The wind carried the smell of salt and tar long before Renn reached the docks.
By midafternoon the heat of Khartha's streets had begun to soften, and the sea breeze pushed through the harbor like a slow exhale. It carried gull cries, the slap of rigging against masts, and the steady creak of ships shifting with the tide.
Renn sat on the edge of the old breakwater with his boots hanging over the water.
The stone beneath him was warm from the sun. He leaned back on his hands and let the wind move across his face, watching the harbor with the quiet patience of someone who had nowhere particular he needed to be.
Khartha never truly rested, but the waterfront moved at a different pace than the streets behind it. Dockworkers shouted over crates and barrels, sailors hauled lines across the planks, and merchants argued loudly enough that their voices carried across the water.
Beyond them, the harbor opened toward the sea.
A merchant vessel was easing away from one of the outer piers, its sails still loose against the masts while the crew worked the last of the lines free. The tide had begun to turn, and the ship drifted slowly outward, turning its bow toward the open water beyond the breakwater.
Renn watched it the way he always did.
He had spent half his life sitting somewhere along these docks, pretending he was only passing time. In truth he had always been watching the ships.
Every one of them meant escape to somewhere else.
Somewhere that didn't know his name.
Out there the world was supposed to be wide. Wide enough that a man could disappear into it. Sailors spoke of distant cities, strange waters, storms that swallowed fleets and ports where the languages changed every hundred miles.
Renn suspected most of those stories were lies.
But the lie didn't matter.
The idea of leaving was enough.
The ship caught the wind at last, its canvas filling with a heavy snap that carried across the harbor. Slowly it began to move with purpose, sliding between the stone arms of the breakwater toward the open sea.
Renn followed it with his eyes until the hull had cleared the harbor mouth.
For a moment he allowed himself the same thought he always did.
What it might feel like to be standing on that deck instead of sitting here. To feel the city shrinking behind him. To feel the weight of Khartha finally loosening its grip. He watched the sails grow smaller as the ship moved farther into the haze beyond the bay.
Renn stretched his legs and glanced up toward the twin suns.
Aurelion was pulling ahead of Grymmor, the twin light of them layering the afternoon into something warmer and stranger than either sun could manage alone. The shadows ran wrong this time of day, doubling and crossing themselves in ways you stopped noticing after a while. All three moons were already up, pale and patient against the blue. Rhea. Oberon. Vael.
He watched the ship a moment longer, the sails growing small against the haze beyond the harbor mouth.
Rhea rode high, blue hued and bright, holding Aurelion's favor. Oberon hung softer beside her, touched red by Grymmor's dimmer light, lingering at the edge of the afternoon like it wasn't quite ready to commit to the evening. Vael sat lower than both, pale green and still, anchored where it always was, belonging to neither sun and moving for nothing.
Renn looked at it a moment longer than the others.
Then he pushed himself up from the warm stone.
Jory was probably already waiting.
The thought drifted through his mind without much urgency. Jory had a habit of arriving early to anything that might involve trouble or coin. Renn had the opposite habit.
If the kid was pacing somewhere along the streets near the place they had picked, it would hardly be the first time.
Renn let the harbor wind move across his face for another moment before pushing himself up from the warm stone. No real hurry. Jory would still be there.
He always was.
Renn brushed the dust from his palms and started back toward the city. Leaving the breakwater behind, he climbed the worn stone steps toward the docks. The harbor wind followed him only a short distance before the smells of the city swallowed it whole.
Fish guts. Tar. Smoke. Sweat.
The afternoon market still churned along the pier road, loud and restless as ever. Hawkers shouted over one another while baskets of salted fish, coils of rope, and cheap iron tools changed hands across rough wooden tables.
"Fresh catch! Still kicking this morning!"
"Salt cod! Two copper!"
"Move it, boy!"
Renn slipped through the crowd with practiced ease. At seventeen he stood tall for his age, broad in the shoulders though still lean enough to slide between bodies without much trouble. His bronze skin and dark hair blended easily among the dock workers and sailors that filled Khartha's waterfront.
