Chapter One

Wishbone's accustomed alley smelled of the catch dragged from the harbor to the fishmongers. To be fair, so did most of his customers. The only light spilled from the Royal around the corner, where the beer was cheap, yet so foul that Wishbone couldn't bring himself to drink it. The alley was not well traveled after the sun went down. Wishbone could rely upon two or three other boys who worked within shouting distance to come running if a customer gave him trouble. Lane kicked like a cart horse, and Kestrel (who only passed as a boy if he wore makeup on his wrinkles and kept to the shadows) could use the knife he carried.

The crowd that spilled from the Royal's narrow front door swirled as a covered coach and pair nudged around the corner. There were no arms painted on the coach's sides, but graceful construction and the beautiful matched pair of bays signaled money. The Royal's clientele moved toward the coach. Then, realizing that the glass-shielded coach lamps did them no favors, they scrambled back from the illumination. The gleaming horses' hooves slipped and sparked on the cobbles, but neither the coach nor the man driving it seemed lost on the narrow street. The gray-cloaked coachman snaked the driving whip gently over one mahogany flank, indicating, perhaps, what he might do to any who impeded their progress. The lamps were bright enough to lay bare Wishbone's territory all the way to the end, and he...