The Chantry sisters always had the best food. They would gather in the piazza every day when the sun was at its highest, navigating the swarms of the hungry and homeless to distribute what they could. Even in the sticky summer heat, even when there wasn't enough to go around, they still came. Around the corner someone might stick a knife in your ribs for a smelly old fish, but no one ever harmed the sisters. Mya had always found that odd. Without them most of these people wouldn't find another meal, but to Mya it had always seemed like the Chantry itself protected them. Its smooth stone walls rose high above the shouting crowds, its pretty glass windows sparkling in the noonday sun. People respected the Chantry. It reminded them that, even here, the Maker was watching.

She stared up at it, shaken from her daydream as she was jostled from behind. The children of the canals were out in force today, all pushing for their place in line. Mya was one of them, but she was getting bigger now. Soon she wouldn't be a child at all. The boy squirming beside her was small. It would be an easy thing to shove him back, to knock him down and assure herself a hunk of stale bread and a ladle of yesterday's chowder. But the Chantry's windows felt like eyes, bright and wide and penetrating.

Someone else was pushing through the crowd behind her. Waves of curses and angry murmurs came ahead of him, washing over her like waves. He wasn't giving people a choice. They either moved aside or got knocked out of the way.

When the man threw himself on the Chantry steps, Mya got a better look at him. He was a fat man, red-faced and sweating. By his clothes, she would have called him rich, but looking closer she saw the stains, the tears in the bright cloak that he clutched around himself like armor. He was a big man and his big bellows carried over all the rest.

"Mercy! Maker, have mercy!"

Some of the sisters stopped what they were doing and looked up in surprise. Mya felt a surge of anger. She had been waiting all morning. Most of them had.

But the man was paying no attention to the food. When he glanced behind him, she realized that he wasn't really seeing any of them. He was too afraid.

"Sanctuary!" He threw himself at the feet of an elderly sister, clawing at the hem of her robe. "Please! I demand sanctuary!"

The man was too big, too strong. The sister stumbled and fell to her knees. As the others rushed to her side, two Templars appeared and took the man by the arms, hauling him to his feet. He hadn't attacked her - not really - but in the commotion the sisters had spilled their soup, left their basket of bread to the surging crowd. Mya would go hungry today, all because of the man being dragged weeping across the piazza.

With nowhere else to go and rage boiling in her empty gut, she slipped through the press, following the Templars. They deposited the man just beyond the crowd, ignoring his protests. She drew close enough to smell his sweat and his fear, close enough to hear the last of their words.

"We know you, ser. We know why you beg. Perhaps the wisest course would be to think on what you have done and make your peace with the Maker."

They left him there, quivering on the cobblestones. The crowd was dispersing, breaking around them. When the man's watery eyes met hers, it felt as if the two of them were alone in the world. Did he fear her too, to shy away so?

No, his eyes were fixed on something behind her. Mya turned. Two figures stalked across the piazza, the sea of people parting before them. They didn't need to push, didn't need to hurry. Anyone in their path took one look and scrambled out of the way.

Mya had never seen the men before, but she knew them. Everyone knew them. The fat man choked on a scream.

He pushed to his feet and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, trying to lose himself between the buildings. The two men followed. Mya knew what happened now, knew why even the Templars wouldn't help. She should turn away like everyone else, but the men had left a wide wake. It was an easy thing to slip along behind them.

She found them in an alley, just out of sight of the Chantry's ever-watching eyes. The fat man had fallen down again, his once fine robes soaking in a puddle of night soil. He wasn't begging anymore, at least. He knew there was no point. Instead, he had taken the Templar's advice and was muttering prayers to the Maker.

Mya crouched down behind a barrel to watch.

"Bloody coward."

The taller of the two men spit at his feet. He had a rough chin and a cruel smile, his words garbled by an accent that she couldn't place. The other man was smaller - prettier, too. Golden-skinned and golden-haired, he leaned against the wall and produced a tiny dagger to clean the dirt from beneath his fingernails.

"Get on with it, my friend."

His companion grinned and kicked the fat man. "You know why we're here, coward? You know who sent us? Well? Speak up, now." He moved to strike the man again, but the pretty one got there first.

The dagger that had been playing between his fingers disappeared, a flick of his wrist lodging it in the fat man's jowls. As he crouched in front of him and drove the blade deeper, he tsked. "My friend is rude, but you know the sort. So uncouth, no appreciation for the art. And always smelling of filth."

The fat man died there, blood bubbling from his lips as he collapsed into the arms of his killer. Mya watched the man as he separated himself from the strange embrace. There was a tattoo on his cheek that she hadn't noticed before, curling beneath his golden hair. They didn't bother to hide their faces, to hide who they were or what they did. Everyone knew them. These were murderers, assassins, Crows.

The pretty one with the tattoo stared down at the blood on his hands with obvious distaste. He wiped them on the dead man's cloak and relieved him of his purse before pushing to his feet.

The other Crow was pouting. "I don't smell."

His companion chuckled. "This is what offends you?"

"What, the 'uncouth' thing? I thought that's why you liked me."

"Mm. Perhaps."

The taller man grabbed for the purse, but the pretty one was quicker. He slipped it behind his back, pinning the other man's arm with it. Then he pushed up on his toes and pulled him into a fleeting kiss.

"Yeah, yeah. Give us the coin."

He shook the purse out into his palm, holding up a warning finger when the other man grabbed for it again. Carefully, he selected a shiny silver coin, walking it across the back of his knuckles. Then his eyes locked to Mya. With a grin he flicked the coin high, sending it tumbling end over end down the alley toward her hiding place. She moved without thinking, snatching it from the air.

Before the other Crow could protest, the pretty one took him by the arm and - with a wink for Mya - disappeared.