It helped to look like you belonged.
A fishmonger shoved past carrying a dripping crate while a cart rattled across the stones behind Renn.
He stepped aside just as the driver hauled back on the reins.
The wheels screamed to a halt inches from him.
"Watch it, you little rat!" the driver barked.
"Sorry!" Renn called back without slowing.
The man muttered something unpleasant as Renn slipped back into the crowd.
He moved faster now.
The pier district was a hard place even by Khartha's standards. Sailors staggered through the streets half drunk while laborers fought over wages in doorways. A pair of men rolled dice beside a stack of crates while another shouted accusations about cheating.
No one intervened.
No one ever did.
A row of pillow houses lined the far edge of the pier where canvas tents hung open to the street. Inside, piles of worn cushions and thin blankets covered the floor.
One of the women leaned against the tent pole with her dress hanging open at the chest, one breast half exposed where the fabric had slipped loose. Bruises darkened the pale skin of her arm and neck, fingerprints still visible beneath the fading paint she had tried to hide them with.
A drunk sailor grabbed her wrist and pulled her roughly toward the tent.
"Easy," she snapped, shoving his hand lower toward the purse at his belt. "No free shows. Pay first."
The curtain fell closed behind them.
Renn's eyes stayed on the man a second longer than they should have.
Hatred pooled low.
Then he turned and kept walking. The docks were full of people trying to claw their way through the day. Some sold fish. Some hauled cargo. Some sold themselves. And some men moved through all of it like none of it cost anyone anything.
He had learned early what kind of man that was.
He had learned early what it cost.
Renn turned onto a narrower street where the city walls loomed close on one side. Merchant tents had been tied directly into the old stone, forming crooked little market stalls that spilled out into the road.
Posters covered the wall behind them.
Renn slowed slightly as he passed.
Wanted notices.
They were everywhere in Khartha.
One poster showed the charcoal sketch of a young man in partial armor, the lines cleaner than most of the other drawings as if whoever had made it had taken unusual care. His hair was cut shorter than most soldiers wore it, dark and neat around a sharp, composed face. The artist had tried to capture something in the eyes—steady, disciplined, almost noble.
The name printed beneath read:
BALDWIN THE BLACKBLADE
A smaller line beneath it read:
Wanted for desertion from the Union Wardlines.
The description spoke of a tall man, broad in the shoulders, known to carry a blackened blade and wear the armor of a Union officer. The bounty had been inked over once already, the numbers thick where someone had rewritten them.
Renn studied the sketch for a moment longer than most.
The man in the drawing looked more like a hero from a story than a deserter.
The next poster beside it had been fixed to the wall more carefully than most.
The charcoal sketch showed a lean-faced man with his hair tied back neatly, his features composed in a way that made him look more like a merchant factor than a killer. His clothes had been rendered in clean, deliberate strokes: a dark coat, high collar, and the sort of well-kept appearance men in Khartha usually lost the moment they had to work for their meals.
The name beneath read:
ROOK
The charges were written in thicker ink.
Wanted for murder, extortion, and organized criminal activity.
The description called him a narrow, well-spoken man with careful eyes and an easy smile that rarely reached them. The sort of man who could pass for respectable until he opened his mouth and decided otherwise.
The bounty was large.
Someone had driven a knife through the lower edge of the poster and left it there long enough for rust to stain the wall.
Another poster hung half over the edge of Rook's.
Three rough figures stood in the sketch, drawn smaller than the others as if the artist had tried to fit them into the same frame.
Young.
Lean.
Dangerous looking in the careless way boys sometimes did when they had learned violence too early.
The title above them read:
THE GALLOWKNIVES
Beneath it:
Wanted for murder.
No individual names had been written.
Only descriptions.
Three youths, often seen together. Known to carry long knives and operate near the southern markets. Approach with caution.
Someone had scrawled a crude gallows beside the bounty.
Renn's eyes moved to the next poster almost without thinking.
The charcoal drawing showed an older man than the first.
Harder.
