After the morning’s incident, Colette sent Hemile to fetch Dwain and the guards. He could not catch the former—the door to the office was locked. So, the old man went instead to the butcher who commanded the militia on the street between the tavern and the market. Even in the capital, professional soldiers guarded only the town hall, the market, the gates, and the estates on the right bank. In the other quarters, the watch was made up of the local militia under the lead of respected townsmen. Hemile found the butcher at his work and explained the situation. The old man had once commanded a militia himself, and so he was received with honor. The butcher set his knife aside and gave a small bow.

  The talk was not heartening. By his account, able men were busy defending their homes and workplaces. Many had gone out into the streets themselves, hoping to snatch the reward.

  — But if anything happens—call for us. You’ve a horn or a whistle. Our lads will come.

  Hemile had no cause to doubt his words. When he returned to the tavern, he passed it all on to Colette. She was disappointed, though not greatly surprised.

  — As always, — she muttered. — Preventing trouble is harder for them than raking through its aftermath.

  The day dragged on. Fear of armed men coming kept everyone taut. The regulars looked anxious, and mugs emptied faster than usual. One after another spoke of scuffles in different parts of the city. The market stayed comparatively calm thanks to the guards, but elsewhere the strain was rising. Some started street fights; others, taken in by rumors, stopped passersby for questioning—supposedly Sedrik had a potion of transformation. From time to time, bounty hunters poked their heads into the tavern with questions, but to the mistress’s relief, they did not linger.

  By evening the hall was full. The unrest was slowly washed away with ale and beer. Colette, however, kept her guard: a little under half the patrons had come armed. Some she knew by face, others she did not. Hemile watched just as closely.

  Gyuste did not come—perhaps for the best. Niko stayed upstairs and kept an eye on Rize. The mistress handed him a whistle and ordered that if danger came, he was to climb out through the window, start whistling and shouting, and so draw the militia.

  At first, all went as usual. Guests ate, drank, talked over this and that, or warmed themselves by the hearth. The door flew open, and in came the bearded man from the morning; his two lackeys walked beside him. He headed straight for one of the tables, shoving past tipsy patrons. The moment Hemile saw him, he understood where it was going and hurried to stop him—but it was too late.

  The bearded man reached a young red-haired fellow and struck him in the head without preamble. The lad fell to the floor and, coming to himself, began shouting at his attacker. At first their voices drowned in the general din, but then those nearby, catching the heat of it, began to fall quiet.

  — I warned you—don’t stick your nose in! — the bearded man bellowed, grabbing the lad by the collar. — Who do you think you are?!

  — And who are you, that I should heed you! — the redhead snapped, trying to wrench free, and in a surge of feeling drove his head into the other’s nose.

  The bearded man reeled back and, eyes blazing, went for his knife—then froze. After standing a heartbeat more, he collapsed to the floor with a cleaver in his head. Blood flooded his face.

  Everyone fell silent. The redhead and his mates, and the dead man’s companions, stared at the body in a daze. One of the latter let out a roar and charged with a club, and after him—everyone around. Some guests tried to force their way to the exit; the rest—some armed, some not—plunged into a mass brawl.

  Mugs, the soup vat—everything ended up under the tables, and the fighters ended up on top of them. Two grappling men knocked over a bowl of beer; it spilled out, mixing with straw, ale, and soup.

  There was little room. Most simply choked one another; the more practiced defended themselves with weapons. Those who were down were trampled or beaten, and some simply crawled under the tables.

  Colette’s first move was to bar the kitchen. Hemile lunged to her, catching her by the elbow and yanking her back from a bench that came flying.

  Niko peered out from the stairs, eyes wide, and at once shrank back.

  Telling Hemile to find shelter, Colette ran upstairs.

  — NIKO! WHAT ARE YOU STANDING THERE FOR? OUTSIDE—NOW! CALL THE WATCH!

  Niko stood frozen, pierced through by fear. He did not even hear what was said to him. Colette rushed closer and shook him by the shoulders.

  But just then heavy, stumbling steps thundered up the stairs. A burly man with a smashed nose, blood streaming from it.

  — THE KEYS! HAND THEM OVER THIS INSTANT, YOU SLUT!

  — Run—quick! — Colette said, thrusting the keys into the boy’s hands and shielding him with her body.

  Niko’s knees buckled and he fell, but her words echoed in his mind. Feeling a sudden rush of strength, he sprang up and ran for the window.

  The man stepped forward and swung, striking Colette across the face with a heavy palm. She slammed into the wall but stayed on her feet.

  — THE KEYS! — the drunk kept roaring, seizing the mistress by the hair.

  In answer, she drove a knife up under his ribs. Howling, he did not let go—he slammed Colette’s head against the wood, then kneed her in the belly, and was already about to beat her to death when something leapt at his face.

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  With a piercing snarl, Rize sank her claws into his coarse skin, tearing desperately, biting, battering. The drunk flailed, trying to shake the clinging creature off, but Rize fought all the harder, striking again and again and shredding his face. He kept screaming and thrashing until, at last, he managed to fling her away. Bleeding out and limping, he bolted for the stairs.

