He didn't want to tear himself away, but suddenly Emery was aware that every other eye in the room was on the two of them.

He stepped back, touching his neck. "This amulet is really starting to hurt," he said. It was true: what had begun as a mild warmth had slowly increased to an acute burn. "I suppose we can take them off, now that they've served their purpose." He took a step back from Lydia and reached for the string around his neck, but in that moment, a shock of nausea assailed him and he fell to the floor.

"Emery!" Lydia was at his side, one hand lifting his head from the floor. Emery was vaguely aware that Timothy had collapsed too; Miren was mirroring Lydia's motions, scooping the boy up. Emery met Lydia's gaze and saw panic there. "What happened?"

Feeling worse by the moment, Emery searched feebly for words. "I feel..." He tried to say what it was he felt, but then his body broke into a million pieces and drifted into the air.

**13**

Complications

His thoughts too were disjointed, formless. Is this death? he wondered, but in the same moment a part of him answered: No, you fool, I'm merely flying.

His body was borne upon the wind, breaking against the branches of trees, flowing under and over and becoming whole again. At one point he perceived that the world beneath him had turned to fire, but this realization only remained for a moment: of greater interest were the trajectories of the birds who ventured through the dark, teeming mass that was himself. And then, suddenly, something on the ground below beckoned and he began his descent.

Feet first, his body resumed its proper shape. After another moment he was Emery again, and then his consciousness and his nausea returned. Emery doubled over and vomited on the ground. Damnit, he thought, just when I was feeling better. The taste of ash lingered on his tongue.

When he looked up, he was in a fiery autumn forest. It was late afternoon. To his utter amazement, Emery turned to see Lydia standing beside him; Timothy and Miren were climbing feebly to their feet just beyond. They were outside the city, Emery realized suddenly. All four of them were outside. This wasn't right.

"Oh," a gravelly voice remarked weakly from the ground behind them. "You brought stowaways." Green inhaled sharply. "That explains a lot."

Emery reeled on the gateman, who was lying on his back on the forest floor. "You son of a bitch."

"Don't you start," Green replied. "I just damn near bled out, helpin' you..." he winced, and Emery saw that his face was a ghastly yellow-white. "Go figure, not a word of thanks."

Emery's head was spinning. _Panic_. The word throbbed in his ears. "You told me the amulets were just to contact us," he began. "If we had known—"

"Exactly," said the gateman, "if you had known. Contacting you was the original plan, but you're damn lucky we had a backup." He rolled over and pushed himself into a sitting position. "If you had known, you would have said no, and you'd have missed the only bloody opportunity you're gonna get."

"I can't have spells like that going off in my house," Emery said frantically. "There's a delicate situation there, in case you weren't aware. If something had happened—" It occurred to him that he had no way, for the time being, of knowing whether something had.

Green raised a hand. "I'm going to need you to shut the hell up now. Your damn superstitions weren't going to get you where you needed to be, and I'm doin' just that."

"And how did they end up here?" Emery continued, motioning to the girls.

"If I had to guess," the gateman growled, "I'd say they were touching you two when I called you here. Trust me, it wasn't my idea." He squinted in pain again. "Twice as many passengers means twice as much blood I don't got anymore."

Green held up his arm and drew back the sleeve of his wool coat. There was a vicious cut on his forearm, poorly bandaged, that Emery knew was self-inflicted. He gagged, swallowing back a second mouthful of vomit. "That's the price of doing business," Green said. " _I'm_ not complaining, and you should learn some respect for the art."

"Thank you," Miren said.

"Hmmph." Green waved his good arm in her direction. "I like her. You could learn a thing or two from that one, pureblood."

Slightly abashed but still panicked, Emery fought to refrain from lashing out again. "You don't look too good," he managed, looking from Green's bloodied arm to his sallow face. "Let's sit down for a while—"

"No time." Green dragged himself to his feet. "Why do you think I bothered to whisk you here like that? We have to hurry." The gateman turned and strode away from the group. "Move it." His resilience, Emery noted, was commendable.

The truth was that Emery himself could have used a moment's pause; he was still nauseous and terribly disoriented. He and the others fell in behind Green, trying to match the tall man's brisk pace. Once he was moving, Green betrayed no sign of having lost so much blood.

"What the hell just happened?" Miren whispered.

"Those amulets we were wearing to let us know when it was time to go," Emery said. "They did a lot more than that. They were made to help Green whisk us here." He fought back another wave of apprehension, wondering whether the spell had upset anything at the estate. If it had, it would be a while before he knew: Juliet and the others had no way of reaching him here.

"I certainly wasn't planning on this," Emery continued, "but there's little we can do about it now. We were fortunate, at least, to have Juliet there when this happened; otherwise, Oliver and Geneva would be alone and no one would even know they were there." He was aware that he was thinking aloud, trying to reassure himself as much as anyone else.

"They'll be fine," Lydia said. "Oliver really looks up to Juliet."

"He'll probably behave better for her than he does for me," Emery replied. He looked back and forth between the girls. "I'm sorry you two got dragged into harm's way."

"Shut up," Miren said helpfully, "it's not your fault."

Lydia nodded agreement. "And actually, I'm just..." She paused; looked at her feet. "I mean, don't worry about me."

Emery could guess what she had intended to say: she was glad to be out here with him, whatever the danger may be, rather than waiting restlessly at the mansion for his return.

"I'm just glad we didn't have to go through the sewers," Timothy said. "At least we're dry now, and we saved hours."

"And besides," Miren added, "You're doing this to get medicine for me too, aren't you? It makes sense that I should be here."

It was the closest thing to gratitude the headstrong girl had given him yet. Emery smiled, but decided not to say anything overt for fear of ruining the moment. "I'm going to figure out what our course of action is," he said, and he trotted a few paces forward to catch up with Green.

"You want to know how I'm getting you in with Three Dogs," Green predicted as Emery approached.

"Yeah."

"Well, it turns out a tea party with the poppy king's general don't cost that much at all," the gateman said. "I just let them chop my pecker off and throw it in a jar for preserving. But hey, I got this nice coat out of the bargain, so I guess I'm doing swell."

Emery weighed the risk of a bawdy reply and decided it was as likely to irritate Green as to please him. He said nothing, keeping pace with the gateman and waiting for an answer.

"I'm not gonna tell you how we got this meeting set up," Green said at last. "We've got some people that Three Dogs thinks are his people, and that the king thinks are his. Nobody has a damn clue whose beat they're actually marchin' to, but they're good for small jobs like passing a message along, and that's as much as you need to know about that. What I can tell you is what happens when we get where we're going."

"Please," Emery said.

Green spat over his shoulder. "We're heading west till we find the biggest gaggle of poppy chewers we can find, and if they're not the guys we're looking for, they'll slit our pretty throats and rob our carcasses. If they're the right ones, they'll take us underground."

Emery sighed. "I don't suppose we managed to avoid going through the sewers after all."

"Not the sewers this time," Green said. "Old train tunnels. Our people didn't say much, so I don't know if Three Dogs' humble abode is in the tunnels itself, but you have to go through them to get to it. At least, that's the way they're taking us. It's a bloody good idea, too: anyone tryin' to get in there without help is more likely to make a midnight snack for the tunnel people than to find wherever Three Dogs is."

The plan was sounding worse by the moment. "Tunnel people?"

Green flashed Emery's favorite smile. "I guess you pureblood types just tell your kids stories about us mutts if you want to scare them pissless. We tell scary stories about other things. Dogs, Washington Circle crazies, and the tunnel people."

"Are they actual people," Emery asked, "or some kind of animals?"

"They're people, alright, for all the good it does. They've been down there for hundreds of years, maybe since before extinction. They don't speak Modern or even old English, supposedly they only click and chirp. Some rumors have it they're blind, others say their eyes got so used to the dark that they work better down there than in the light. One thing's the same in all the stories: if they find you down there, they carry you off, and don't nobody ever see you again." He shrugged. "Three Dogs must be a smart bastard. You wanna prove you got balls, living down there's the best way I can think of."

"I want to find a place for the others to wait while we're down there," Emery said. "You and I can go alone."

"What makes you think I'm going down there with you?" Green asked sharply.

Emery was baffled; just a moment ago Green had said, _we_ go underground. "Umm...aren't you?" he asked.

The gateman rolled his eyes. "Of course," he grumbled. "I serve at the pleasure of the king. Friendly bit of advice: don't ever sign up for anything, kid. It has a way of biting you in the ass."

"Tell me about it," Emery said. "If you'll remember, I was roped into this too. I made a promise to the king almost three years ago, and I've been doing this ever since."

"Yeah," Green replied. "I was gonna ask you about that. Why do you keep doing this? I know a promise is a promise an' all, but there's more to it at this point than keeping your word."

Emery shrugged. "Somebody has to do what I'm doing."

"Yeah, but that don't stop most people from _not_ doing it. Is there some, how do you say, penance you're paying, or do you just get off on playing savior?"

Neither option seemed very appreciative of Emery's efforts. "I've never really thought about it that way," he said.

"I mean, if I had to guess, I'd say some rough crap happened when you were a kid. Now you need this hero stuff to—"

Emery's eyes narrowed. "That's not open for discussion."

"Geez, kid." Green held up his hands in a gesture of defense, showing Emery the filthy palms of his fingerless gloves. "I was just tryin' to make conversation was all."

Emery rejoined the others. "It sounds like we're going underground," he said. "The way to wherever we're meeting Three Dogs is through some old train tunnels."

"Aren't there tunnel people down there?" Timothy said immediately.

Lydia's eyes widened. "What are tunnel people?"  
"Yes," Emery said, "there are tunnel people, which are very similar to normal people except that they live underground and apparently eat their guests. But we're going down with Three Dogs' own guys, so we'll just have to hope and pray they know how to avoid getting us eaten. Green is coming with me. We talked, and we think it's best if the three of you break off before we meet our contacts. There's really no need for all of us to get trapped underground if things go badly."

"There's no way I'm letting you go down into a pit full of cannibals by yourself," Lydia said.

Emery smiled. "Lyd, if it weren't for this freak accident, you wouldn't have been with me in the first place."

"But now that I'm here," she began.

"No. The reason I took you into my home in the first place was to keep you safe," Emery said. "If you get hurt trying to protect me, that defeats the purpose. Besides, this will either go perfectly well or it'll be disastrous, and if it's the latter, there won't be much anyone can do. You're staying back."

"I should come, at least," Timothy said.

"You don't want to leave Lydia and Miren to fend for themselves, do you?" Emery asked. "Lydia doesn't know the wastes very well, and while you and Miren are both sick, she's a lot weaker than you are."

"Alright," Timothy said, clearly swayed by the mention of Miren's name. "I'll stay with them. But if you're not back after two hours, I'm going in after you."

"Make it at least three," Emery said. "I have no idea how long the walk will be once I'm in the tunnel."

"Guys?" Miren interrupted. "Um, I hate to do this, but I don't think I can walk anymore." The girl didn't appear to be exaggerating: she looked as though about to fall over. The lids of her bright eyes drooped with exhaustion.

"What are you stopping for?" Green asked impatiently. "I thought I told you, we gotta move."

They paused for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to continue. In the end, Emery handed his backpack to Lydia and carried Miren on his back. Timothy looked jealous but said nothing; Emery knew the younger boy lacked the strength to carry Miren himself. Even Emery found Miren's small body a more troublesome burden than he had expected, and after a quarter mile, his thighs burned with the exertion. Miren drifted between fatigue and abashment, murmuring a weak "Thanks" or "Sorry" every now and again before dozing off with her head against his shoulder.

"If you want your friends to hang back," Green said, "they might wanna wait right here. We're still half a mile from where we're going, but it gets a lot more populated up ahead. We're in Three Dogs' territory already, and there's no telling what a poppy fiend will do if he comes across some fresh young meat."

The terrain was indeed becoming more developed by the minute; thick forest had given way to clusters of homes, and Emery saw them in greater numbers ahead. Apprehension mounted quickly: what if it wasn't safe even here? And if the mission to Three Dogs ended in Emery's death or capture, what would the others do? This thought so worried Emery that he had little worry to spare on the idea of death or capture itself. "Are you sure this area is a safe one?" he asked.