His hair hung longer around his shoulders, darker and less disciplined, and a faint line of scar tissue cut along the edge of his jaw. The artist had drawn him in worn leathers instead of armor, the collar open and the expression sharper than the others.
The name printed beneath read:
GAELON BLACKWAKE
The charge was short.
Desertion. Murder.
The bounty amount had been scratched out and replaced twice.
Renn stood there longer than he intended to.
"Move it," a large man grumbled behind him, thrusting him aside with a stern shove.
His face and palms met wall. The poster tore from the contact with his skin. He stepped back and let it drift from his hands to the ground.
I don't have time for this.
He picked up his pace and pushed on.
More posters lined the wall. Smaller bounties. Thieves. Runaways. A deserter from the Dominion navy. Names Renn didn't recognize and probably never would.
The street widened ahead where several roads met at a small square.
In the center stood the stone statue of Zephine, Lady of the Winds.
Her robes were carved to look like they were caught in a permanent gust, stone fabric twisting around her body while one arm stretched outward toward the harbor.
Pigeons had claimed her shoulders.
A small crowd had gathered near the statue where a cleric stood preaching from the base.
"…and the winds guide us whether we see them or not!" the woman was saying. "Every soul has a course. Every life can still be turned toward the light if the heart is willing."
Renn slowed as he approached.
The stone base of the statue was covered in scratches and old markings left by generations of passersby.
One symbol caught his eye.
A simple carving, almost hidden among the rest.
A spiral.
A coil.
Renn frowned.
Someone had etched it deep into the stone.
He lifted his gaze toward the statue again.
The cleric noticed him staring. Her voice stopped mid-sentence, and for a moment she simply watched him.
She stepped closer and spoke again, though the words were clearly meant for Renn alone.
"The course of a life can still be corrected, boy."
Renn blinked. His eyes met with hers, then drifted back to the statue.
"Do not let darkness claim your thoughts," she continued calmly. "The winds of Zephine still guide those willing to listen."
The words struck harder than Renn expected.
He shifted uncomfortably beneath their gaze. He didn't have a reason for it.
He had walked past a hundred clerics in a hundred squares and none of them had ever found anything worth stopping for.
But the woman was still watching him. So was the statue.
Judging him.
"Keep your damn words woman," he said to her, turning his gaze up to the statue. "And your bloody eyes."
The cleric said nothing. She only watched him go.
Renn turned and pushed back into the crowd. The square fell behind him. The words didn't.
He stepped past the square and squeezed into the next street where the crowds thinned slightly and the taverns began to appear.
The noise of the market faded behind him and Jory would be somewhere ahead.
Waiting where they had agreed.
And Renn still had a debt to settle before the night was over.
The streets narrowed as Renn moved deeper into the district where the taverns gathered. The smell of salt and tar slowly gave way to spilled ale, roasting meat, and the sour bite of old wine soaked deep into the old wood of the buildings.
Lantern hooks had already been lit along several doorways even though the sun still hung above the rooftops. Sailors preferred their drink ready long before night arrived.
The place they had chosen sat along the corner of a narrow intersection where two market roads crossed. It wasn't much of a building, more a permanent lean-to built against the stone wall of an old warehouse. A timber frame supported a slanted canvas roof that stretched outward over a scatter of tables and mismatched chairs spilling into the street.
Men drank there because it was cheap.
And because the owner asked very few questions.
Renn slowed slightly when the patio came into view.
Jory was already there.
Of course he was.
The boy leaned back in a crooked chair near the edge of the patio, one boot hooked lazily against the rung while he watched the street with the restless impatience of someone who had already been waiting too long. His dark hair hung loose around his face, and the thin build of his shoulders still carried the awkwardness of someone who had not quite finished growing.
Sixteen and already convinced the world should move faster than it did.
Jory spotted him immediately.
"About fuckin' time Renn," he called as Renn approached the table. "I was startin' to think you blew off from Zephine's own bloody winds herself."
Renn pulled out the chair across from him and dropped into it, leaning back raising his arms as if to blunt the blows.
"Relax, little guy."
"I have been bloody relaxing," Jory replied, spreading his arms toward the empty mugs on the table. "For the last fuckin' hour."
