"You keep your head down and say 'aye' to any job I decide is low enough for scum like you."

When he was small, the house was always full of people. It was easy to notice, because there was only one room, so if anyone was in it then they were in it. More often than not there was always the clank of bottles, the dull thud of boots and feet against the packed-dirt floor, and Rica's hand pulling him away from knees he had to crane his head to see past.

But it wasn't bad. Most of the time there was laughter, and if his father was drunk enough he'd scoop him up and pull him onto his shoulders.

"You grow up to be bigger'n me, son, and maybe you'll be brute enough to keep from starving," he said, blackened fingernails and scarred hands resting on his knees, the smell of ale on his breath. "Hope yer lucky, little nug turd."

Faren had smiled, because everyone in the room had started laughing at that. A few had clapped his father on the back, jostling his perch a little, and then he'd been shrugged awkwardly back onto the floor. He stumbled a bit, and before he could blink Rica was there. She wrapped her arms around him, but unlike the men she wasn't smiling or laughing.

"C'mon," she said quietly, tugging him away from the noise and people like she always did. A stray hand reached out, grabbing one of her messy red braids and snickering as she pulled away, not stopping until they'd gotten out the front door. They passed their mother on the way.

"Mind you don't go far!" she'd said – snapped, more like – and Rica had murmured her assent before they were out on the street, the noise fading behind them. He blinked the dust out of his eyes and he sneezed as it flew up his nose. The shanty buildings and old stone houses were all packed together, the spaces in between only small enough for children like himself or Rica to fit through, or dwarves who had starved enough that they could slide sideways past the walls.

His stomach had been gnawing at him. It was easier to ignore inside, with his father talking and all the people to distract himself from it, but alone on the street with Rica he'd had to take notice of it again.

"I found two whole coins today and they drank both of them!" his sister had said, frustration colouring her voice as she pulled him into the dark little split between their house and another. Distantly, he heard the sound of shouting, and a woman crying.

"No worry," he'd said, even as she'd let out a frustrated breath, kicking at the dirt and letting go of his hand long enough to pull at her hair. In the shadows next to their house they were relatively safe, especially when they walked all the way to the middle, where no one bigger than they were could reach them. It was dark and smelled like garbage – and usually had garbage in it, too – but everywhere was like that. He didn't know a place that didn't smell like garbage, the only differences were between the kinds of trash.

"Don't worry," she'd corrected, letting out a breath and then rummaging around in the sewed-on pockets of her dress. Every time Rica found a scrap of fabric that was too small for anything else, their mother would sew her a new pocket. They all looked like patches, so it was easier to hide things from people who didn't know.

"Don't worry?"

She smiled at him. "Right. Don't worry. Next time I find coin, 'm gonna get food with it and just bring that back."

"Okay, Rica," he'd replied. What he really wanted to do was go back inside, where it was noisy and cheerful and maybe his father would pay attention to him again, but where his sister went, he followed. That was just how the world worked.

When she pulled her dirt-stained fingers out of her pocket, he brightened, recognizing a few crumbs. "Careful," she said before giving them to him, and he dutifully cupped his hands. "I saved these from yesterday. Don't drop any."

"I no drop."

"I won't drop them," she corrected again, watching him carefully as he placed them in his mouth, carrying on until every last speck was gone from his hands. It hadn't stopped the clawing in his stomach, but so far as he knew there was nothing that could do that.

Rica didn't smile. She just wrapped her arms around her own stomach, and then leaned back against the wall behind her. The stone was rough and a little too hot, too close to the molten pits to really be comfortable. He mirrored her position on the opposite side of the narrow alley, letting his arms rest along his sides as he stared at her. Sometimes she did that. She just sort of closed her eyes and went away for a while – not sleeping, but not really there, either.

When mother caught her doing it, she smacked her upside the head and called her witless. Faren didn't really understand himself, since he only knew that if he spent a lot of time with his eyes closed them he'd probably get kicked and trod on and such, but he also knew that Rica was smart, so she probably had a good reason for it.

After a few long minutes she opened her eyes again, looking at him slouched across from her.

Then she smiled.