Green chuckled. "Safe is for purebloods," he said. "We mutts don't get the luxury of safe. Out here, there's dangerous and there's suicidal. This is dangerous, but that makes you're friends damn lucky. Where we're about to go is suicidal."

"Is there anything you can do?" Emery insisted, far less than pleased with this answer.

" _Do_?" Now Green appeared genuinely perplexed. "If we're understanding each other, last time I did that kind of _doing_ for you, I lost two pints of blood and had to listen to you whine about it. In fact, I don't think that was too long ago."

"Well," Emery said, "I guess I'm a bit desperate." He swallowed. "And thanks for earlier. It wasn't how I wanted things to happen, but you got us here, and I know it cost you."

"That's more like it." The gateman rubbed his temples. "I tell you what. I can do a spell of foreboding on the place. It won't hide your friends from sight, but anyone who comes within a hundred feet will be scared pissless and feel a sudden need to run the other way. How's that sound?"

"Perfect," Emery said. "Thank you."

"I tell you what, though," Green continued. "You said this coat was two payments, but I'm spillin' blood again for you. We're square after this, so next time you come looking for help, don't bring the coat up."

Emery nodded. "That's more than fair."

They found the ruin of a pre-extinction house, two of its walls still standing, that was at least a hundred yards away from the nearest habitation. "You three wait here," Emery instructed as Miren dismounted his back, "and try to stay out of sight. I'll leave the backpack with you in case you get hungry or want anything; my flashlight and the package for Three Dogs are all I really need."

"Two hours," Timothy said.

"Three," Emery repeated. "We wouldn't want you charging in there and destabilizing the situation; then we might _both_ get hacked up and fed to the dogs."

He flashed a weak smile, but none of the others seemed amused. "Please," Lydia said, "don't try to make any jokes when you're down there with Three Dogs." She was on the verge of tears again. "No offense, Emery, but your jokes are really bad to people who don't know you."

"You've known me for years," Emery said, "and you still only pretend to think they're funny. The world isn't ready for my sense of humor." No reply. "Don't worry," he insisted, "I'm going to be careful."

A single drop escaped the lid of the deep brown eye and drew a glistening line down Lydia's cheek. "You'd better."

Emery took a step closer and brushed the tear away with one finger. "Don't worry," he said again. "Everything will be fine. These two need you here; they're both very sick."

"They'll be okay," she said. "You just have to promise you will."

Emery laughed softly. "I suppose if I break that promise, I won't be around to get in trouble."

"Just..." Lydia swallowed; the tears were flowing in earnest now. "Get back safe," she managed.

"I will." He wanted to say something more substantial, but even the promise of his safe return was a fabrication: Emery could not imagine what he might encounter in the tunnels. "Offer a prayer for me," he said. "Jehovah God has done me alright so far."

"Emery." Timothy stepped forward. "I haven't thanked you enough times for everything you're doing. So thanks again. I hope you're okay down there."

"Yeah," added Miren, who had risen to see him off. "I know I was sort of a bitch when we first met, so I'm sorry about that. And thanks."

Emery smiled. "Don't mention it," he said. "I thought I was going to be fine down there, but you all are really freaking me out."

Green appeared from behind the brick wall of the house. "Well," he said, "you all should be swell here. Anyone who comes sniffing around over here should start running the opposite direction like a pack of hungry dogs is after them." He scratched his head. "On the other hand, if a pack of dogs comes after you all, I guess you're outta luck. You ready to go, kid?"

"As skilled as you are at reassuring us all," Emery said wryly, "why wouldn't I be?" He turned back to the others. "I'll be back in three hours at the most," he told them.

Lydia approached and wrapped her arms around Emery's neck, a bit too tightly for his comfort. "Be safe," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

"I will," he gasped. "Try to think about something besides where I am; it'll make the time go by more quickly." With that, he turned and followed the gateman into the sunlit maze of forest and slum.

Emery had never seen this part of New Providence before; the domain of each of Zakarova's generals was a nexus of the crime lord's influence. Where Emery had traveled with the king years ago, centers of population had been small and spread among an endless expanse of forest. But as Emery and Green approached the place where they were to meet with Three Dogs' men, Emery saw hovels in greater and greater concentration, finally amounting to a small city shaded by the trees overhead. The plots of the pre-extinction houses here had been appropriated to form as many as four huts apiece, and these were stacked three and four stories high. Like the homes Emery had seen the night he and Timothy had been assailed, these buildings were constructed of plywood and sheet metal, patched with mud or old street signs; they also shared the appearance of being ready to collapse, an effect magnified by their height. Residents watched warily from the windows of the buildings: there was no glass in most of the windows, and they would be covered at night to abate the bitter cold. The windows of most homes' first stories were rimmed with rusted razor wire or long jagged shards of glass bottles to prevent intrusion. Hardened men and women in makeshift winter clothes stood outside some of the houses, glaring at the strangers who passed uncomfortably close to their homes, but they did not approach. Emery was glad he had chosen to retain Green's old coat: no one here would think he looked worth robbing. Green still wore the fine wool coat, but he could never be mistaken either for a pureblood or an easy target.

"Do these people all work in the poppy fields?" Emery asked quietly.

"There's a lot more to gum than the fields," replied Green, eying a gaggle of rough men as they passed. "You have the people working in the fields, a million different methods of refining it, storage, transport, distribution, and a whole lot of muscle along the way. And that's just one part of Zakarova's business, kid; he has his grimy fingers in everything out here. But in Three Dogs' neighborhood, yeah, as many of these people are poppy workers as not."

"Ye' curious about the gum fields?" a voice hissed from behind them. Emery spun to find two women standing behind them, though these were not like any women he had encountered before: they were taller and broader than he, and their ready hands were callused. One held a splintered wood plank adorned with a single rusted spike protruding from its tip; the other brandished an old golf club, as if ready to strike.

Green smiled. "Greetings, lovely dames," he said theatrically, his voice grainier than usual. "We were just on our way to pay a visit to Three Dogs."

The women's harsh lips twisted into sneers. "If I don't know ye'," said the one who had previously spoken, "ain't no business ye' 'ave with the baron."

"Baron?" Emery whispered.

"These thugs like takin' fancy names for themselves," Green explained, loud enough that the two women could easily hear. They stepped forward to respond to the insult with force. "I tell you what," he said, taking a piece of chew from his pocket and flicking it casually into his mouth. "Why don't you just walk with us to meet Blackroot? He can accompany us from there."

The women's eyes widened. "Ye' know," said the one who had previously remained silent, "If ye's wasting 'is time, Blackroot'll waste ye'."

"I'm counting on it," Green said merrily. Without waiting for the women's response, he turned and continued in the direction he and Emery had been walking, beckoning Emery to follow. "You want some 'baccy?" he offered.

Emery didn't want to be impolite, especially given what a luxury like tobacco must cost in the wastes, but he had never tasted chew before and decided the greater travesty would be to waste it if he couldn't bear the flavor. "No thanks," he said.

The gateman shrugged. "Your loss," he said. "It's good stuff, just the opposite of poppy gum. Keeps your senses sharp."

They made their way deeper into the ghetto, the two women following in resentful silence. Here, the pre-extinction foundations were those of row homes rather than individual houses, and dozens of makeshift residences occupied each cornerstone, bracing one another for support, leaning ominously forward over the street. Here and there a gutted truck or van, often as not missing its tires, formed the ground floor of one of the buildings. The neighborhood was more populous here, and Emery felt countless eyes on him as he stared straight ahead, doing his best to keep from provoking conflict. Despite their hostile demeanor, the women at his back conveyed a sense of added security: no one would assail them while they were being escorted by natives of this town.

"In the king's back yard," Green said, "even little villages, like that one whose owners' asses you kicked, have names. If you don't got more than three sticks to call your home, you still give it a name, 'cause you take _pride_ in what you have. Even the Yankees do the same. Out here, they don't even bother naming a small city like this one. It's all named for guy running it. This ain't Rittenhouse or West Sink or even Stinking Hole-in-the-Wall, it's Blackroot's borough of Three Dogs' territory. Barbaric, ain't it?"

Emery granted the gateman a noncommittal grunt; he was sure Green was speaking mostly to taunt the listening women.

Finally they reached what Emery was sure must be their destination: the entrance to a pre-extinction subway tunnel, unremarkable but for the gaggle of armed guards standing before it. These, a half-dozen men and women clutching various clubs and other salvaged implements, moved to block the entrance to the tunnel as Emery and Green approached. "State ye' business," said a man who must be their leader. A makeshift knife was sheathed at his waist, and he wore a helmet that had once been the cap of a fire hydrant.

"These two say they's comin' to see Blackroot," said one of the women. "Claims they 'ave a meetin' with Three Dogs."

"I have a package to deliver," added Emery, lifting the wood box in his hands.

"Blackroot is down in the tunnels now," said the man, "but the baron sent word ye'd be comin'. Ye' just 'and the box to me, and I'll see that it gets to 'im." He stepped forward imposingly, putting a hand on the hilt of his knife.

"That won't be happening," Emery said, standing as straight as he could to glare at the taller man. "I'm on strict orders to give this package only to Three Dogs himself, and the person who sent me scares me a lot more than you do."

The man stared at him for a long moment, but Emery knew he hadn't the authority to prevent whatever was in the package from reaching its destination. "Aye," he said, "then ye'll come into the tunnels with me." The two women who had followed Emery and Green shambled quietly off, abashed.

"Let's go," Emery said. "I'm on a bit of a schedule."

"Wait." It was not the man who had spoken but a willowy woman standing behind him. Her clothing hung loosely from her limbs, dancing in the light breeze. She stepped forward, gazing at Green; Emery saw that her pupils were bluish white with what looked like cataracts, though he was sure she was far too young. Her features were somewhat appealing, but Emery couldn't help being afraid of those eyes. "The tall one cannot go down," she said. Her voice carried the slow assurance of water coursing over smooth rocks. "Ye' reek of magic, stranger, and the only magicians permitted in the baron's abode are 'is own. Ye' one of the king's men, I imagine."

Emery's heart gave such a violent jolt that it almost choked him: Green was to be his only guardian in the darkness. If the gateman were forced to stay behind, Emery would be completely alone, unprotected in an unknown place brimming with men of cruel intent. "He has to come," Emery blurted.

"If ye' want to give the box to me," the man said, "ye's more than welcome. But if ye's going down there, ye go alone. The witch says this man don't come, so 'e don't come." There was no space for further negotiation in his voice.

"You'll be fine," Green said with a note of pity that Emery might only be imagining. "Truth is, if things go to hell down there, I wouldn't really be able to do much good. I can't whisk us out of a cave that deep, and if it came to fighting, there'd be too many for even me to take. So how about I go back to check on your friends? You just hurry and try not to piss the baron off."

There was a discernible note of irony in the word "baron," and Green's promise that he would look after Lydia and the others removed one burden from Emery's mind. It was only for his own safety that he would have to fear now. "Okay," Emery said. "And don't let Timothy try to come after me if I'm gone a while; he wouldn't even get into the tunnel."

Green nodded. He gave Emery a brisk slap on the shoulder, a simple "Good luck, kid," and then he turned and strode back in the direction they had come. Emery shivered as he watched the gateman's back shrink into the distance.

"Ye' ready?" asked the man whose name Emery did not know.

Emery glanced at the beckoning blackness looming at the throat of the tunnel. He forced himself to nod. "The sooner the better."

"Agreed," the man said, and he turned to lead the way. "Stay close, if ye' don't want to be eaten."

As his feet carried him mechanically forward, Emery lifted his head and stared directly into the light of the sun. In this cold autumn, it already seemed far too distant. Emery wondered when he would lay eyes on it again.

**14**

Three Dogs

Beneath the ground, Emery found himself completely blind. It was a welcome release: he had expected near-blackness and all its accompanying tricks on the senses; in complete blackness, his eyes had nothing to use against him. "Follow me," said his guide. "An' no lights. Ye' don't get to see the secret way."

