Garrett strode quickly down the cobbled street. His head was down, and he walked close to the buildings, trying not to draw unwanted attention to himself. His mission was one of dire importance: getting something to eat. He had started out from his safehouse after discovering that the only things in his cupboard were an apple core and a rather large, rather hairy, rat.

Once he got to the marketplace, he looked around, remembering whom he got along relatively well with. He decided on Clive, a fat fruit vendor. If someone believed that gossiping was a woman's sport, Clive would prove them wrong. Garrett had never met anyone, female or otherwise, who talked so much. He dished out advice and gossip along with his apples, but he usually had some good information. He knew about a lot that happened in the city, and was more than happy to share it with anyone in hearing range. He could respect the privacy of others, though. Money bought that respect.

Clive saw Garrett approach. He managed to shoo away a beggar woman and turned his radiant sunflower grin on the thief. "What can I help you with today?" His voice was hoarse but full of energy.

"You don't sound so good. Feeling okay?" Small talk, of course. It wasn't as if he actually cared.

"Many things don't sound too good." Clive gave him a knowing smile.

Garrett knew that smile. "What?"

"Would you like enough food for you, or maybe one other as well?"

"What?"

"A good meal can work wonders," Clive said.

Garrett was getting impatient. "What are you talking about?"

Clive gave him a sidelong look.

Garrett reached into his cloak and pulled out a small bag. He tossed it to Clive. Clive caught it; it jingled in his hand.

"Ladies of the evening are numerous in the city." That was another thing about Clive: he might have a lot to say, but he took forever to get to the point. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Garrett shifted his weight. "Get to the point already."

"You aren't married." It was a statement, not a question.

"Irritated, yes, married, no."

Clive nodded. "So I thought."

"Do you have something to say or are you just rambling?"

"I see that you are a busy man. Very busy. The matter to which I refer is the imprisonment of your son."

* * *

It would take a lot to surprise Garrett, after Pagan deities, mechanical beasts, and various other monstrosities. So it was reasonable to assume that nothing short of a tear in the time-space continuum would give him cause to blink an eye.

Reasonable, but not correct.

Garrett did more than blink; he actually took a step back. Then he regained his composure. "Tell me more."

Clive smiled, relishing his role as storyteller. "Ah, the boy was caught trespassing on Lord Birmingham's grounds. The guards turned him over to the sheriff. He's in Shoalsgate right now."

"What makes you think he's my son?"

"He looks just like you! A little skinnier, perhaps . . ."

* * *

Skinnier, indeed. When Garrett had gotten to Shoalsgate, he had easily navigated his way to the holding cells. Finding the kid was as easy as pickpocketing a tourist. That was when he had a heart attack.

He had been expecting some physical resemblance, thanks to Clive's information, but this kid looked almost exactly like he did when he was younger, maybe 12. The most striking difference was the kid's weight. He was thinner than the carpet in Garrett's apartment. His cheeks and eyes were sunk into his skull, making him look like someone with one foot in the grave. He wore a coarse shirt and pants, and these hung on him so loosely that a length of rope had been pulled tight around his waist just to keep his pants up. His hair was dirty and disheveled, and quite long. When Garrett first saw him, the kid had been grasping one of the cell bars. His fingers were literally nothing but skin and bones. Even the rats in Garrett's part of town were fatter than him.

The kid's eyes were glazed over when Garrett opened the cell door, and for a moment, Garrett thought he was dead. Then the kid's bony leg moved slightly. Garrett put the kid on his back (the kid weighed less than his sword and quiver, so his movement wasn't hindered) and proceeded to leave.

The trip back to Garrett's new apartment was uneventful.

Perhaps "new" is too strong a word. It was new in the sense that Garrett had just moved in earlier that week, but it was not new in any others. The plaster was peeling off the walls, the thin carpet (thin, but thicker than that awful bony kid!) had worn through to the wood flooring underneath in some places, and half the windows stuck.

Garrett was planning on fixing those soon; it wouldn't do to be killed because his escape hatch was sticky.

Garrett set the kid down in one of the living room chairs, if you could call the threadbare, hideous affairs living room chairs. He took the chair opposite, heaved a sigh, and began to think.

The kid wasn't his. He knew that much. He knew Clive's cute term, "ladies of the evening," referring to prostitutes, but he hadn't . . . whose, then, was he? Garrett had no idea, but he hoped the real parents didn't expect him to play baby-sitter. The only reason (well, there were two reasons if you wanted to be picky) he had rescued the kid from Shoalsgate was because he wanted information. And, he admitted grudgingly to himself, he was curious how the kid could bear such a strong physical resemblance to himself.