  — Arze! Arze nsai! — Rize hissed.

  Colette watched without emotion, breathing hard and folding over with pain.

  Niko climbed out through the window onto the roof. The night air hit his face—sharp and cold after the stifling tavern. Raindrops fell onto his hair. Though he was frightened by the fighting, his thoughts were elsewhere.

  He clutched the keys in his hands. The mistress had given them to him—the most important thing in the tavern. So she trusted him. Him, so small and worthless—and she had even shielded him from that dreadful man.

  The thought pierced his shock and fear like a ray of light through murky water. Niko understood he had no right to fail her.

  Feeling in his pocket for the copper whistle, he brought it to his lips with trembling hands. The first breath yielded only a choked, feeble hiss.

  Harder. Filled with gratitude and loyalty to the mistress, he drew a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn his lungs, and whistled with all his might.

  A shrill, cutting sound tore through the alley’s night silence. Niko even flinched, but at once drew breath again and whistled again and again. Usually quiet and clenched tight, he found the strength to shout:

  — GUA-ARDS! A FIGHT IN THE TAVERN! GUARDS!

  His voice broke into a squeal, but he shouted again, straining until his throat began to rasp. Whistle and cry merged into one desperate summons.

  Dwain heard that sound as he was just turning into the alley that led to the tavern. He was walking slowly, not knowing what to say to Colette about Rize. His thoughts snapped off. He broke into a headlong run.

  By the time the militiamen caught the alarm and rushed toward the tavern, the knifing had already ebbed away.

  Bursting inside, Dwain saw the wreckage. Tables and benches lay overturned; across straw mixed with grime spread puddles of dark ale, with bits of bread and meat floating in them.

  — COLETTE! — he called, stepping over the body of some sodden drunk.

  The mistress appeared almost at once, coming down the steps with one hand braced on the doorjamb. Even from a distance it was plain how a bruise was swelling beneath her eye, and how a thin line of blood slid from her lip.

  — Glad to see you, — Colette said barely above a whisper, with a strained smile, and as she reached Dwain she sank to her knees.

  — Took it hard? — he asked, holding her as tightly as he could.

  — Aye. Near died, — she said. — Been worse.

  — Master Dwain, is that you? — Hemile’s voice sounded.

  The dwerg began to look for the old man. Hemile was sitting on the floor with his back to the bar, groaning softly and pressing a hand to his ribs. His face was scraped, but his eyes were clear.

  At that moment Niko ran in through the door, breathing hard. He slowed, taking in the disorder and the guards all around, then came up to the mistress, stopped, and, lowering his head, held out the keys.

  — Well done, — Colette said, patting his head. Niko could scarcely believe it, and stood in silence.

  Dwain stepped to the bearded man’s corpse.

  — You know him? — Colette asked.

  — Aye. Seen him a time or two…

  Later, Dwain learned that the quarrel had nothing to do with the search for Sedrik. But now something else mattered to him.

  — Where’s Rize?

  Everyone but Hemile went upstairs, searched the corridors and the little back room, but found no one. Niko went out into the street—the clouds were already beginning to break, and against the starry sky a dark silhouette could be made out.

  — She’s up there! — he reported when he came back.

  Dwain decided to climb to her himself. He dragged a ladder out of the cellar and, stepping outside, set it firmly against the wall beneath the eaves. He climbed slowly and heavily; the wood creaked under his weight. When his head rose above the roofline, Rize did not so much as stir—she was watching the full moon. The flour had almost worn away, so her fur looked like blued steel, and the moonlight wrapped her in a ghostly halo.

  The dwerg heaved himself onto the tiles, stood a moment catching his breath, then carefully—so as not to slip—edged nearer and sat down beside her at a respectful distance.

  From below came muffled thuds, a soft rustle, snatches of talk. They, however, were silent.

  — Thank you for helping my lady, — Dwain began, not expecting an answer, speaking more to himself.

  Seeing how intently Rize stared at the moon, he gave a small chuckle.

  — Down under, everyone believes that the moment you step onto the surface, you’ll fall into the heavens. I’m a stranger of a sort too, same as you. When my father led us out, I was afraid as well—but when I looked up, I was struck dumb. If I were to fall in there, I’d be the happiest dwerg alive. But as you can see, I’m still on the ground.

  Dwain sighed, never taking his eyes from the stars.

  — All these years I’ve walked beneath the sky, I’m forever deciding, planning, counting. And I do it well. But what to do with you—I haven’t the faintest. Perhaps for the first time in a long while, I do not know what to do.

  He gave a short laugh, openly at himself.

  — And why am I saying all this, eh? You don’t understand a word.

  Rize looked at him for the first time. Meeting her big blue eyes, Dwain waved it off.

  — If you leave now, I won’t chase you. If you stay here… we’ll see what comes of it.

  For a while longer, they sat on the roof and watched the moon.

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