Renn smirked and raised an eyebrow.
"An hour and only two mugs of ale? For shame."
Jory shrugged then looked away.
"Maybe half."
Renn leaned back slightly and let his eyes drift across the patio.
"I could say you're early."
"Well I could say you're bloody late."
"That's not the same thing." Renn's smile grew a little wider.
"It is when you're the one bloody waitin'."
Renn ignored the last blow and studied the crowd.
The place was filling steadily now. Sailors fresh off the docks hunched over their drinks while a pair of merchants argued loudly near the doorway. A group of laborers crowded around a barrel table tossing bones between them while someone shouted odds over their shoulders.
Coin moved easily in places like this.
Which meant mistakes moved easily too.
Jory leaned forward slightly.
"Well?"
Renn did not answer.
Instead he watched the room the way he had learned to watch it years ago, letting his attention drift slowly from table to table without lingering too long anywhere.
A fat merchant with too many rings and a purse sagging heavily against his belt. Easy coin perhaps, but the man had three friends with him and each of them kept glancing toward the street between drinks.
Renn moved on.
A Trivainian sailor sat near the railing, already drunk enough that his chair rocked slightly when he laughed. His purse rested openly on the table beside his cup.
Too obvious. Too many eyes. Too few coin.
Near the doorway a pair of traders argued over something in low, angry voices. One carried a thick leather satchel slung across his shoulder, the strap pulled tight from the weight inside.
Renn studied the stitching. Good leather, strong work, and too strong to cut cleanly in a crowd.
Jory exhaled loudly and leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"You've been starin' at that same bloody table for five minutes."
"Three." Renn's smirk returning.
"Pick one."
"I am lookin'. I'm also tryin' to keep my fuckin' head."
Jory sat back again in the chair crossing his arms.
"You're always just lookin'."
Renn ignored the jab and continued watching the room.
That was when his eyes settled on the man sitting alone near the far edge of the patio.
The stranger wore worn travel leathers beneath a dark cloak that had been thrown loosely over his shoulders. A sword rested against the side of his chair, a grey fractal glowing with a dim light in its pommel. In the chair beside him lay a bedroll tied up. It seemed a little too bulky just to be an empty bedroll.
The man held a mug of ale loosely in one hand and four empty mugs sat in front of him.
And hanging from his belt was a purse.
Jory followed Renn's gaze almost immediately.
"There," he said quietly.
Renn did not answer right away. He studied him further. The man did not look drunk, and he certainly did not look careless. The way he sat carried a quiet balance that Renn had learned to recognize over the years, the kind that suggested someone who knew exactly where everything in the room was without needing to move his head. The notch in his ear said he had seen a fight or ten.
"Nah, too clean," Renn muttered shaking his head.
Jory snorted softly.
"It's a purse ain't it?"
"It's fuckin' attached to him." Renn gestured to his own waist.
"Yeah well, that's usually how that fuckin' works."
Renn continued watching the man for another moment.
Something about him felt wrong.
Not dangerous exactly.
Just sharp.
Jory leaned forward across the table.
"That one's carrying silver at least."
"Or trouble."
"Everything's fuckin' trouble, ain't it."
Renn glanced back toward the other tables.
The fat merchant.
The sailor.
The traders.
Jory's voice dropped lower.
"You going to stare all night or actually teach me something?"
"I am teaching you something right bloody now."
"Yeah," Jory muttered. "Yeah and what's that? How to grow old before we make any bloody coin." He snorted with a laugh.
Renn's eyes drifted back to the man with the purse.
He studied him one last moment before slowly shaking his head.
"Not him."
Jory frowned, finally relenting.
"Ok, ok, why then at least?"
"Bad feeling." Renn shook his head one last time.
"That's not a reason."
"It is for me."
Renn leaned back again and scanned the patio as if the conversation had already ended.
"Plenty of other marks."
Jory stared at the man another moment before muttering under his breath.
"You're fuckin' impossible. You know that?"
Renn said nothing.
The sun dipped lower above the rooftops while the tavern filled slowly with the noise of evening.