"Tomorrow's going to be better," she told him. "Tomorrow, we're going to find a big, huge treasure box, all filled with gold coins and gems and soft silks, and a big, roasted nug."

He smiled back at her. "Really?"

"Mmhmm. And at the very bottom there's going to be a special seal, and it will mean that whoever finds this seal isn't casteless anymore. Then all the nobles will come down from the city, and they'll see you and me and our new seal and whisk us off to live in one of their fancy houses where we'll have feasts every night."

"All nights?"

She'd reached over, brushed her fingers across his brand in a familiar gesture. Sometimes she would tell him about the night he'd been branded, how scared she was at hearing him cry, but that she knew he'd be alright because even then he was the strongest little Duster ever born.

"All of them."


The empty bottle of mosswine smashed as it collided with the wall over his head, raining shards of glass down on him and making him reflexively duck and cover. He blinked through the line of his arms, and the sound of shrieking filled up the house like madness.

"I'll leave!" Rica shouted, face red and hands clenched at her sides, hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "I'll go top-side just like father did!"

"As if you could!" Mother snapped back, weaving a little from where she was sitting on a pile of rags, a few more empty bottles strewn around her and her eyes cloudy and bloodshot. "Worthless, ugly slut like you wouldn't get five feet up there 'fore the giants raped you!"

"At least I'd have a chance!" his sister replied, and she was as mad as he could ever remember seeing her. "Why wouldn't I take a risk over a sure thing?"

"Fine! Go!" their mother said, throwing another bottle. He managed to dodge that time, avoiding the spray of glass as it shattered on the stone between the three of them. "Ungrateful piece of trash! I ought to have cracked your head on the doorstep the second you were born, rather than listen to your screaming and wailing for fourteen years!"

Rica was shaking.

He looked towards his mother, and glared. "Shut your drunk mouth!"

His voice filled up the whole house when he shouted, louder and deeper than his mother's or sister's, and both of them finally seemed to notice that he'd come in. Anticipating the third bottle that was thrown – aimed intentionally for his head that time – he hurried sideways, and then closed one hand over Rica's narrow wrist.

"You filthy little bone-picker! I brought you into this world! I carried your worthless sack around in my gut-"

Rather than stay around and listen to her shrieking, he tugged Rica's hand, yanking her back out of the front door with him and listening to the sound of the last bottle smash against it behind them.

Once they were out, Rica shrugged her wrist from his grip and dropped her face into her hands, stopping right there on the stoop and just sort of crumpling against the wall. Faren looked at her, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other as he tried to figure out what he should do. They fought all the time, Mother and Rica, but it never seemed to bother his sister this much.

"Here," he said, rummaging in his pocket. "Here, Rica, I found this."

She didn't look up at him, too busy wiping the tears off of her cheeks, so he grabbed one of her hands and pressed the small clump of red moss against it. The stuff grew down in the lower levels, closer to where Dust Town ran out and the deeper mines began. It was fairly edible, and a lucky find.

"You can have it," he added, when she didn't seem to look any less miserable.

Her reddened eyes focused on the little clump in her palm, and then she closed her hand around it, and tried to give it back to him. "No, Faren, you found it. You should eat it," she told him.

"It's okay," he assured her, even though he was tempted to just take it back all the same. "I don't need it."

"Faren…"

She looked like she going to argue, when they were interrupted by a gruff voice behind them. "You don't want it, girl, give it here," its owner said. They both turned, then, catching sight of the scraggly-looking Duster in the street. He wasn't much of a sight. Old and beat-down looking, with ropey muscles and enough scars to make him look like he'd been stitched together out of parts of other people. Still, he was bigger than both of them, and there was dried blood under the crags of his fingernails and on the front of his shirt. "No sense in putting it to waste."

Rica's eyes darted from him, and then back to the door nearby. She grabbed Faren's shoulder and squeezed it tight enough to hurt. "Just go on your way," she said. "There's nothing for you."

The man's face crumpled in immediate anger. "Lies!" he bellowed, reminding Faren like a frightening, distorted mirror of his mother. "You have it right there! I saw it!"