Emery waited for the man to produce a light of his own; instead, he grabbed Emery's sleeve and plunged forth into the dark. "How do you know where to go, then?" Emery asked.

"Practice," the man hissed. "Lots o' practice. Now 'ush up. There isn't many tunnel people this way, but topsiders' voices might attract 'em."

Emery deemed this a compelling reason to keep quiet. He stumbled forward, his right arm tugged ungraciously along by Three Dogs' man and his left cradling his precious cargo. Emery wondered what the package could possibly contain: if Dr. Hanssen was to be believed, its value was such that he had been prepared to send another Vorteil to deliver it before Emery had presented himself. The most obvious answer was that Hanssen was after drugs, and his accusation of Emery might be a ploy to conceal his own intention, but the disdain in his voice had been real. No strong man was impervious to addiction, but Hanssen seemed driven, not desperate. There must be something else he was after, something for which he was willing to risk not only his good name but his citizenship in Rittenhouse. And Three Dogs was more than a poppy lord: he also served directly under Zakarova, a man who Green had said had his hands in everything. Every indication pointed to something more sinister, but Emery had no idea what it might be.

In some corner of Emery's mind, he was dimly aware that this pondering was only a device to keep him distracted from the dangers around him and the greater one he was about to confront. While more reassuring than the dim light of night, the utter darkness about him was more dangerous as well: he could not even begin to discern what dangers might wait mere yards away. He wanted to ask his guide what tools the man possessed to protect them from a tunnel person might they encounter one, but Emery dared not speak. He rounded each corner with baited breath, waiting to feel the touch of some fiend's cold hand against his skin. In his blindness, the maze seemed to reach into infinity.

Finally, after what must be the thousandth turn, Emery's eyes made out a faint glow in the distance. For a moment he wondered whether he was imagining it, but then his guide spoke: "We're 'ome safe. The tunnel people never come close t' the light."

The tunnel widened suddenly into a massive cavern that Emery knew must have been a train station in ages past. The main source of light was a massive bonfire housed in an enormous hearth in the station's center; its flames towered over Emery. The chimney that rose from the hearth was a metal chute, its width greater than a man's height. It encircled the entire cavern, delivering the warmth of the fire to every corner, before finally disappearing into the ceiling. As he approached, Emery saw that the chute was made of appropriated subway cars: their windows had been patched over, their wheels removed, and their ends welded together to form a continuous tunnel, a fire-breathing steel snake.

Emery's guide placed a hand on Emery's shoulder, motioning to a door in the side of one of the subway cars. "That's where we throw ye'," he whispered, "if ye' offends the baron. The heat an' smoke are a worse way to go than fire, an' it don't smell quite as bad on our end. When they're good an' cooked, we fish the bodies out an' leave them for the tunnel dwellers."

Shrugging off the threat, Emery slowly entered the chamber. He was visible to the countless other people who populated it, but illuminated only by firelight and wearing Green's coat, he must appear unremarkable. A few of the cavern's inhabitants turned momentarily as he entered, but they resumed their business. And business was everywhere: gathered around the furnace and stretching to the edges of the cavern floor in almost direction was a teeming, bustling bazaar. Emery had the momentary sensation that he was back in Rittenhouse, wading through the cacophony of the low hospital. The wares and the faces were different—he passed a man with the dark features of the natives, selling purportedly magical charms and herbs; a woman with locked hair and a flowing flowered dress peddling handmade string instruments; a little boy haggling with a gaunt butcher over the price of horse meat—but the barely-controlled chaos was the same. Emery kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wide path that cut through the commotion, ignoring the calls of merchants until one seized his arm. "Care to know what tomorrow will bring, child?"

"I don't have anything to trade," he responded instinctively, trying to tug free, but the woman stepped forward to block his way. She was dressed in a dark garment that seemed to dance in the wind, though there was no wind in the cavern; she wore the sun and moon in bronze about her neck. Emery looked at her face in shock: It was the face of the woman he'd met above ground, the one who had blocked Green's entrance to the tunnel. But in place of the milky blue-white eyes, this woman's irises and pupils alike were black, and deep as bottomless wells. "I ask no fee of ye' now," she replied. "I'm sure ye' shall repay me somehow, sometime soon. Just a prick of the finger, and I can see through the fog to trace your path, to warn ye' of dangers and betrayals to come." She took his hand between both of hers.

Emery pulled away with more force, freeing himself from her grip. "I'm not fond of magic," he said, unsettled.

The strange woman stepped forward, not content to give Emery his space. "Doubtless ye' think our gifts come from some dark force, child. Tell me, ye' who know so much, what is the source of my power?"

"Some people say that people forsook their old gods for technology before extinction. They say that afterward, when we'd lost so many of those developments and couldn't rely on them anymore, people needed faith again and the old spirits returned to their former power." Emery shifted uncomfortably in her gaze. "Others think magic comes from people themselves, a manifestation of will or subconscious mental energy."

"Ye' say, 'some say this and others say this,'" she challenged, "but what can ye say?"

"I don't know," Emery admitted. "I just don't trust any power that doesn't come from Jehovah God."

She laughed softly, her hair blowing in the phantom breeze. "It's good, then, that ye' know so certainly the ways in which your god works." She leaned closer still, until Emery's eyes were almost swallowed by hers. "If he is God, as ye' say, his ways are beyond your understanding. Whatever is not against ye' is for ye'." He nodded nervously; she sighed. "No prick of the finger today, child of Rittenhouse, but I tell ye' this: before today is done, your cause will owe a debt to the powers ye' despise."

She sank back into the crowd without another word. Disarmed, Emery glanced over his shoulder as he continued on the path through the bazaar, leading to an open area to the far right section of the chamber. The wall on this side of the cavern was jeweled with bits of shattered glass from floor to ceiling, and each of them burned like a little sun with reflected firelight. This was a sort of wealth unlike that amidst which Emery lived in Rittenhouse: it was wild, unrefined, built haphazardly from the ashes of the old world, but extravagant nonetheless. The seat that stood against the center of this magnificent wall was less a throne than a mountain of metal; standing ten feet tall, it was constructed of old subway parts just like everything else in the cavern. A dozen headlights from dissected trains, scattered across the metal mass, shone dimly with a wealth that was much rarer here in the wastes than in Emery's home. The light they cast illuminated the image of a Cerberus etched into the floor before the throne. A staircase ran up the center of the throne to the seat on which, towering and fierce, Three Dogs sat.

The poppy lord was thinner than Emery had imagined him, but no less imposing. It was difficult to judge from where Emery stood, but to him it seemed that Three Dogs must be nearly seven feet tall. His bony arms were like the branches of trees, angular and firm, with brown skin coarse as bark. From his wrists and his long thin neck hung countless loose bands of metal and hemp; the myriad necklaces were the only covering on his dark, scarred chest. His head was shaved, and from this distance, the only features of his face that Emery could discern were the twin fires reflected in his eyes. Perhaps twenty feet from the throne's base at his left hand, three enormous, feral dogs were chained to rivets set in the wall. They had been at rest, but they rose at Emery's approach to snarl and strain against the chains, driving the prongs of their collars into their thick necks. Emery's legs wavered as he neared the throne, as if considering whether to halt him from drawing closer to this terrible man.

The voices in the cavern grew hushed as the other inhabitants began to notice Emery's approach. He was still more than twenty paces from the foot of the throne when two guards halted him, and he felt the sudden touch of hands probing his body from behind. "Bring any weapons with ye'?" asked one of the guards before him. Emery shook his head.

"If ye' did, tell me now an' I'll just 'old them for ye'," he said. "But if ye lies, we'll feed ye' to the serpent." He motioned to the door in the snaking chain of subway cars. "Or maybe to the dogs, whichever pleases the baron."

"I don't have anything," Emery said testily as the searching hands probed in places where he would rather they did not. It was true: the baton and the machete were among the things they had found themselves without when they were suddenly whisked from the estate.

"Good," the guard said. He seized Emery by the arm, firmly but not roughly, and marched him the remaining distance to the throne. They drew closer than Emery would have chosen to come, until he was forced to crane his neck to regard Three Dogs. The fire was at Emery's back; his face was lit by the subway headlights that glared from the throne. At this proximity he could see the image of the Cerberus, identical to the one on the floor, on Three Dogs' chest. The lord's face was tattooed as well, an elaborate, eternal mask through which he stared down at Emery. The guards at his sides bowed before their leader.

Emery knew that this was a vital juncture: his decision in this moment would determine the course of the events to come. He was not sure, though, what the impact of each choice would be. His legs buckled involuntarily, begging him to kneel, but he remained standing. "I bring greetings from Rittenhouse, Baron," he said, trying to keep his chest from trembling as he spoke. He knew, without knowing why, that he must show no fear before this man.

"Ye' don't kneel," Three Dogs said softly. The tone was neither that of a question nor an indictment; his voice was casual, offering a simple observation.

Emery knew he must choose his next words carefully. "I respect your domain, baron," he said slowly, "but in my home, to bow to a man is a sign not just of respect but of submission. I submit to your law while I'm in your home, but myself, my will..." he swallowed. "That, I do not submit."

Three Dogs nodded, offering no comment. "I am led to believe ye' bring something for me." His voice was deep, entrancing, his speech clearer than his subjects'.

"A package from Dr. Hanssen," Emery replied. He decided not to reveal his ignorance as to what the package contained; it might bode ill for Three Dogs to note him as insignificant.

"Arvid was kind to send ye'," Three Dogs purred, his lips rising to form a smile that might appear friendly on another man's face. He waved his hand, and one of the guards reached to take the package. Emery handed it to him, and the guard slowly ascended the stairs of the throne. He stopped two steps before the top, kneeling and offering the wooden box upward: no man but Three Dogs himself, Emery thought, must be allowed atop the throne. Three Dogs leaned down to to receive the box; the guard offered his thanks and backed slowly down the stairs, never turning his back upon his baron.

Three Dogs broke the seal, then slid the lid off the package and laid it delicately at his feet. He smiled again as he beheld whatever the box contained; Emery was anxious to know what it was, but from this vantage he could not hope to see it. "Good," Three Dogs said, "Arvid did not deceive me." He peered down on Emery. "You may go."

Emery cleared his throat. "Actually, Baron, there was one other thing. It's not related to my business; there's just a question I'd like to ask."

The poppy lord looked amused; clearly, no one who knew him well spoke so freely in his presence. "Oh?" he asked, cocking his head in a facade of curiosity.

"There was a friend of mine called Blue." Emery wouldn't speak Manuel's true name to this man. His heart pounded faster. Stay calm, he told himself. Deep breaths. "I heard he was killed about a month ago on your orders."

"No," Three Dogs corrected, "I executed him personally."

Emery fingers tensed as he resisted the urge to charge the throne and attack the man with his bare hands. "If it pleases you," he managed, "I was wondering what brought that about."

Three Dogs was quiet for an interminable moment, as if waiting to see whether this nuisance would simply vanish. "When ye' didn't kneel before me," he said at last, "ye' said ye' didn't submit to me. In all of New Providence, there is only one man to whom I kneel." Emery nodded; he knew who.

"The so-called king of the wastes 'as long been a thorn in my master's side," Three Dogs continued, "but I don't possess the time to pursue each of his subjects. But this man, the one ye' call Blue, crossed a line no man may cross. Blue stole my master's only child, his beloved daughter. No discipline could be too great for such a crime, and this man received the very best of my own attention." His eyes narrowed slightly, and the casual tone was gone from his voice now. "And I assure ye', my knowledge in the way of discipline is not lacking."

Emery nodded, fighting with every fiber of his being to contain himself. Three Dogs' story must be false—mustn't it? Emery had only known Blue for a matter of weeks, but the man had saved him from the kidnappers who had ambushed Emery and his driver on the road to Rittenhouse. What motive would Blue himself have for kidnapping a child?

Emery's first thought was that Zakarova's daughter must have sought Blue out herself; perhaps she wished to escape her father, or perhaps she needed the king to do something for her that Zakarova could not. But then, by all parties' admission, Zakarova and the king were bitter enemies. Might Blue really have kidnapped the man's daughter? Emery wanted to disbelieve it.