Behind them a chair scraped loudly against the wood as someone stood.
Renn didn't bother turning.
His attention had already drifted to another table.
The sellsword had taken the patio table because it gave him a clear view of both the street and the tavern door.
Old habits had a way of choosing seats before a man finished thinking about it.
Khartha had not changed as much as he expected.
The harbor wind still pushed its way through the streets in uneven breaths, carrying salt and rot in equal measure. Canvas awnings snapped above the patio, and somewhere down the street a team of dockhands shouted as they wrestled cargo down a ramp toward the piers.
Eight years was a long time to stay away from a place like this. Long enough that a man expected it to feel unfamiliar when he returned. But the bones of the city were still the same.
The same crooked harbor road, the same leaning buildings pressed shoulder to shoulder along the waterfront. The same restless tide of sailors, merchants, and drifters moving through the streets in search of coin or drink.
Cities never keep the same face on them for long. Only the people had changed.
The sellsword lifted the mug from the table and took a slow drink.
The ale was thin and bitter, but it served its purpose.
A man who lingered over cheap drink could sit for a long time without drawing much attention.
Across the patio a group of traders argued loudly over the value of dyed cloth while a Trivanian sailor leaned dangerously far back in his chair, laughing at something none of the others seemed to find amusing.
Beyond them the street churned with late afternoon traffic. Dockworkers finishing their shifts. Hawkers pushing carts through the crowds. A woman shouting prices for oysters from a battered iron pan balanced over hot coals.
The city breathed around him.
He watched it the way a man watched weather. Quietly. Patiently.
The habit of measuring a room never quite left those who had once lived by the edge of other men's blades. Without meaning to, his eyes drifted from purse to purse as people moved through the patio.
A merchant with soft hands and too many rings drank with two companions near the doorway. The purse on his belt looked heavy, but the men around him were sober enough to notice wandering hands.
A sailor slumped alone near the railing with his purse sitting openly on the table beside him. Easy enough to take, but easy things often came with witnesses.
Two traders argued over a satchel that might have held coin, though the strap across the man's shoulder had been stitched with strong leather.
Good work.
Not worth cutting in a crowd.
The sellsword rested his forearms loosely on the table and let his attention drift.
Two boys stepped onto the patio.
He noticed them immediately.
Not because they stood out.
Because they did not.
They entered the space the way street kids often did, moving through the edge of the crowd without drawing eyes toward themselves. One spoke quickly, irritation plain in the tilt of his shoulders while the other answered more slowly, his gaze wandering across the room in careful sweeps.
The younger boy watched the tables the way hungry dogs watched butcher stalls.
The older one studied the people.
The sellsword lowered his gaze slightly, letting the shadow of his cloak cover most of his face while he lifted the mug again.
Across the patio the boys took a table and continued their quiet argument.
Even without hearing them clearly, the shape of the conversation was easy enough to recognize.
The impatient one wanted coin.
The other wanted the right coin.
His eyes drifted across the patio again.
If the boys were choosing a purse tonight, it would be one of the same few that had already caught his own attention.
The fat merchant near the door looked right had he been alone.
The sailor near the railing.
Too few coin to make it worth the while.
The traders arguing over their satchel.
Strong leather.
Not likely.
The sellsword's gaze moved once more across the tables.
He wondered which of them the boys would choose.
A shadow crossed the tavern doorway.
The sellsword saw the man before he fully stepped into the light.
Tall. Broad shouldered. The shaved head caught the lantern glow first.
Rowland.
Recognition came instantly. Some men carried danger with them the way others carried swords.
Rowland greeted a man near the entrance with a quiet word before stepping further into the tavern.
Two figures followed him a moment later.
Acolytes.
The young man walked stiffly, his posture pulled tight as though he had spent too many hours being reminded of his station. His eyes moved constantly, trying to take in every corner of the room at once.
The girl moved with less urgency. Her gaze settled on things. They measured them and then moved on.
Neither spoke.
Rowland continued deeper into the tavern toward the counter.
The sellsword lowered his gaze to the ale in his mug.