All at once he lunged forward, and Rica whipped back, grabbing the door to open it and rush them both inside. The strange Duster crashed into them, though, and so they both fell against it instead. He heard his sister shout a protest as a gnarled fist closed around her neck, the other pawing for hands and the red moss. His back crashed painfully against the door.

With a cry of protest, his vision clouded with red and he lashed out, head-butting the old man right in his chest. Rica cried out as he was knocked back, the hand around her neck yanking her with him, and Faren just started pummeling. "Let her go! Let her go!"

Their attacker didn't change his focus, still trying to wrench open Rica's hand as Faren punched him in the chest, in the arms, and then on inspiration he brought his hands together and slammed them hard – as hard as he could – against the weathered old throat above him.

With a wheezing cry the Duster let go of Rica, making odd sounds as he gasped and clutched at his neck. Faren stared at him. He was so much bigger, taller and broader than he was, that he almost couldn't believe it had worked. But then his sister grabbed him up – both arms around his waist and everything – and hauled him straight back inside.

She was breathing heavily, eyes wide with fright as she clutched him to her and started sobbing again.

"Rica? Rica, are you alright?" he asked, but it was hard to get a word in as she wouldn't let him go, instead leaning as hard as she could against the door behind them to keep it shut. He didn't hear anything on the other side. So, he guessed that Duster was still writhing around in the dirt. Or he'd cleared off.

Their mother made a sound of protest. He was glad she was out of bottles, even though there was enough broken glass all around the door that it probably wouldn't have mattered.

"What're you brats doing now?"

"Shut up," Rica hissed, although Faren didn't think she said it loud enough for anyone other than himself to hear. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

The last part was a little louder.

Their mother starting shrieking about ingratitude and worthlessness again after that, and Faren decided that there wasn't much for it but to stand there and feel kind of useless, not until Rica decided to let go of him. When she finally did, it was only so she could storm over to their mother and slap her sharply across the face.

"SHUT UP!" she shouted.

A shocked silence filled up the house. Everyone seemed surprised. Even Rica.

Their mother stared at her, cheek slowly reddening, jaw slack and bloodshot eyes wide.

Then she started weeping.

As Rica was still crying, that left the both of them in tears, and Faren stood and watched as the two of them broke down. After a few minutes, he moved to the far wall, fixing his hands around the handle of the battered old trunk chest that had held their few belongings. Back when they'd had some. He heaved, pulling and straining until he'd dragged it over to the door, and then pressed it up against it, crushing glass underfoot.

That night, they slept huddled together for warmth, the bed reeking of mosswine and his mother and sister both tired out. When they woke the next morning, their mother had started shouting again. He'd dragged the trunk away from the door, peering out and half-expecting to see the old duster from the day before waiting for them.

In a way, he was. Faren stared at the still form lying in the dusty road outside of their door, throat blue and purple, eyes blank and staring up at the stone.

The first person he ever killed.


"Thief! Brand! Catch him!"

Faren moved as fast as his legs could carry him, which was faster than most people would think. A hand reached out to try and grab him – his shirt or hair, maybe, he wasn't sure which – and he ploughed through it, earning a muffled curse as the offending limb was rammed away. He pelted down the stone streets, not looking back to see the pursuers he knew he had. Instead he flung himself over one of the nearby walls, feet skidding against rock and stone and dirt as he narrowly avoided tumbling head-long into a fountain of magma. The impact of landing knocked the breath out of him, and nearly broke his ankle.

But that was the point. Duster'd have to be crazy to make a jump like that.

He skirted around it, one arm flung over his mouth to avoid breathing in the too-hot air as heat washed over his face, steps quick to avoid burning through the soles of his shoes. Above him he heard shouting and cursing, but no more sounds of pursuit.

About an hour of that later, the high walls above him began to break and crumble, losing their grandeur as they drifted into the poor-kept frames and rubble of Dust Town. The air turned from unbearably hot to thick and gritty, and he paused for a moment to shove the loaf of bread underneath his shirt and out of sight. His stomach growled expectantly.