Except he was so skinny! Garrett would be the first to admit that he didn't always get his three square meals a day, but this kid was half-dead!

No, he mulled, the best thing to do would be to find out what this kid's story is and get rid of him. Dump him on some kind old farmers who'd feed him beans and gravy and teach him how to feed the chickens.

Then, he'd have to find another apartment. Couldn't have this kid (he could be a spy; it was unlikely, but Garrett hadn't stayed alive this long by broadcasting his home base to the world) telling persons where a certain master thief lived.

The kid began to stir. The angular shapes of his face were softened by the shadows from the fireplace, and the warm orange light removed some of the deathly pallor. He opened his eyes slowly. His head bobbed on his neck, threatening to fall and snap it at any moment.

The eyes, sunken but large, rested on the figure sitting across from him.

Garrett was sitting with his left side facing the fire. His mechanical eye was hidden in darkness. He didn't want to scare the kid to death (he was so close, it wouldn't take that much) unless it was called for.

The kid's lips moved, but no sound came out. The dry smacking of his lips was audible enough. Garrett got up and gave the kid a glass of water.

Garrett noticed he had been calling him simply "the kid," for want of calling him anything else. He didn't know the kid's name, and he sure wasn't about to start calling him Garrett Junior.

The water was lukewarm and not especially clean, but it was all he had and the kid didn't seem to notice, or care. The kid swallowed and nodded his head. "Thank you, sir."

Garrett started again, and he hoped it wasn't going to become a habit of his. The kid had called him "sir," and that was a foreign word to him. It sounded funny, hanging in the dusty air, like an overzealous guest who'd worn out its welcome.

The other thing that surprised him was the startling clarity of the kid's voice. It was good enough for a choir or that sort of thing.

Must've been the water. Garrett's Super Potion, guaranteed to restore your voice, shave pounds off your waist, and years off your age!

Garrett sat back down.

The kid's eyes struggled to uncross and succeeded in focusing on Garrett. "Who are you, sir?"

"You first."

The kid shook his head, threatening to snap his neck again. "I don't rightly know, sir," he said in his melodic voice. "I've been living on the streets for as long as I can remember."

"Stop calling me 'sir.' It's getting on my nerves."

"If you told me your name, sir, I would call you that instead," the boy said in a sing-songy way.

"It's Garrett."

"Well, Mr. Garrett, I would like to take this opportunity to formally thank you for inviting me to your living quarters."

The kid was as flowery as books written in Ye Olde English. Pretty soon he'd be spouting Keeper prophecy.

"So what were you doing at Lord Birmingham's estate?"

"I was looking for a place to sleep, Mr. Garrett. As you know, the nights can be quite cold in the city."

Actually, Garrett found the nights pleasant, much better than the stifling heat of the day.

The kid coughed dryly. He drew in a long, rasping breath. "Excuse me, Mr. Garrett, but if it wouldn't overly trouble you, perhaps I could have another splash of water?"

Garrett got the pitcher and poured the kid another. As he handed it to him, he saw those fingers, long and bony, eagerly grasp the cup. He winced.

"Um, you want something to eat?" Foolish question.

The boy stopped drinking and looked up at Garrett, eyes shining. "That would be quite pleasurable, my kindest host! I need nothing so fancy as crumb cake or pudding, a simple bread product would suit my fancy more than adequately."

Yes, Garrett thought as he raided the pantry, getting rid of the kid was sounding better and better every minute.

He came back and gave the kid a cucumber, carrot, and loaf of bread. He sat back down in the other chair and started thinking again.

This kid could upset all his plans.

Beyton, head of one of the town's thief's guilds, had approached Garrett about a week ago with a proposition. There was, outside the city limits, a large castle where a sorceress lived. Beyton wanted Garrett to go to the castle and rob the place, naturally. With one little twist. One of the best thieves in the city (and, some thought, Beyton's mistress) would be robbing the castle at the same time. A head to head competition, to see who could get the most loot out of the castle without getting caught. It was, essentially, a bet to see who was the better thief, and Garrett had accepted. If he won, Beyton promised not to send him any more death threats. If he lost, (a thing so impossible it was ludicrous) Garrett would have to join Beyton's guild.

He was not going to lose.