When Rowland lifted his hand to the counter, his rings caught the lanternlight.
Five.
Which meant the other five were close.
The sellsword felt the quiet tightening in his chest that came when a room suddenly contained someone who could break it open without warning.
Leaving now would draw attention.
Remaining where he sat might prove worse.
Rowland lingered at the counter speaking with the tavern keeper.
Waiting.
Seconds stretched.
The sellsword allowed his eyes to drift across the patio where the boys had been arguing only moments earlier.
Their table stood empty.
The realization came at the same moment something brushed lightly against his belt. The purse slipped free with a careful tug. He felt the weight leave his side.
For an instant his grip tightened around the handle of the mug.
Annoyance crossed his face before he forced the expression away. He did not look down. He did not turn.
Rowland still stood at the counter.
And tonight, the sellsword could not afford to be noticed reacting to a pair of street thieves.
So he sat where he was, staring into the cheap ale as if nothing in the world had just changed. Waiting for his time to exit the establishment cleanly.
They didn't stop running until the harbor noise had thinned behind them.
Renn cut left between two crooked warehouses, boots scraping over loose stones as he slipped into a narrow alley that smelled faintly of damp rope and old fish. Jory followed close enough that he nearly slammed into Renn's back when Renn stopped short in the middle of the passage.
Jory sucked in a breath to say something.
Renn's hand came up.
Not rough. Just firm.
Hold.
They stood there breathing hard for a moment, the air between them thick with the rush that came after a good lift. Renn leaned slightly toward the mouth of the alley, head tilted just enough to listen past the ringing in his ears.
Footsteps passed somewhere out on the street. A cart rattled over the stones. Someone shouted a price for oysters.
But nothing came running.
No angry voices. No boots pounding the pavement.
Renn kept listening a moment longer anyway, eyes fixed on the thin slice of harbor road visible beyond the alley mouth.
Jory shifted his weight impatiently and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
"Renn," he muttered quietly, "if that bastard's chasin' us he's takin' his sweet fuckin' time about it."
Renn didn't answer right away.
He kept watching the street until another few heartbeats had passed without trouble.
Only then did he finally let the breath out of his chest and step back from the alley entrance.
"Alright."
Jory sagged back against the wall like someone had just untied a rope around his ribs. A second later Renn joined him, sliding his back down the wall until he met the ground.
"Well that's comforting," he said, rubbing his hands down his face. "For a second there I thought I'd just robbed the only sober man in the entire bloody city."
Renn glanced at him sideways.
"You might have."
Jory grinned despite himself and pulled the purse free from inside his coat, holding it up between two fingers like it might bite him.
"Worth it though."
Renn held out his hand.
"Let's see."
Jory tossed it over.
The purse landed in Renn's palm with a weight that felt promising enough to make him raise an eyebrow. He didn't open it right away. Just rolled it once in his hand, listening again without meaning to.
Nothing.
He loosened the cord slowly, tipping the contents into his other hand so the coins slid out in a soft clink.
Silver caught the dim light first.
Then more silver.
Then coppers.
Jory leaned forward immediately, trying to count over Renn's shoulder.
"Well, don' linger on it. What's the take?"
Renn moved the coins through his fingers with the kind of casual speed that came from doing the same thing a hundred times before.
The pile finished smaller than he wanted.
"Damn."
Jory's expression shifted.
"That the good kind of damn or the bad one?"
Renn didn't answer.
He weighed the coins again in his hand, slower this time.
"It's not bad," he said finally.
A pause.
"Just… not what I was hoping for."
Jory leaned his head back against the brick and blew out a long breath.
"Course it ain't. If life worked that way we'd both be drinkin' wine somewhere instead of sittin' in an alley that smells like dead fish."
Renn didn't respond.
His eyes had already drifted back toward the street.
"That man was carrying more than this."
Jory lifted an eyebrow.
"You see another purse I missed?"
Renn shook his head slowly.
"That bundle beside his chair. Bedroll looked too heavy for just blankets."
Jory snorted.