A few dusters threw him looks as he steadily climbed his way back up from the pit. No one tried him, though. He passed some gaggles of little kids, pinch-faced and small-looking they picked their way around rock face, scavenging for anything left of dusters who'd jumped to their deaths, for one reason or another. Faren ignored them, keeping his head down and his steps fast as he made his way home.

There was a dark-haired young dwarf, scruffy-looking and almost as big as he was, leaning against the door frame when he got there.

"You better not be bothering my sister, Leske," he said warningly, elbowing past him to go inside, but not stopping the other from following along.

"Hey, if it isn't the man of the hour!" Leske greeted. "Stuffing your shirt, huh? Don't know if that's a good look for you. But hey, you do what you have to, right?" he asked, snickering and clapping him on the back.

Faren shot him a glare. "Funny. Guess I'll have to eat my shirt-stuffing alone, then," he reasoned, before looking around the small house. His mother was passed out in the corner, snoring heavily. Rica wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Oh, c'mon, salrokka. Grow a sense of humour," Leske advised, picking through the discarded wine bottles on the floor, looking for any that had a drop left in the bottom. "I didn't find anything today."

"Did ya look?" Faren asked, muttering under his breath, but he tore a chunk off of his loaf just the same and tossed it to the other boy. Quick as a wink, the other dwarf caught hold of it.

"You're a real pal."

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me," he agreed, before breaking off another piece and stuffing it in his mouth. The bread was dark and gritty, better than moss and more filling besides. He forced himself to slow down as he chewed, trying to make it last. The rest he tucked away again. "You seen my sister?" he asked when he was done, wiping his hands together.

Leske shrugged. "Nah. But she's probably off with the other wh… women down by the Market District," he reasoned, catching himself and coughing.

After a beat, Faren decided to let the slip go. It wasn't like it was a lie, exactly, but it was a sore point. He cast a glance at his mother, and then, reluctantly shuffled over to where she was lying. He nudged her lightly with his foot, until she roused enough to blink blearily up at him.

"Wha…?"

"I found some food," he told her. "You gonna eat?"

She groaned and rolled over, batting him away, and with a shrug he left her to it. "Fine. I'm going for Rica."

"You sure you want to do that?" Leske asked, following him back out of the door and onto the hot, dry streets. "You remember what happened last time. If you keep scaring off their patrons, the girls'll crack your skull, no matter how thick it is."

"Duster had it coming," he insisted, hunching his shoulders a little. "Besides. I take down enough big guys like him, maybe the carta'll start to notice." Maybe they'd give him work, then, and it probably wouldn't be good work, but it'd be enough that Rica wouldn't have to keep going out and trying to catch men's eyes.

Leske snorted. "Yeah. Sure. Keep dreamin', duster, the carta doesn't hire boys like us unless they've got pretty mouths." He pulled a face, and Faren grimaced, too.

"I'm not always gonna be this age," he pointed out a little sullenly. "You just don't plan ahead. That's your problem."

"Sure," Leske agreed with a bitter laugh. "That's the real kicker in my life. I suck at plans. Everything else? That's just great."


They turned up sometimes in Dust Town. Old throw-aways from the Warrior Caste who'd done something or other to disgrace themselves in battle. Gone nuts and killed other members of their unit. Pissed off the wrong noble, disobeyed the wrong order, or just plain flipped their lids and didn't have anyone who cared about them enough to put up with their shit anymore. Faren saw them now and again, always easy to spot on the streets of Dust Town. They stood out because it hadn't sunk in for them yet. Because they didn't understand that this was it, their life now, with the ground for a bed and the clothes on their back for a blanket. The lack of total resignation was written all over their faces.

He almost felt bad for them. Dusters like him, they'd grown up knowing the slope of the land, learning how to scrape by for the worst of it. But the ones who got dropped in, well, they drowned in it – and if they weren't crazy to begin with, they usually got there soon enough.

"Okay," Leske said, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Okay, so Beraht's guy says we just gotta kill him, right? So let's… let's just do it quick. Then we can go back and get the money."

Faren stared at the old dwarf, leaning haggard against the side of a building. He didn't look like the kind of guy who could piss someone off enough to want him dead. He looked like the kind of guy who'd just had his boots stolen, in fact, and was trying to drink his sorrows away in ale that was too watered down to get the job done.