"Thank you," he said; the words tasted cruel. "He was a good friend to me; I just had to know why his death came about."

Three Dogs no longer seemed amused with this conversation. "Is there anything else?" the deep voice asked, each word a subtle threat.

Emery shook his head.

"Then ye' may go."

"Thank you, Baron." Emulating the guard's earlier tactic, Emery backed away rather than turning, not reverent but afraid to have this man at his back. Only when he could no longer retreat in this manner for fear of stumbling into the fire did Emery finally turn and stride briskly toward the cavern's exit.

His guide rejoined him, grabbing him by the sleeve again to lead the way through the darkness. "Ye' never got t' meet Blackroot," the man said with a tone of remorse. "That beast would 'ave eaten ye' alive."

Emery couldn't imagine that a more imposing figure than Three Dogs might be present in the cavern, but he decided not to tempt fate by voicing this theory. He was simply glad to have survived this encounter, and the sooner he was to the surface, the better. Hopefully the return trip through the tunnels would be as uneventful—

"Stop!" echoed a shout from the cavern behind them. They were a mere ten yards into the tunnel; the light of the fire was still plainly visible. Emery's guide tightened his hold on Emery's sleeve; Emery thought to flee, but without the guide to lead him back through the tunnels, he would never find his way out. He inhaled a long, shaky breath. This will be okay, he insisted to himself. It has to be okay.

Two men were running through the cavern to the mouth of the tunnel. Emery struggled to see them by the firelight: they looked like the two guards who had stood nearest the throne. Then, between them Three Dogs appeared, striding on legs long as stilts toward Emery and his guide. The expression on the poppy lord's face was one of complete serenity; there was something in his hand, small, glistening. He raised his arm, and then a sound like thunder erupted through the cavern.

The guide screamed and collapsed, his grip on Emery's sleeve going slack, his helmet clanging dully as it struck the floor. Emery was suddenly aware of a hot wetness on his arm and face: he realized that it was the other man's blood, and, a fraction of a moment later, that the bullet had been intended for him. Emery turned and sprinted headlong into the blackness as the pistol's deafening roar rang out again. A panicked image of the tunnel people flashed through his mind, but it was a fate far less certain than what awaited him if he remained. I'll have to take my chances, he thought frantically. Damn. And everything was going so well.

Three Dogs and his guards pursued, but every step carried Emery farther from the light of the fire behind him. The blackness now was so deep that any moment, he knew, they must lose sight of him altogether. And then the pistol fired its third shot, and Emery fell in a heap on the tunnel floor.

**15**

Hunger

The first sensation Emery felt was the warmth, spreading across his back and stomach from a genesis just above his right hip. Then a surge of pain announced the presence of the wound, and Emery screamed. Rather, his throat tried to scream, but the air had been knocked from his lungs when he had fallen to the ground, so only a soft moan escaped his lips. This, he realized, was his salvation: his pursuers were close, but they could not see him in the dark. Emery rose to his hands and knees and crawled until he found the wall of the tunnel. This is good, he told himself. If I just lay here, they'll pass me in the dark.

His thought was cut short by the searching beam of a flashlight: of course it couldn't be that simple. Damnit. Thankfully, the light did not immediately find him: it was being directed at the cadaver of his fallen guide. Even from here, Emery could see the dead man's open eyes. Emery lifted himself up against the wall, trying to ignore the searing pain in his side, and began a hobbling flight from the light behind him, leaning on the rough stone for support. It was inconceivable that he could escape this way: the guards had resumed their pursuit. They moved much more quickly than he, rapidly closing the distance his head start had earned him. Emery pushed free of the wall and broke into a jog, cringing as the gunshot wound in his side dribbled fresh blood with each breath. There will be time to bandage the wound, he tried to tell himself, after I get away. If I stop now, I'll have more than one bullet hole to worry about.

He kept running, still feeling his way along the wall with his left hand. The guards were sprinting now, drawing closer with every step, until Emery was sure he could feel their breath on his back. Any moment the flashlight would find him, and then Three Dogs' pistol would fire again—

And then the light behind him disappeared entirely. Emery stopped, pressing himself against the wall, and listened. The voices he heard were muffled, distant: without realizing it, he must have passed some fork in the tunnel, and the guard with the flashlight had taken the other path. Emery sank down into a sitting position against the wall, gasping for breath, feeling for the injury. With jolts of excruciating pain, his fingers found two matching wounds: the bullet had passed straight through his right side, above the hip but below his ribs. It was a blessing, and a miraculous one considering his slight build, that the shot had found no bone or vital organ, but a clean hole had been torn through his oblique, and he was still bleeding. Emery removed his coat, shivering in the tunnel's frigid cold, and pulled off his shirt. Tearing it blindly into strips, he placed pieces of fabric against the front and rear wounds and tied the remainder of the garment around his stomach to keep them in place. The pain was even worse with the fabric pressed against the gnarled flesh, but it would do something, at least, for the bleeding. He put Green's old coat back on, trembling. Just my luck, he told himself. I'll freeze to death if I don't bleed out.

But it seemed his pursuers might find him yet: he heard footsteps approaching, slower and more deliberate than the guards'. Emery did not need to see Three Dogs to know that he was coming: the man's daunting presence preceded him, spreading like a cold front through the tunnel. As quietly as he could, Emery felt his way along the wall, looking for some path to safety. He found none, but the tip of his boot brushed a large rock lying on the floor of the tunnel. Emery knelt to pick it up; it was lighter than its size suggested it should be, but it should still be enough. He raised it over his head, pressing his back against the wall of the tunnel and waiting for Three Dogs' approach.

Each assured footfall was like the second hand of a clock, counting the moments until the terrifying man would be within arm's reach, and each one was louder than the last, until Emery could hear not only Three Dogs' motions but his breath. Emery stood still as the stone he held in his hand: he would only have one chance to strike, and even if the stone made contact with Three Dogs' skull, would it stagger the taller, stronger man long enough for Emery to finish him? The thought of the violence to come was a dark promise, daring Emery's still hands to tremble with dreadful anticipation. And then Three Dogs stood directly before him, peering into the darkness. He was in arm's reach; Emery held the stone ready to strike the man's ear, but he did not act. What if Three Dogs did not even know he was standing so close?

The poppy lord inhaled deeply, turning around as if looking for something, though the tunnel was devoid of even the faintest light. This was his domain, and Emery breathed slow shallow breaths, knowing that in the absence of light, any sound would alert Three Dogs to his presence. Then Three Dogs grunted, and suddenly the air was filled with the stench of decay and a sound like raw meat being cut with a dull knife. When it subsided and Emery could hear Three Dogs' breathing again, it sounded like his breaths were coming from far above Emery's head, as if the baron had just grown several feet. What magic was this? In the blackness Emery couldn't see what had actually happened, but he was sure it was nothing good. He prepared to strike, trembling more violently as he wondered whether the blow would even reach the man's head now.

"Baron," came a voice from the direction they had come, "we 'aven't found the pureblood."

"A pity," Three Dogs replied, and his deep voice echoed off the walls and the ceiling and Emery's skin. He was certainly standing taller now than he had. "And I see ye' didn't think to bring the light this way." His voice was different too, deeper than it had been.

"Blackroot took th' light, m'lord," the guard said. "I can fetch 'im and bring it 'ere for ye', if it pleases ye'."

"It's far too late for that." Three Dogs had turned to direct his voice at the guard, but he still did not move. Emery's arms, still holding the stone high over his head, began to tremble. "If the pureblood went this way, he's far ahead of us already."

"Did ye' see that blood, m'lord? It was a lot o' blood."

"A minor wound," Three Dogs said, "and clearly he's still on the move. But it matters little. Without a guide, he'll be the tunnel dwellers' next meal. Come."

Finally, Three Dogs and his guard strode back in the direction of the cavern. He moved at an unnatural speed, and in too few steps. Emery waited until he could not hear even a hint of a footfall, and then his shaking hands dropped the rock to the ground.

What Three Dogs had said might well prove true: Emery had no way of making it out of the tunnels on his own. He groped for the flashlight inside his pocket, turned it on, and squinted at the brightest light he had seen since leaving the cavern. The tunnel ahead of him was massive and continued for hundreds of yards in a straight line before forking again. The metal rails of old subway tracks were still visible in places, but for the most part, they had been buried by dirt and eroding rock in the years past. Emery directed the beam at his feet, and nearly lost his grip on the flashlight: the stone he had held was smooth and off-white, with recesses where the eyes had once been. It was a human skull.

The fear Emery had kept at bay since entering the tunnel now overwhelmed him, and he took off running as fast as he could. With every glance, shadowy forms manifest in his periphery: the weak glow of the flashlight was, as he had suspected it might be, far more terrifying than the blissful ignorance of utter darkness. Breathless and dizzy from blood loss, he reached the fork in the tunnel. Left or right? His mind filled each black chasm with a thousand horrors. Left or right?

He finally took the path on his right, deciding that he would alternate each time he encountered such a decision. This made sense for the first fork, but after a dozen, his mind was racing even faster. Hadn't he seen this junction before? Everything looked the same down here. At any moment, what appeared to be nothing but a figment of his plagued mind might reveal itself as one of the tunnel dwellers and then a host of its friends would follow and chase Emery through the dim-lit caves and they would block his path and take his light and lead him deeper into the earth and break him into tiny pieces and the faster his mind moved the more frightened he became and there were fiends at every corner of his vision and oh God he would never never reach the surface.

And then a more frightening actuality interrupted his fantasies, and Emery's racing thoughts came to a sudden halt.

The figure, hunched over with its back to him, was a naked human body, its skin so pale that blue veins were clearly visible beneath it. The creature was twenty yards ahead, and when the flashlight beam met its flesh, it scuttled away on all four limbs, disappearing around the bend of the tunnel. Emery's legs locked in place and would not obey: the tunnel people had found him.

Emery stood still for a full minute, rallied himself, and took a single step. Moments later he was moving briskly again, now in the opposite direction. Whenever he turned to look over his shoulder, the flashlight beam found nothing, but the sounds followed him, the sounds of voices like none he had ever heard, speaking a language that sounded like nothing human. How many of them there must be, Emery could not guess, but he was sure beyond any hope that they were hunting him. Dizziness and nausea encircled his head like rings of smoke, and finally Emery paused for a moment, doubling over to catch his breath. He had stood still for less than a moment when something tackled him to the floor.

Emery gasped as his wound brushed the ground. He rolled and tried to rise, but in a fraction of a second the tunnel dweller was on top of him. Emery raised an arm to his face just as it struck, shielding his eyes from the clawed hand. With his other arm, Emery swung the flashlight at the creature's temple. The blow connected, but as it did, the light puttered out. Emery rolled again, shoving the tunnel person's body off him. He had crawled only a foot or two when its hand seized his ankle. He kicked backward with his other foot but missed its face; the tunnel dweller was pulling itself slowly up his body, a cold white arm wrapped around his knees now. Emery reached forward desperately until he felt it: an unyielding metal shelf. It was the track of the old train.

Emery felt the other clawed hand grab at his belt; if the tunnel dweller reached his head, Emery knew he was lost. He lunged for the train track and pulled himself violently toward it with both arms, flailing his legs to shake his assailant. The tunnel person reared. Emery was sure he'd have only a moment to react, and no eyes with which to see. He rolled sideways, and when the tunnel person pounced at the spot where he'd been a moment before, he spun, grabbed it by the neck, and slammed its face into the tracks in one motion. Whether unconscious or dying, it didn't move again. Emery groped for his flashlight in the dark. Why hadn't any of the other tunnel dwellers attacked—unless they were amassing as he fought the first? He found the light and frantically fumbled to remove the batteries, put them back in properly, and turn it on. When he did, the flashlight beam revealed what he knew it must: he had been surrounded.