"Well next time I'll be sure to steal the man's entire bedding while he's sittin' on it. That ought to go unnoticed."
Renn allowed himself a small smile.
"Fair point."
He crouched slightly and divided the coins into two piles against the wall, pushing one toward Jory without ceremony.
"Half."
Jory didn't touch it.
He just stared at the silver.
"That's too much, Renn."
"You lifted it."
Renn said it without looking up, still adjusting the coins slightly, lining them out without really thinking about it.
Jory nudged the pile with the toe of his boot.
"I also know what you owe."
Renn stopped.
The coin in his fingers didn't move.
He didn't look up.
"You also know that ain't your problem."
Jory crouched across from him, scooping up his share of the coins. For a moment Renn thought the matter was settled.
Then Jory paused.
He split the handful in his palm and dropped half of them back into Renn's pile.
The coins clinked softly against the others.
Renn stared at them.
"The hell are you doing?"
Jory shrugged, brushing his hands together.
"Helping."
Renn let out a quiet breath.
"I don't need help."
"Yeah," Jory said, voice flattening slightly. "you keep tellin' yourself that."
Renn shook his head and pushed the coins back toward him.
"Take it."
Jory didn't move.
"You know how much you owe the Den," he said quietly. "And I know how much trouble you're in if they think you're stallin'."
Renn looked away for a moment, jaw tightening slightly.
"Kid…"
"Don't fuckin' call me that," Jory snapped automatically, though there wasn't much heat behind it. "You've been teachin' me to lift purses for two damn years now. Least I can do is help you keep yer fingers."
Renn let out a breath through his nose.
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah," Jory said with a grin, "but I'm yer idiot."
Renn closed his hand slowly around the extra coins.
They didn't feel like enough.
"This might buy me a little time."
"That's what I was thinkin'."
Renn studied him, a smile forming.
"You were thinkin'?"
"Careful," Jory said. "I might start doin' it more often."
Jory turned his gaze down the opposite end of the alleyway.
Renn leaned back against the alley wall, rolling the purse between his hands.
"If that's true I'm already worried."
"I might have a way to make a lot more than this."
The words came out rushed.
Renn closed his eyes briefly.
"That sentence alone makes me nervous."
"It's not that bad."
"That's worse. We tried one of your plans once before."
Jory scratched the back of his neck.
"Yeah well, that wasn' my fault and you bloody know it."
A beat.
"We'd need tools."
Renn waited.
"And rope."
Renn opened one eye.
"Damn it, Jory."
"What?" Jory's eyes darted to Renn looking hurt.
"Every plan that involves rope ends with me hanging from something."
Jory paused. Then laughed under his breath.
"You worry too much."
"You don't worry enough," Renn muttered.
Jory pushed himself upright and brushed the dust from his trousers.
"Tomorrow," he said, nodding toward the alley entrance. "Same place."
"What time?"
"Midday. I can show you the place. It'd be real easy."
He paused for a moment and sucked in a breath.
"We'd only have to avoid two house guards."
Renn's eyes went wide.
"An estate? A Noble's bloody estate… with house fuckin' guards?"
Jory recoiled slightly.
"It's not as bad as it sounds Renn. I've really done leg work on this one. Took me three weeks to figure out the rotation. It's tight. Real tight Renn."
Renn sat staring at the other boy.
"Yeah. I heard that last time and my knee still catches from how that one fouled up."
"Let me prove it to ya then. Let's peek it over tomorrow and you can decide if we need the rope or not."
Jory looked at him hopeful.
Renn watched him for a moment before slowly shaking his head and looking back at the ground.
"If your plan gets us killed—"
Jory stretched out his hand.
"It won't. I'll see to it."
Renn grabbed his hand and let himself be lifted up.
"That right there could be the problem."
Jory was already heading back toward the street.
"Then you won't have to worry about the Den anymore!"
Renn shook his head slowly as the boy disappeared around the corner.
"Bloody idiot."
But the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he pushed himself off the wall.
The purse felt heavier inside his coat now.
Not heavy enough.
Not even close.
But maybe enough to buy him a few more days.