"You hold him," Faren said, pulling the small, sharp blade he'd been given out of the waist of his pants. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating fast. "I'll do it."

Leske agreed a little quickly, not quite meeting his eye.

For a few seconds they just sort of stayed where they were. Then Faren reached over and gave his shoulder a firm shove. "Go," he said, and his friend did, darting out into the street to grab the old man by his arm and pin him up against the wall.

"Whattar…?" he protested.

Faren stuck the knife into his neck. The word gurgled out, and the man flailed. He tried to push them back, force them away. One of his hands caught Faren's arm and knocked him sideways, wrenching the knife from the wound. Blood poured from it as he pressed a weathered hand against it, trying to kick Leske away.

"Stab him again!" Leske all but shouted.

Shifting his grip on the blood-slick knife, Faren tried to stab the old man in his chest, but wound up cutting his arm instead when he moved to block the attack. He grit his teeth, because it was taking too long, because he didn't even know the guy and he was killing him and there was a glazed, panicked look to his eyes as he flailed and fought…

With a curse, Faren dropped the knife and punched the old man across the head as hard as he could. There was a crack as his face turned sharply sideways, and then Faren punched again, and again, until he heard a sharp snap. He grabbed the dwarf's head and wrenched it as hard as he could, just to be sure, and he when he let go, the body went limp and crooked.

Leske dropped him, jaw slack.

"You…" he trailed off, the both of them staring down at the corpse bleeding into the dust.

Faren looked, and then he turned away, dropping to his hands and knees as he emptied his stomach onto the street.


The countertop was cool and smooth, clean and new-looking as he leaned his elbow against it. Everything in the shop was pretty nice, in fact. Brighter and neater and tidier than… well, pretty much anything in Dust Town. "Listen," Faren said, glancing down at the smudge marks his elbow was leaving. "It's a rough city out there, salrokka. Lots of dangerous people. Ain't that right, Leske?"

He glanced back towards his friend, who was busy getting smudgy fingerprints all over the store's neat, orderly shelves. "Oh yeah," he agreed with a chuckle. "Rough enough to keep a duster up at night."

The shopkeeper swallowed, shifting a little from foot to foot as he tried to stare them down.

"Lucky for you," Faren continued. "There are strong, capable people out there who are willing to look out for your best interests. Keep things nice. Safe. Secure."

Leske nodded. "That's decent of them."

"Practically a charity service," he agreed. "Of course, even charities need their donations. People like that, well, they've gotta have their equipment if they're gonna look out for anyone. Armour. Knives. Medicine and bandages. You know – the kinda stuff you want to have on hand when you're protecting hapless shops from all the nasty thugs out there."

Again the shopkeeper swallowed, shooting a nervous glance to the smudge on his countertop. "A-and, uh, how much is this… 'charity' looking to get from me?"

Faren smiled. "Good of you to ask," he commended. "Leske, what would you say is an acceptable donation?"

"Lemme think," Leske replied, cracking his knuckles and sucking in a deep breath. "Thirty percent seems to be the going rate for smart, kind-hearted folks these days."

"Thirty percent?" the shopkeeper balked. "What, of everything?"

Faren shrugged. "Well, I guess it is a little low. I mean, if you wanna pay more…"

"No, no, no! It's fine! Tell Beraht I'll pay it!" he immediately backpedaled. "Just – just clear out of my shop now, please. You're scaring off my customers."

Straightening up, Faren bit back a sigh and gave the man a negligent wave. "Yeah, alright. Just make sure you pay him," he said, as Leske sidled up to him, glaring at little. Hey, the whole 'scaring off customers' thing might have been accurate, but it was never really nice to hear.

"We should up the percentage," his friend suggested in a whisper. "He cracked too easily. Beraht'll sure be happy if we can get him more money."

With a glance back, Faren grabbed his arm, and then pulled them both out of the shop. When they were clear, he let go. "I'll do my job," he said. "But I'm not doin' Beraht any favours. Not ones he doesn't even ask for."