There were half a dozen figures hunched in the tunnel ahead of him, and from the sounds behind, at least that many more were approaching. Some had thin white hair growing over their faces, while others held raised claws to shield their eyes from the light. Emery grasped hopelessly at his belt line, as though searching for his machete would make it appear. The pale forms drew slowly nearer, unhurried, sure that they would have their meal. Emery remembered the feeling of the skull in his hands. He wondered whose it had been and how that poor soul had ended up down here. The tunnel people before him drew nearer; Emery backed up until he felt hot rank breath on his neck. He wondered whether Juliet would retrieve Timothy and Miren's medicine from Dr. Hanssen, now that his errand was complete, or whether the doctor would refuse when Emery himself did not appear to claim it. The nearest of the tunnel people was within arm's reach now; it swatted Emery's flashlight from his hand. The light broke on collision with the floor, and the tunnel was perfectly dark again. A single tear escaped Emery's eye; he thought of the night he had found Lydia in his bedroom. He wished that he had asked her to stay. Their claws slowly brushed his neck.

And then there was another light in the tunnel. Fire.

**16**

Fire

Had his life ended a moment ago, Emery would have had many regrets, but he would never have been able to complain for a dearth of bizarre experience. But the sight that heralded his rescue was perhaps more outlandish than any he had witnessed before. Two of the tunnel people before him fell to the ground, groaning quietly as enchanted flames consumed their flesh. By that light Emery saw Green, pushing through the horde in his fine wool coat. Green's head jerked backward as if some invisible hand had seized his hair from behind. His eyes lolled back into his head, and their whites were glowing like hot coals. Then his head cocked forward, and the gateman breathed fire again.

Everywhere the magicked flames touched, they took hold: even the dirt and pavement of the tunnel floor were ablaze. The four tunnel people before Emery who had not fallen in the first assault were hit by Green's second volley, and they too collapsed, emitting sounds that did not begin to convey the pain they must feel. When Emery turned, the tunnel people behind him were already in flight.

For a moment he was as afraid of Green as he'd been of the tunnel dwellers, but he remembered the words of the woman he'd met in the cavern. Indebted to forces he despised, indeed. "How'd you find me?" he shouted.

"Out first," Green replied breathlessly, "then talk." He seized Emery's hand and began running through the maze of tunnels.

"Are they gone?" Emery gasped as he struggled to keep up.

Green shook his head. "Regrouping." As if on cue, the echoes of countless clicks and chirps resounded behind them.

"How the hell did you end up over here?" Green asked.

Emery struggled for words, but his panic would not abate; Green glanced at his face and seemed to understand that any questions would be best left for when they were above ground.

They ran until Emery was sure that his makeshift bandage had slipped and the bleeding had started again. "Here we are," Green said finally, "just around this—"

They rounded the last corner to see that the tunnel dwellers had indeed regrouped. At least a dozen of them were blocking the entrance now, and as Emery came to a sudden halt, he heard more approaching from behind.

"What can we do?" Emery asked frantically.

"No bitching about magic?" Green asked.

Emery turned from the line of cannibals before them to the pitch blackness behind and back again. "Just get us out!"

Green drew up his left sleeve and dug the fingernails of his other hand into a fresh cut along his forearm. He winced as he tore at the tender flesh, ripping through the scabs that were just beginning to form, and blood began flowing in earnest down his arm and pooling on the ground. "That should do it," he muttered. "Now get behind me." Emery obeyed, staying close to the gateman's back.

"You might wanna move your asses," Green shouted at the tunnel people. "Don't make me do what I'm about to!" It was a futile effort: if the tunnel people even understood his words, they gave no sign of reply. Just as well. If Emery could, he would have spat the fire himself.

Green's eyes began to glow again. "This is gonna be a big one," he said. "Watch out."

His head and hands and then his whole body trembled; he looked skyward and groaned. Then Green bellowed, and with the sound, a river of fire poured from his throat. The flames towered higher than the bonfire in Three Dogs' cavern had, advancing on the tunnel people until those who did not scatter were consumed. "Now," Green gasped, "we run." They sprinted through the gap the fire had made, even as the legion of tunnel dwellers behind continued to pursue them. And finally, they emerged from beneath the earth.

Though the sun was setting already, its light was enough to blind Emery for a moment after hours of darkness. The guards who had greeted them at the tunnel entrance before were gone; in fact, there were no other people in sight now. And then Emery realized that he had survived, and he fell to the ground, shaking as relief and pain and exhaustion and dizziness and spent fear all hit him at once.

To his surprise, Green lay down beside him, one hand casting his massive backpack aside. "Well," he said weakly, "it looks like my magic just saved your sorry ass."

"Thanks," Emery said, and this time he meant it wholeheartedly. He craned his neck, trying to look around without sitting up. "Where did everyone go?" he asked. "When we came earlier—"

"This ain't where we came earlier, kid." Green made a broad motion with his bloodied arm, directing Emery's gaze to their surroundings. A brief survey of the terrain confirmed this: they were surrounded not by slums but by uninterrupted forest; the only structures in sight were the long-vacant remains of pre-extinction houses. A narrow river cut a path through the trees, passing a stone's throw from where they stood.

"You musta done something to piss Three Dogs' gang off. I tried to come back to the same entrance to look for you, and everyone was struttin' around on high alert." Green sat up, grunting with the effort. "Now come on. You gotta get back to your pals, and I've gotta get out of here."

Emery could barely comprehend the idea of standing. "Give me a minute."

"Might not have a minute." Green was growing restless. "There's gonna be people out lookin' for you all over the place. 'Sides, you're not the one who just spat hell out from your stomach, and I'm already—"

Green paused as Emery raised a hand warm with blood from his abdomen. "Three Dogs shot me," Emery said shakily. "Everything went fine, and then he came after me on my way out."

"What do you mean, shot you?" Green sounded incredulous.

"He had a gun. The same sort we have in Rittenhouse, a Vorteil revolver."

"Horseshit," the gateman replied. "Nobody out here can get their paws on something like that, not even Zakarova's favorite pet."

Emery lifted his shirt to reveal his wound. "I've seen guns before. This looked and sounded like a gun, and it damn well felt like a gun when it hit me. Unless Three Dogs has some unique talent for throwing rocks."

Green's eyes went wide. "Hell, kid, that doesn't look too good." His reaction reminded Emery of the severity of the wound, and the pain of it began to return. He knew it would only hurt worse as terror and excitement subsided. Green reached a sluggish arm towards his backpack and fished out a small vial with a worn label reading vavnilla extract. "Drink this. Should keep you on your feet until you can get home."

"Thanks," Emery said, taking the vial. "Actually, you don't look too great yourself." The gateman's face was even paler and more drawn than it had been after whisking Emery and the others from Rittenhouse, and Emery could only guess what saving him from the tunnel dwellers must have cost Green. He held himself together remarkably well, but Emery knew the man's strength must have some limit.

"I've been worse," Green said. He tried to stand, aborted the attempt, and lay on his back again. "At the moment I can't quite recall when, but I've been worse." He took another look at Emery's wound. "At least now we know what was in that package you were carrying."

Emery had been too intent on surviving to make the connection, but once Green said it, it seemed obvious.

The gateman made another attempt to rise, this time climbing slowly to his feet. "Your friends are less'n a hundred yards away," he said, offering Emery a hand. Emery's head spun as he rose; he wondered how much of his strength had seeped out through the hole in his side. "They're in a clearing right past these trees. As for me, I'm getting outta here before you guys get me into another mess."

That idea was an unappealing one: last time he had left, it was only Green's return that had saved Emery. "Are you sure?" he asked. "We could all travel together until our paths split."

Green sighed. "Listen, kid. My job was just to get you here. I stuck around longer than the king told me I had to—chalk it up to curiosity. And I feel bad for you, having to get home with that hole blown in you, but I'd trade with you in a second. You wouldn't know, but that little trick I did back there takes it out of you. I'm not walking to get where I need to go, and I'm sure not whisking myself there."

"Then how are you getting home?" Emery asked.

"Calling in a favor," Green said. "Speaking of which, seeing how I just saved your ass back there, if I ever come calling, you owe me."

It wasn't a question, and Emery certainly couldn't disagree. "Green," he said. "Thanks."

The gateman shook Emery's hand with surprising vigor and grinned, and for once the smile wasn't at Emery's expense. "Don't mention it," he said. "Actually, you can mention it all you want. Tell your pureblood buddies inside the city that mutts can breathe fire. I bet they'll get a kick outta that."

With that, the gateman turned and strode to the stream. Producing yet another vial, he emptied its contents. It was a coarse dust that disturbed the surface of the water, and when the reflection came into focus again, it was no longer Green's own face but that of a woman. It was hard to make out, but Emery thought she was the one he had passed in the palace.

"Violet," Green said to the reflection. "I'm gonna need a lift."

"What have you gotten yourself into this time?" the river replied.

"I'll tell you all about it when I get there, darlin'," Green said. "Make it fast, will you?"

The gateman waited for a moment, and then he winced at some invisible pain. "That's my ride," he said. "Seeya, kid." Green waved as he dissolved into ash.

**17**

Reunion

Emery stood immobile for a while, his mind racing to catch up with everything that had just happened. The pain of his wound was becoming more acute, filling the spaces left vacant by ebbing adrenaline. His discomfort swelled every time he inhaled. Emery retied his bandages, careful this time to make sure they would stay secure. The fabric rubbed coarsely against the edges of the wound with every small movement, and for a long time, Emery dared not move for fear of further upsetting the wound. He lay back down and tried to gather his waning strength. Images of the previous hours played back in his tired mind, swollen and disjointed like a fever dream. He felt a fleeting remorse for his joy at watching the tunnel dwellers burn: should he pity them? Were they even still human?

Finally he rallied himself, stood, and strode off in the direction Green had indicated. Every step took effort now; with each motion, his nerves protested. After far too long, he found the clearing: the sun had set, and its last soft light slowly leaked from the horizon. So Emery didn't see the others until he was greeted by a hand at his collar. "Emery?"

Timothy held a sharpened stick in the other hand, ready to strike if it was not Emery but some intruder who had happened upon them. The boy's newfound courage was striking; he had become quite the man, it seemed, since meeting Miren. "Yeah," said Emery faintly. "I'm back."

And then Lydia pushed Timothy aside and seized Emery herself. She began to say something but settled for a wordless, elated sigh, and before Emery knew what was happening, Lydia was kissing him and prudence be damned, he was kissing her back.

"Careful," he gasped as she pulled him closer, pressing painfully against his side. "I'm broken." Emery undid his coat and lifted his shirt to reveal the wound.

"Oh my god," Lydia whispered. "What happened?"

"I found out what was in the package from Hanssen," Emery said. "A Vorteil revolver." He tried for a smile. "Three Dogs was so happy to receive it, he just had to show me how it worked."

Lydia was stunned to silence; she stepped back, covering her mouth with one hand. "Will you be alright?" Miren asked, looking alarmed.

"I'll be fine," Emery said, but his words failed to convince even himself. He was sure now that it wasn't just the sky that was darkening; his field of vision narrowed, and though his companions were already drawing nearer to support him, they appeared farther away. Emery had not heeded his body's requests for repose; now, it was not asking but demanding. Emery staggered, and Lydia hurried to catch him as he plunged into a deeper night.

***

The world was spinning when he awoke. For a long time, Emery was too disoriented to open his eyes; when at last he did, he saw that it was entirely dark. The others had tried to set up camp; with no tent or sleeping mats, they had simply found another half-standing building and gathered inside it. Emery wondered how they had moved his unconscious body here. Timothy was keeping watch while Lydia and Miren slept next to Emery, all shoulder to shoulder to preserve what warmth they could. Lydia's hand was resting lightly on his chest; Emery disentangled himself and walked to where Timothy was sitting.

"It's good to see you awake," Timothy whispered.

Emery nodded wearily. "How long have I been asleep?"

"No way of telling," Timothy said. "It's been dark for hours. My watch is almost up, I think."

"Thanks for dragging me here," Emery said, casting a look around the building. Its walls still careened in a nauseating fashion; Emery wondered when the dizziness would subside. "How was everyone while I was gone?"

"Green came back to look after us when they wouldn't let him go with you," Timothy replied. "I guess he's not as selfish as he comes off at first."