Leske gave him an unimpressed look, rolling his eyes. "You gotta get over hating the guy," he advised. "I don't like the bastard any more than the next duster, but if he hears you talk like that you'll be stuck doing shit jobs 'till you're too old to throw a punch."

With a shrug, Faren moved back towards the street. "Or until the next thug bumps him off."

"Nobody's gonna bump Beraht off," Leske countered with a snort. "He's got connections all over the city. Any duster who tried it'd be dead before he even got within three feet."

"Well sure, I'm not banking on anyone sane making the effort," he replied, the cool stones of the Market District flat and even beneath his boots. A passing merchant made to give them a wide berth at the last minute, and Leske, grinning, purposefully crashed his shoulder against the round-faced man.

"Whoops," he said.

The merchant glared. "Filthy brand," he muttered under his breath.

His retort earned him a rude gesture, and Faren snickered a little because, alright, that was kind of funny. They shouldered their way to Beraht's shop, the brands on their cheeks earning contemptuous or even fearful looks. When people didn't just ignore them completely, of course. Some of Beraht's girls were standing outside of the shop – taking a break, by the looks of it. Their faces were tired underneath the layers of make-up, and they didn't even spare so much as a smile or glare when Leske wolf-whistled.

"Lay off them," Faren advised.

Leske clapped his arms to his sides rather dramatically, rolling his eyes. "You're a regular white-knight, you know that?" He paused as they passed the women, gesturing towards him. "Ladies, your delicate virtue will always be safe with my Lord Killjoy here. Never fear!"

They gave him a bland look, although one almost cracked a smile.

"What'd I just say?" Faren asked, and then reaching out, grabbed Leske by his arm and dragged him into the shop.

"You know I never listen to you. Besides, shit like this?" he said, pointing between the two of them as he reclaimed his arm. "This is why people think we're a sodding gay couple."

"Well, that is what I tell my sister," he joked, watching as his friend's face turned from goading to horrified, and then angry. He dodged the punch aimed at his head, darting away and then turning into the shop proper. Beraht wasn't there – happily – but Jarvia was, sneering down at some poor sap she'd tied to a chair. He didn't look too good.

She glanced up at them, scowling. "Damn it. Who left the door open? The rats are getting in."

"Funny," he replied. "You been practicing that all morning?"

The poor bastard on the chair turned a bleary head towards him, half his face purple with bruising. "Please. Help me," he said.

Jarvia scoffed. "You idiot. You think anyone's gonna come in here if they don't work for Beraht?" she demanded, shaking out the muscles in her hand and then nodding towards the other side of the room. Faren followed her, Leske in his shadow. "Well? Don't tell me you screwed up a simple extortion bid."

"Of course we didn't," Leske replied. "Beraht'll get his thirty percent, just like he wanted."

"Good. 'Cause if I find out you two screwed up, I'll take the difference out of your hide," she assured them.

Faren just shrugged. "Job's done, anyway. You got anything more for us?"

She looked at him, then glanced back towards her victim on them chair, and back again. "Sure," she said. "This dead man's been smuggling spice off of Beraht. We know he's got a stash somewhere. Find out where," she instructed, giving her hand another shake, and then stalking off.

The poor sap shot them an absolutely miserable look.

Leske straightened his gloves. "Shall I do the honours?" he asked.

"I told her," the guy protested. "It's on the surface! I can't get to it here!"

Great. He sounded like he was telling the truth, too. That meant they just wanted to make an 'example' of him, leave an ugly corpse with a painful death behind to remind everyone why they didn't swindle the carta. Faren walked around until he was in front of him, watching the duster flinch back and duck his eyes. "You got one shot at walking out of here alive, and that's telling me there's a stash down here, and where it is," he said.

His victim laughed. "Even if I had all the spice in my pocket, you'd still kill me," he replied, with the resigned air of a man who knew he was doomed.

Sucking in a breath, Faren leaned down a little. "You're right," he agreed. Then he reached out, quick as he could, and snapped his neck.

Leske groaned.

"Oh, not this again," he said. "He was probably lying! Shit! We're gonna hear it now."

Faren ignored him, rolling up his sleeves and proceeding to pummel the corpse.

Had to look convincingly tortured, after all.