"He saved my life down there," Emery said. "Things are rough in the wastes, and only rough people thrive. But I think beneath all the grit and callus, he's a decent man."

"Yeah." The ceiling of their present abode had survived in patches; the spot directly above them still held. Timothy looked at the black sky visible at the far end of the building, where both ceiling and wall had collapsed.

"It's overcast tonight," he said. "I don't think we should travel in broad daylight; we look like easy targets right now. But we heard dogs roaming around when we were coming here, and we'll probably have to wait until it's almost dawn to be safe." The boy who was fast becoming a man exhaled deeply. "Emery, Miren's getting sicker. I don't know how much longer she'll be able to keep moving. And I'm trying my best, but I've felt better, too."

"Are we going to make it through the sewers again?" Emery asked.

"I don't know," Timothy replied. "Emery...while you were gone, I was thinking about this medicine we're trying to get. You said the medicine to cure our sickness was different than the one to prevent it."

Emery nodded hazily.

"So why do they even have the medicine for curing the sickness, if nobody inside can get sick in the first place?"

"For bartering," Emery said. "Timothy, there are people outside Rittenhouse who have access to that medicine, just not people like you or Miren. What do you think people like Three Dogs do if they become sick with what you have? They possess things that people inside want, so the medicine finds its way outside."

"But isn't trade with the outside against the law in Rittenhouse?" Timothy asked. "How can they make something if its whole purpose is illegal?"

A cynical laugh escaped Emery's chest. "When people in power break laws to get what they want, more often than not, everyone turns the other way."

Again, Timothy was silent for a long time. "Back when we were planning our first trip out to see the king, I heard Oliver talking to you about Jehovah God. I asked him later, and it sounds like Jehovah God is almost the same as what we call the Spirit Above in New Providence."

"I'm not too familiar with the religions out here," Emery said, "but in my experience, most gods are people's different perspectives on the same thing. Different details, different misconceptions, but they're all looking for a creator, a sustainer."

"Do you believe in him?" Timothy asked.

"Jehovah God?" Emery followed Timothy's gaze into the starless night. "That's not an easy question. I believe in God, certainly, but not the same god most people in Rittenhouse talk about. My God isn't very fond of the way people live their lives in the city. The manuscripts we've managed to recover, the ones that form the doctrine of the Reborn, Jehovah God's religion, are so incomplete and riddled with contradiction that I can never swallow the whole package the way they do. But as muddled as their scriptures are, sometimes you find a verse that glimpses the God I do believe in. 'Again I looked and saw the oppression taking place all around,'" he intoned. "'I saw the tears of the oppressed; their oppressors held all power, and there was no one to comfort them.' Rittenhouse is a machine designed to empower the oppressors. The God I believe in would say something like that about us."

"Is that what you want to be?" Timothy said. "The one who comforts the oppressed?"

Emery shrugged. "Maybe someday it'll get to that point," he said. "But really, I feel this is the very least I can do. I live in wealth I didn't even earn, while outside Rittenhouse, we don't even know how many people are starving and struggling to survive. Right now, I'm just trying not to be the oppressor anymore."

"I guess if everyone thought like that," Timothy replied, "there wouldn't be oppression anymore."

Emery laughed softly. "If everyone in Rittenhouse thought like that, there wouldn't be Rittenhouse anymore, I can tell you that much," he said. "Honestly, I haven't even found out yet how far I'm willing to go with it myself. Yeah, I can sneak out here and risk my life a couple of times. But when I go home, if we make it home, I return to a sort of comfort people in the wastes have never even seen. If it ever came to me sleeping in a house like this one every night so someone else can eat, I hope I'd be able to take that step, but I don't know."

"I hope you're right about God, Emery." Timothy looked at the girls: Miren was still sleeping; Lydia was stirring to take the watch. "If we want to get back home, we're going to need him on our side."

***

Lydia watched Emery as he slept. When the eastern sky began its slow transition from black to gray, she woke Miren and Timothy, leaving Emery to sleep for another moment as they stirred. Finally she stroked his face, and his heavy lids parted.

"Morning," he groaned weakly.

"It's time to go." She leaned down to kiss him lightly on the forehead. "We should be home soon, and then you can sleep all you want."

"Sounds like heaven," he said, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Hey, you changed my bandage."

"Your homemade one wasn't doing too much," she said. "It's a good thing I thought to pack first aid supplies in the backpack."

"Thanks." Emery fished around in the pockets of the hideous coat he had used as his blanket, producing a brown glass vial. "Green gave this to me," he said. "It should keep me going for a while, at least." He unscrewed the lid and consumed the fluid in one gulp, cringing and gagging as he swallowed. "Tastes like a corpse, though."

Lydia smiled. "I hope you don't know that from experience."

They set out, using the map from Emery's textbook as their guide. It had been drenched on Emery's first return trip, so the paper was flimsy and its ink had run. Still, it provided a mostly legible picture of their surroundings. "Timothy," Emery said, cocking his head and holding the map sideways, "you're going to have to take over here."

He handed the map to the younger boy, who studied it for a moment before announcing, "It should only take us an hour, I think."

"That's good," Emery replied, "because I'm not sure if I can walk much farther than that."

"You'll be fine," Lydia said, hoping her prediction would be self-fulfilling.

"Unless someone wants to rob and kill us," Miren added brightly, "in which case we're screwed."

"Nice pep talk," Emery said wryly. "Did Oliver let you borrow his optimism?"

They moved slowly though the sparsely populated forest, passing the occasional cluster of huts or tents that constituted a village in these parts. Lydia had only been outside once before, and the experience had been one she didn't like to think about: the sooner they got home, the better. When they had been walking for nearly hour, the sun rose from its hiding place at the far end of the world. It was easier to see in the light, and they traveled more quickly, but it also made it more likely that they'd be seen. By the time another half-hour had passed, it was clear that they were nowhere near their destination.

"Maybe we've been walking in the wrong direction," Emery said.

"How is that even possible?" Miren countered. "The sun is to the east. North is pretty easy to figure out."

"I don't think this map is correct," Timothy offered. "Remember last time, Emery? It took us at least twice as long as we thought it would."

Emery shrugged. "I don't see how that could be; if anyone should be able to produce a good map of the area, it's the experts at the collegio." He shot an exasperated glance at Timothy. "I hope you're not reading it wrong."

Timothy led on, but their strength was beginning to waver. Lydia, the only healthy one of them, watched helplessly as each of the others slowed, Emery weakened by his injury and the others by their illness. Lydia struggled to control the terror she had felt ever since Emery had entered the tunnel. It had waned for only a moment when he returned, returning when he revealed the gunshot wound. Emery was her rock, her center; if anything happened to him...

Stubbornly, Emery never admitted that he needed a break, but after another hour, they could continue no longer. He finally collapsed against Lydia, inhaling sharply.

"Let's rest for a minute," Lydia told him softly.

"I'll be fine," he said, trying without success to twist his grimace into a visage of confidence. "Let's keep on—"

" _Emery_ ," Lydia began.

"Actually," Miren interrupted, "I could use a break." Lydia locked eyes with her, whispering thanks. Finally, Emery was persuaded to sit.

"Let me see that map again." Timothy reluctantly handed the paper back to Emery, who leaned forward, one hand holding the map close to his eyes, the other supporting his drooping head. "For God's sake, Timothy, we should have been there ages ago."

"It has to be wrong," Timothy said again. "We've been going the right way."

Emery tossed the map on the ground between them. "Then why aren't we there yet?" Lydia tensed; she rarely heard Emery sound this upset. "I've had a long, _long_ couple of days. Is it too much to ask, after I get shot and nearly eaten alive, that someone else takes over for just a couple of hours without screwing anything up?"

Timothy stared at the ground, abashed. Doubtless he felt that Emery's criticism was unfair, but Lydia knew he wouldn't challenge Emery. She glanced at Miren and back at Timothy, waiting for Emery to say something to break the tension.

Emery glared at Timothy for another moment before lying down on the forest floor. "If we're out here any longer," he said, "I'll just draw my own damn map."

"Are ye' lost?" a voice inquired from behind all of them. "Per'aps we can direct ye'."

They turned to find a group of men behind them; Lydia had never seen them before, but Emery's face hinted that he knew who they were. He was back on his feet immediately, and Lydia saw the muscles in his jaw tense with the pain of the sudden movement. "No way in hell," he muttered.

There were three of them; one had a tattered cloth bandage covering a wound on the side of his head. "How very nice to meet ye' again," he said. "And ye' brought some lady friends, I see."

Lydia was frozen in place; from the corner of her eye she saw Emery fumble for a weapon that he no longer carried.

"Why don't ye' tell your guests who we are," another of them said. "Only seems fair to me."

Emery sighed, moving ever so slowly to position himself between Lydia and the strangers. His eyes scanned the ground as if looking for a branch or stone within reach. "When we were out here last time, we stumbled upon these men's homes," he said. "They wanted to hold me for ransom, and a fight broke out."

"Damn right it did," the bandaged man said. "Ye' mangled my ear with that blow."

"We would've split ye' in two," the second man said, "if the king's man 'adn't shown up. But keep telling."

"Excuse me?"

The man stepped forward, seizing Emery's jaw in one hand and leaning forward until they were eye-to-eye. "I was enjoying your story," he said. "Ye'll continue."

"Green broke up the fight and gave them a balm for the injured man's ear," Emery said. He paused, apparently wondering whether to comply for the moment or to strike while he could. "And we left."

"The pureblood's forgetting one little thing," said the third man.

"I am?" Emery swallowed. "I really don't remember anything else."

"Ye' threw something at us," the man hinted.

"Oh," Emery said, voice quivering. "It was the bag of dry food you packed for me, Lyd."

"That's it," the man said. "We was about to cut ye' up real good, and ye' gave us your food." Emery's expression was of terrible confusion. "Don't get me wrong, we 'ad every right to do what we did, and the next pureblood who appears in our backyard, we'll do the same. But ye' was getting away free, and ye' gave us food when ye' didn't have to."

"I felt bad about what had happened," Emery explained, sounding as unsure as Lydia felt as to what point the men were trying to make. "I know it's rougher out here than where I come from. I don't have to worry about my next meal. But I didn't have time to stay; I've been trying to get medicine for my friends." He motioned to Timothy and to Miren behind him. "They're from out here too, and they're deathly ill."

"I never 'eard of a pureblood who gives food to a mutt," said the third man. "And I damn well never 'eard of a pureblood who sticks 'is neck out to assist a mutt. I guess we never asked ye' why ye' were wandering in the wastes without your guns and your fancy auto-mobiles."

"That's why," Emery said. "What I'm doing isn't very popular where I'm from."

"Well," said the bandaged man, "it's popular with us. Kindness is something people out 'ere can't afford to spend, and people in Ridden'ouse never do."

"So you're not going to hack us up or hold the purebloods for ransom?" Miren asked hopefully.

The men looked amongst each other. "Your call, Clay," one of them said. "It wasn't my 'ead."

The bandaged man nodded. "Next time we find ye' wandering around, don't expect to get off this easy." Then he grinned. "But today, I say we repay ye' in kind. Why don't ye' come dine with us?"

***

Their hosts led the way to the center of their hamlet—Springdale, Clay said it was called, though it looked as much like autumn as anywhere else in the wastes. The dining area was open-air, with a canopy of sheet metal and tree branches overhead. The low table was surrounded on all sides by appropriated park benches; Clay bade that Emery and the others be seated. About a dozen thin children were at play outside the clearing that formed the hamlet. On seeing these strangely-clad newcomers at their table, some observed from a distance; the more precocious drew nearer until their mothers called them back. The women who were not with the children were scavenging material to rebuild a roof that had collapsed. Whenever they passed the dining area, they regarded the intruders warily. "Forgive us," Clay said, "We 'ave no custom for these things."

Though fatigue dragged at Emery's limbs and confounded his senses, he forced himself to remain alert: these were the same men who had ambushed him before. He eyed his companions, all of whom looked far more assured than he felt.

"Ye've no need for worry," said one of the men, who introduced himself as Small Horse (in Emery's exhaustion, the anecdote explaining the name was lost). "There's ten of our men within earshot, and from the looks of ye', most of our women could pull ye' apart. If we wanted ye' dead or held for ransom, ye'd know by now."

Emery finally allowed himself to relax when Clay added, "I don't know 'ow you purebloods do, but we don't 'ave food to waste on dead men."

The meal consisted of boiled potatoes and a morsel of salted venison for each of the guests. "Everything's delicious," Timothy said graciously, bowing his head toward their hosts in thanks.

"Most days we 'ave dog, squirrel, pigeon... whatever we catch," Clay said. "We don't question Providence; a meal's a meal." He grinned, scratching at his bandaged ear. "We save the deer for the guests."

"Dogs is easy to catch," said Small Horse, "Because they comes right to ye'. Ye' just sets a small child out in the woods an' duck by some trees. Can't get too carried away chasing 'em, though, or one sneaks up an' makes off with your son!" The men all laughed; Emery smiled uneasily, wondering whether the joke was in fact a joke. Lydia looked horrified.

"In my village," Timothy said, "we put a bit of deer's blood on the ground. When a dog comes sniffing around, the hunter's waiting in a tree above and just drops a big stone on its head."

"Best of all, though," said the third man—who had no nickname to offer because he rarely spoke to outsiders, so his companions had elected over his strong protests to call him Birdsong for the time being—"is the cows ye' purebloods got there in Fairmount. I never stole one," he added quickly, remembering to whom he spoke, "but a friend of ours bought some meat once, from Stonefell up north. I 'ope ye' don't mind us mutts tasting from your plate."

Emery realized that it wasn't out of courtesy that the man had suddenly grown cautious: stealing livestock from Fairmount was a dangerous endeavor, and one to which the men probably wanted little attention drawn. Emery took a bite of his potato and smiled. "I don't think the good people of Rittenhouse are going to starve over one missing cow."

Small Horse laughed abruptly. "Only pureblood doin' good for mutts," he said, motioning to Emery's scant frame, "and ye' the skinniest one of all! What ye' think of that, Birdsong?"

"I think if ye' call me Birdsong again, ye'll wish the dogs had carried ye' off as a little boy."

Clay leaned in. "Back to what ye' does for mutts," he said, suddenly more serious. "Are there many of them living with ye'?"

"Only four at present," Emery said, anticipating the coming request. "They all live in my house with me. It's a big house, but it's also hard to keep secret when you're buying food and clothing for refugees. I'm sorry, but I can't take any more at the moment."

Clay sighed. "I 'ave a son, young boy. Not sick like these two are sick, but winter's comin' and I fear he won't last once the nights get cold and our food grows scarce." Clay reached one hand across the table and placed it on Emery's; with his other, he motioned to the gaggle of children playing beyond the circle of barely-standing homes. "I know ye' say ye' have no more room, but my boy's such a little one—"

"I wish I could," Emery said gently, "but in truth I was already at my limit before the king asked me to take Miren in. I'm spread thin, and if I make any mistake to reveal to the others in Rittenhouse what I'm doing, I'll be failing the charges I've already taken on. And if that happens, I'll be cast out of the city right along with them. That's the risk I take in doing this. I've accepted that, but right now, there's only so much I can do."

The others had returned to their conversation. Clay nodded agreement, but the question was still in his eyes. Emery followed the man's gesture, trying to discern which of the boys was his son. Every one of them looked too frail to endure the coming winter; their threadbare clothes and their parents' decrepit houses promised little protection. "Here's the best I can do for you," Emery said. "If he does get ill enough that you're sure he won't make it out here, seek out the king. He'll hear your case, and he'll know how your son can reach me."

"That's too far a trek for a young boy," Clay pleaded. "Can't ye' take 'im with ye' today? Please."

Emery turned his gaze back toward Timothy and Miren, both of whom were on the verge of collapse. His own pain had not abated, and he dreaded the coming journey. Taking Clay's hand, Emery slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry," he answered. "Right now, I have to keep the promises I've already made."

**18**

Victory

The food and rest allowed by their hosts gave them strength enough to venture through the sewers again, and when at last they made it home, Emery was delighted to find that no disaster had befallen the estate when Green had magicked them out. Juliet had returned daily to check on Oliver and Geneva, and all was well with them. Emery showered and cleaned his wound as best he could, praying the sewer water hadn't infected it, and after a quick meal he went to bed. He arose the next day and went immediately to the hospital, and no amount of lost blood could overcome the triumph he felt as he climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.

It was early, and Dr. Hanssen's secretary had not yet arrived for the day. Emery tapped lightly on the doctor's door.

"Sir Esposti," the doctor called from inside. "Do come in."

Emery opened the door and sank into the seat before the doctor's desk, too tired to worry whether he was invited to do so.

Hanssen was smiling. "How are you this fine morning, sir?"

"I've felt better," Emery said, "but the package is delivered, doctor. I've come to collect payment."

"Yes," Hanssen said, drawing out the final consonant, "I had been wondering whether you would actually return. It appears you've exceeded my expectations, which were admittedly far from the highest, young sir."

The doctor produced a bag and laid it on the desk. Emery reached to retrieve it, but the doctor's long hand swatted his away. "Now," he said. "Tell me _exactly_ how your errand went."

"It was pretty straightforward," Emery began. "My contact took me to Three Dogs' territory, in an area governed by his subject Blackroot. Three Dogs' men took me underground from there. Three Dogs' keep is an old subway station. I gave your package to Three Dogs' guard, and I watched him hand it to Three Dogs."

"And then?" the doctor pressed, still smiling.

"Then I left, and as soon as I'd gotten a bit of rest, I came back here," Emery said. It was the truth, or at least a part of it. "That's pretty much it."

Dr. Hanssen's icy lips twisted further upward. "You embarrass yourself, sir Esposti. As I already informed you, I had my own means of monitoring the success or failure of this errand. I believe you omitted one minor detail between your delivery and your returning here."

How could he know? It was far too soon for any messenger to have reached him, wasn't it? "A minor detail," Emery repeated. "Three Dogs tried to shoot me. With the revolver I assume you gave him."

"Ah, yes, that was the one." Dr. Hanssen retracted his hand. "You may claim your payment."

Emery took the bag and slowly opened it. Inside was a case like the ones he had received from Dr. Hanssen before, containing a full year's supply of antibiotics. Enough to treat one person.

Emery's hands trembled. "This isn't what we agreed on."  
The doctor's smile shattered like an icicle cast to the ground. "This was precisely the amount agreed upon in our _first_ negotiation," he said. "And though you later tried to drive up the price, the unsatisfactory manner in which you fulfilled your own end of the bargain leaves you without leverage. You somehow offended my client enough that he tried to kill you. This is your payment for a job poorly done, and for the hubris you demonstrated on your last visit."

Emery's memory replayed his confrontation with the poppy lord; his questions regarding Manuel had not pleased Three Dogs, but Emery hadn't thought his annoyance had been that severe. Then Emery remembered something else, something that had happened in this very office. "What did you write on that letter you put in the box?" he asked. His whole body was shaking now. "You cold bastard. You planned this from the moment I said the price had gone up. You didn't even expect me to come back alive; _you_ told Three Dogs—"

"Do not accuse me for your own failings, sir Esposti," Hanssen hissed, but Emery was almost sure he saw the faintest hint of a smile appear again. "You could not even handle this simple task. You should be grateful I am paying you at all."

"I'll have your ass for this," Emery began.

"I think not, sir. You're looking quite pale today. So much so, I think, that I am led to believe Three Dogs may have failed to kill you by a narrower margin than you admit."

Emery said nothing.

"So perhaps I shall report to Unity that I treated you for a gunshot wound, and they will conduct an investigation into the circumstances under which you sustained it. Perhaps they shall find other things you would rather remain hidden."

"If I go down," Emery said, "so do you."

"I think not," Hanssen said again. Emery wondered how long he had been preparing this speech. "Where is your evidence? My hands have been completely clean through all of this. You have only your meager word against mine, and sir Esposti, I am above reproach in this city.

"It is time for you to be going," he sneered. "And let me make myself perfectly clear: if you ever take one step in this floor of my hospital, much less this office, I shall do everything in my considerable power to see that you are cast out of Rittenhouse to live where you belong, among the dogs."

Emery still had one hand on the bag; the other twitched, ready to reach for the doctor's throat.

"With that settled," Hanssen said, "is there anything else?"

"One thing."

Emery took a step forward and spat in the doctor's face. Hanssen cringed and raised a hand to strike Emery, but then he lowered it and smiled again. No insult could lessen the doctor's victory. "Good," he said. "Now get out of my sight."

***

"Timothy. Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

Timothy and Miren were fooling around with Emery's paints on a spare piece of canvas; at the sound of Emery's voice, both of them looked up.

"Um, yeah." Timothy put his brush down and turned to Miren. "I'll be right back."

She smiled. "Okay."

Emery turned before either of them could get a good look at his face and led Timothy upstairs into the study. The countless, hallowed books and the scent of aged wood were usually among Emery's greatest pleasures in the mansion, but nothing could soothe him now. He closed the door when Timothy had entered. "I went to see Dr. Hanssen just now," he said, forcing himself to look into Timothy's eyes.

The relief he saw there crushed him. "Great," Timothy said. "So all of this is finally over."

"Well," Emery said, "that's what I want to talk to you about." M. Petrou had told Emery he had a gift with words, but they all failed him now. Emery approached the desk on which the bag lay and produced the case. He slowly opened it to reveal the medicine.

Timothy's eyes widened. "That's a lot of pills."

"Yeah. It's..." Emery cleared his throat. "It's three different kinds of antibiotics that are taken at different intervals over the course of a year. It's about ninety-seven percent effective at curing the kind of sickness you have entirely. It's a real wonder of modern medicine." He was rambling. "This case is enough for one person."

"Wow," Timothy said. "Where's the other one?"

Again Emery locked eyes with the boy. He said nothing, but the grief on his face spoke for him. He watched, dying a little each second, as realization slowly dawned. "But the doctor said—" Timothy began.

"He tricked us," Emery said. "He's the one who told Three Dogs to shoot me. He wasn't planning to pay at all, and I guess this is all the trouble it was worth to him to keep what happened from getting out. The doctor says no one would believe me if I told them about his involvement, and he's right. He doesn't know what my secret is, but he knows I have one, and if I fight him, he'll get Unity to pry until everything comes out."

"So what do we do now?" Timothy asked hopefully. "There has to be some way we can get another one. Right?"

"I've been banned from the upper hospital, the section where the doctors have access to this medicine," Emery said weakly. "I'm going to try to find a way, but for now, we have to assume this is all we're going to get."

"Maybe we can split the pills up," Timothy replied quickly. Emery tried not to notice the desperation in his voice. "Isn't there still a chance—"

"It could buy us some time, sure, but what if we can't find any more medicine after that? Then neither of you is cured." Emery's throat was sandpaper; he swallowed. "We need to assume this is all we're going to get. Timothy, you were here first, and I promised I'd do anything I could to get you back to your family alright. I want you to have the medicine."

It was a choice that Emery knew would be the end of him. He had gotten into this mess to save lives, not to choose whose he must end. Timothy's eyes welled with tears; he nodded slowly, resolutely.

"So you'll take it?" Emery asked.

"No." The word was a whisper.

"What?"

"Of _course_ not," Timothy said. "I'm giving them to Miren." He looked at Emery almost quizzically. "You had to know that would be what I'd say."

"Timothy," Emery began, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know you're really attached to Miren. You might even think you love her, but you just met days ago. And you have a family back home that needs you—"

"My family needs me," Timothy said softly, "to be a man." He seized Emery's wrist, an expression of stunning intensity on his face. "And between what my father taught me and what you've taught me, I only know one way to do that. It isn't even a question. If I was the kind of person who let a girl die in my place when I could have done something to stop it, I wouldn't even dare show my face at home again."

"I'll try to find another way," Emery began.

"Don't say that," Timothy whispered. "Because I know you'll try, but I also know you probably won't find one. So if something definite happens, tell me then. Otherwise, just let me get used to this idea. Don't make it harder for me."

Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks, but his voice was level, his eyes ablaze. It was his resolve that broke Emery's own: this boy, so young, was choosing his own death with a courage Emery could find nowhere inside himself.

"I wish it could be me," Emery said quietly.

"I knew you'd say that," Timothy said with a crushing little smile. The fourteen-year-old's face was aeons old. "And I know you mean it. But Emery, it can't always be you."

**19**

A Map of Rittenhouse

"I hope our discussion this term has informed both your understanding and your appreciation of our city's accomplishments," M. Gendre said, looking expectantly at the dozen students sitting before him. Juliet was tempted to state that it had not, just to see how the maestro would respond.

"I would say that I hate to bludgeon you with the same information we've discussed these past few months," M. Gendre continued, "but I rather enjoy it, and besides, it's the best way to ensure retention." The maestro was a bald man, and well-fed; his great pink cheeks seemed almost to ripple when he spoke. "So in summary, if you take one thing with you from this classroom—and I sincerely hope you take more than one—let it be that Rittenhouse owes its cultural and technological progress to the freedom of its market economy, which is sustained by each of the four circles competing to produce the best goods and services it can offer and exercising their own power to keep Unity from overreaching." Juliet's mind wandered as the maestro continued; she had heard all of this before and had already received the highest marks attainable in this course. Their last meeting was just a formality.

"What about people like the Vorteil factory workers," asked a girl, "who can't afford half of what they're producing and don't have access to a lot of other resources? My friend's dad works in a factory and can't even afford services in the upper hospital. How does a free market economy benefit people like him?"

"Considering your score on our last examination," M. Gendre addressed her with a little tug at his shirt collar, "I suppose we would do well to cover this one last time." The other students laughed; the girl ducked her head. "My answer," the maestro said, "will be threefold.

"First, I believe that with very few exceptions, _hardworking_ men and women in Rittenhouse have less trouble meeting their needs than we are led to believe. Second, while it may be true that not every person can afford every service offered by, to use your example, the upper hospital, independent of this economic system, many of those services would not exist..."

Juliet suspected that M. Gendre would not stop until he had summarized every lecture given over the course of the term. She excused herself to the restroom, but instead of returning to class, she wandered the mostly-empty collegio. As she passed through one corridor, she saw an open door, and beyond it, one figure standing in the room with his back to the entrance. Drawing closer, Juliet saw Emery's mane of curls.

"Whatcha looking at?" Juliet said brightly.

"It's too big," Emery whispered. He did not turn to face Juliet; his eyes were fixed on the map of New Providence hanging on the wall.

"What?" Juliet stepped forward to see what he was looking at.

"It's too big," Emery repeated, motioning towards the drawing of Rittenhouse on the map. "When we were outside, we had the copy from the textbook; we were using it to find our way around. Everything took twice as long as we thought it should, and I couldn't figure out why."

Juliet could finally see Emery's face now. Recently, Emery had looked older every day, but now she saw something different in her friend's countenance, something broken.

"The world outside is way bigger than it looks here," Emery continued. His voice was soft. "Rittenhouse is really just a little blip compared to the space we traveled. They drew it like it's half as big as everything else put together."

"So they screwed the map up," Juliet said. She understood what Emery was getting at, but it was hardly a new revelation. "Self-importance is pretty standard around here, isn't it?"

Emery shrugged, his shoulders slumping like a discarded puppet's. He turned, and Juliet saw the deep bags under his eyes: clearly, he hadn't slept. "Timothy passed today," he said.

Juliet lowered her head. "I'm sorry."

At this point, it was a mercy: the sickness had eaten away at the boy for nearly three months since Hanssen's promise of medicine had turned out to be a snare. He had been given a long time to reconsider his self-sacrifice, but according to Emery, the boy had never complained once. He'd still seemed fairly strong until a week ago, when he'd caught a cold; his battered immune system couldn't defend against it, and for days his condition had been critical. Emery had made every attempt to find another dose of antibiotics, even milling around the hospital after hours until Unity guards had threatened to arrest him. Juliet knew Emery bore Timothy's death as his own failure, whether or not he admitted it, whether or not he realized it himself. She put a careful hand on his back. "You did everything you could."

"Yeah." Emery didn't look like he agreed; he almost said something else, then repeated, "Yeah." He looked back at the map.

"So what happens now?" Juliet asked tentatively.

"I expand," Emery said. "If people like Hanssen can do so much harm so effortlessly, I have to redouble my efforts. I'll send word to the king that I want everyone he can send me."

"What about the medicine?" Juliet asked. "If you can't find any more—"

"A way will present itself," Emery said firmly. "And besides, there's a lot more going on in New Providence than just one illness. There are people that need food, shelter, medicine for all ailments."

His voice shook as he spoke; he paused and drew a sharp breath. "We're having a little service for Timothy," he continued, quiet again. "In my backyard tonight; it's the only place we can do it. Don't feel obligated, but you're welcome to attend."

"I'll ride there with you," Juliet said. "And Emery..."

"Yeah?"

"It's great, what you do. It always has been. Just be sure you're doing it for the right reason."

Emery tensed momentarily, as if some deep injury, long dormant, had surfaced for a moment and then receded. "Maybe someday there will be time for me to think about myself," he said, "but people are starving to death right now. When that's fixed, I'll worry about reasons."

Juliet knew that if it was to mean anything, the conversation would have to wait. She put a hand on Emery's shoulder. "Come on."

Emery gazed up at the map for one final moment before tearing his eyes away. "Okay," he said, falling in step as Juliet led the way out of the classroom. "Do you know how to use a shovel?"

***

They dug until their palms bled. When Emery finally conceded that the grave site was sufficient, the sky was dark. The body had been lain on a simple stretcher, which they carried out and set delicately beside the plot. Juliet saw only the outline of the emaciated frame beneath the sheet. It was more than she wished to see.

They all stood silently for a while, heads bowed. Oliver was more sedate than Juliet had ever seen him; nine-year-old Geneva was stricken. Miren wept quietly, the tears soaking her red cheeks. The effects of the medicine were already apparent: her open sores had scabbed over, a flush had ignited her pallid skin, and she no longer appeared quite as thin as she had the first time Juliet had seen her. Slowly, she was transforming, becoming the rightful owner of those stunning eyes.

Her guilt was unbearable.

Emery finally stepped forward, clearing his throat. "The only funerals I've ever attended have been in the Roccetti tradition," he began. "Of course...Of course, we can't honor Timothy that way. The reason we can't is the same reason he got sick in the first place. He didn't have access to medicine because we live in a world where our worth is determined by where we're born. The medicine existed, it just wasn't for him. Because he was born outside. Because he was a mutt." He spat the epithet. He was trembling. "It didn't matter _who_ he was, didn't matter that he was more braver, more self-sacrificing..." Emery trailed off, cleared his throat again. "It didn't matter." He knelt, placing a hand on the sheet. "To me, it matters. We honor his memory."

They lowered the stretcher into the grave. Each of them scattered a handful of dirt across the body. Then, wordlessly, they began filling in the grave. In minutes, deep brown earth had concealed the sheet entirely. When they were finished, Oliver and Geneva scattered grass seed atop the plot. There would be no cremation, no headstone, no evidence.

"We should plant a tree here," Miren said quietly. "It's something, at least."

A few heads bobbed in somber reply. Juliet saw roots reaching downward, drawing their life from the decay—she cast the image from her mind.

"If everyone could follow me inside," Emery said, "there's something I'd like to show you all."

Juliet hung back, walking next to Lydia behind the others. "Do you know what this is about?" she whispered.

Lydia shook her head; she said nothing, but Juliet had the feeling that Emery hadn't been talking to Lydia much over the past few weeks. He hadn't been talking much at all. "He hasn't been well, has he?" Juliet remarked to no one in particular.

Emery led the way into his study, where he took his place behind the vast mahogany desk. The others assembled expectantly on the other side. Juliet leaned forward to examine the books and papers and stone tablets scattered across the desk: her friend had been hard at work on something. The volume of the writing suggested obsession.

Emery turned on a small electric desk lamp and held up a sheet of paper for the others to see. "I'm sure I've shown this to most of you before," he said.

Juliet nodded: it was a plot of Rittenhouse's sewer system, the same one that had been used to map the labyrinthine course the outsiders traveled to enter the city.

"Well," Emery continued, "I've been going through all these books and papers my cousin left behind. I found this map in them in the first place. Over the last couple of weeks, I dug up a few interesting things." His voice grew more frantic as he spoke. "Well, a lot of things, really, but the one I want to show you all is this..."

He held up another plot of Rittenhouse, one Juliet didn't recognize. There was a single, bold path on the paper, running horizontally east-to-west and intersecting the city wall.

"What's that?" Geneva asked earnestly.

"That," Emery said, "is a train tunnel. It was discovered while rebuilding the area. They sealed it off to prevent the tunnel dwellers from coming into the city through it, and eventually new construction covered up all the entrances. It's still down there, just a long tunnel with no way in or out. The original copy of this map was much smaller, but I've redrawn it to scale. Watch."

He picked the map of the sewers up again and placed it over the picture of the tunnel. By the time he held it before the light, Juliet already understood.

"I don't know what kind of tools we'll need or how long it's going to take," Emery said. "We'll have to go down and survey it. But if we dig here and here..." he motioned at two points where the images overlapped, one close to the sewer entrance outside, the other almost directly below Emery's estate.

By now, the others had caught on. "Why didn't you guys do this before I came along?" Oliver asked, eyes wide.

"The map of the train tunnel is decades old," Emery said. "No one more practical than my cousin would even have something like this in their archives. If I hadn't been so...dedicated...these past few weeks—" his face darkened for just a moment— "I don't think I'd ever have found it. Like I said, I don't know how long it will take, and maybe once we get down there it just won't work, but we're damn well going to try."

Juliet looked at the others; Lydia looked uncertain, but none of them seemed to think it was a bad idea. And Juliet had to admit that the tunnel itself wasn't. It was what it represented: Emery had buried with Timothy whatever sense of self-preservation he'd had before. He was determined now to feed every starving mouth in New Providence, and even if somehow he was never discovered and cast out, this crusade would devour him.

Geneva crossed her arms over her chest, indignant that the others were talking over her. "I still don't get it."

Emery stepped out from behind the desk and approached the young girl. "Do you remember when you first came here? Coming through the sewer?"

Her nose crinkled in affirmation. "It was gross."

"Well, after we do what we're talking about, no one will have to do that again." Emery put his hands on Geneva's shoulders and knelt forward till their faces were level. "Geneva," he said, "we're going to build a highway into Rittenhouse." There was something wild in his eyes.

**Acknowledgments**

I always put an E after the G in "acknowledgments," so my first one goes to the wonderful invention of spelling correction.

Feedback from a number of early readers was instrumental in turning a skeletal first draft into a finished novel. I'd specifically like to thank Justin Livi, Sondra Boyle, Malcolm Kenyatta, my uncle Dana Priest, and my parents and brothers for input that really improved the quality of the book. A score of other people contributed as well; you know who you are.

Thanks to Justin Livi again for assistance and encouragement in the process of publishing _Mutt,_ including the awesome title typeface, and to Dan Govar for the phenomenal cover illustration.

With any luck, you'll be reading Book II about a year from now.

The truth belongs to God; the mistakes were mine.

**About the author...**

I really love food. That's probably not the most important thing about me, but I'm sitting here in a doctor's office and the doctor is running three hours late and there's nothing to be done for it but to pray he hurries so I can indulge my Chipotle craving in the immediate future.

I grew up in Catonsville, a suburb outside of Baltimore, Maryland. About a year and a half ago I moved to Philadelphia to attend Temple University, and I started writing Mutt shortly after I got here. These are all very general descriptors; I could tell you that I cook gluten-free food or struggle with depression or love Super Smash Brothers and bonfires with my friends back home, but that's a collection of personal and rather disjointed facts that probably wouldn't belong on this page. So if you want to know the really interesting stuff, follow me on Twitter (@KingOfAutumn), visit my website at http://www.evanfuller.net, or e-mail lordsofautumn@gmail.com.