He didn't ask who lived in the house before it came into their hands. It was so much bigger than their old one – separate rooms and everything – and the bloodstains took some doing to get out, but he and Rica set to it in silence. Their mother stared blearily about, sitting at their new table, wine bottle clenched tightly in one fist.

"Where're we?" she demanded.

"Just drink your wine," he advised, making Rica sigh.

"We finally get a place big enough for all of us, and she can't even sober up enough to notice it," she complained under her breath.

"You're the one who gives her money," he pointed out.

She just sighed again.

They spent the morning making the place habitable, chasing off beggars and other dusters who lingered too long – some to see if there was anything they could steal, but most to get a look at Rica. Even when she wasn't wearing her working clothes, Beraht's 'teachers' had made her something worth looking at in the grit and grime of Dust Town.

Faren wished she hadn't taken the bastard's offer. He'd joined the carta so she wouldn't have to do that stuff anymore, but Rica always dreamed bigger than he did. She wanted to do more than survive. She wanted to live.

By the time Leske came by, the place was looking better than it probably had in years. They both knew it wouldn't last, of course. Dust from the street was already blowing back in, and in no time flat their mother would have the floor littered with bottles again.

"Nice," Leske said, ostensibly looking at the house, despite the fact that his gaze was definitely rather Rica-centric. "I know what floor I'm crashing on tonight."

"Not if you keep looking at my sister that way," Faren warned. "I've already cracked two duster's skulls for trying to pull something, but I'm not too tired to kick your ass, too."

His friend raised his hands, adopting a look of completely unconvincing innocence. "Hey, can't blame a guy for noticing. Right, Rica?"

Rica just rolled her eyes. "Hello, Leske. Looking after yourself?"

"Always do." Reluctantly, he turned back to Faren, who had folded his arms and was giving him an expectant look. He met his gaze, and then rolled his eyes. "What? Can't a duster just visit his friends?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replied. "What d'ya need?"

For a few seconds Leske attempted to hold onto his moral indignation, but it fell apart pretty quick. Glancing at Rica in a less-appreciative, more she-has-ears kind of a way, he grabbed Faren by the arm and dragged him across the street. "Okay, look," he began. "I might – might – have screwed up. Big time."

Faren gave him a look. "Screwed up as in 'please give me a mercy killing' or screwed up as in 'please hide me from this big guy with an axe'?"

"Screwed up as in 'told a tavern keeper that Beraht had ordered free ale sent to my door'," he replied, wincing as Faren's expression turned from resigned to thunderous.

"You sodding idiot!"

"I know."

"How did you even think you would get away with that?"

"Well, at the time I was drunk. And you always say I'm bad at making plans!"

"How much ale?" he demanded, realizing he was shouting loud enough to scare the beggars off the street.

Leske raised his hands. "None!" he said. "Beraht found out and, uh, set it straight before I could get any."

"Great. You might actually live," Faren replied.

"I know, I know," Leske repeated. "Listen, I can get myself out of this. I just need a place to lie low, somewhere Beraht won't find me until he's cooled down. Y'know?" he asked.

Okay. That was a little confusing. "Sure," he said. "I get it. But why come here? Beraht's people are all over this place for Rica."

"That's just it," Leske replied. "Staying here'd be so sodding stupid, no one would expect me to. Your house has that little back room, right? Just let me camp out," he begged. "I'll keep myself scarce, and I'll lay off of Rica, I swear."

Faren gave him a long look.

"You're a moron, Leske," he reminded him.

Leske deflated.

He sighed. "Fine. You owe me." Then he amended. "Again."


When he woke up that morning, Rica was in the main room, wearing some of her finer clothes and curling her braids at the base of her skull, pins held between her teeth. He paused, wiping some of the sleep off of his face and glancing over at their mother, who was surprisingly conscious.

"Beraht's coming by today," his sister informed him. "You should leave before he gets here."

"Can't," he replied. "Leske's meeting me here."

Her shoulders slumped a little, and she gave him a look. "Please don't antagonize him," she asked. "He's not going to be happy with me right now."

Faren met her gaze, and after a beat, nodded.

But he didn't promise anything.