Greetings, one and all!

Being temporarily deprived of my editor, I needs must make do. Bear with me.

And so the plot advances . . . or as Lizzy is wont to say, 'The plot thickens, let us hope it doesn't congeal'.

Sir Gwydion

Tuesday, December 15, 246

At Night's end.

"Beka, are you awake? Or even alive?"

"Uuuuuuugggghhhhh."

"Honestly, gixie, I have to leave in as hour. Did you have to get drunk?"

"Alright," I whimpered. "I'm awake. Don't breathe so loud."

"You should have heard her last night," that was Rosto's voice, smothering laughter. "It was really funny. "

"Rosto, this isn't a show," said Kora. "If you aren't going to be helpful, just go away. Beka, sit up and drink this."

After a moment, I did indeed manage to sit up. Kora handed me a cup. Its contents smelled vile and looked worse, but I drank it. Kora may not be able to heal with her Gift, but she is as good with herbs as mama ever was. It took a few minutes, but the nasty tea soon took effect. The pounding in my head lessened.

"What time is it?" I asked, fixing Aniki with a bleary eye.

She wordlessly pointed to the window, through which I could see the late morning sun slanting down onto the snow. I groaned, stumbled over to the bucket of water I always keep in the corner and stuck my head in it. When I came up, dripping, I felt better. Pounce mewed with distaste at the thought of the icy cold water. It was well enough for him. I don't think that cats get hangovers, especially not cats who used to be constellations.

An hour and three cups of Kora's tea later, we all trooped out into the yard off the little stable Rosto insisted on having built, though they are seldom used. Aniki rode off with a whoop, followed more calmly by Fiddlelad and two heavily muscled rushers who I think were only there as a show of force. They won't be doing any out-and-out fighting if they can help it, only remind the good people of Port Caynn that the Rogue has an interest in their being discreet. I think that the horses were stolen, but I didn't ask. The habits of nine months are hard to break, and they all know I'm not fond of theft.

The Dove seemed quiet and empty with Aniki gone, and Kora and Ersken lolligagging about in the Day Market. Rather then go to Rosto for company, I decided to visit with Granny Fern. Besides, he was occupied with Rogue business.

Granny is a Lower City mot, so I had no fear that she would be angry that I had turned crooked. If anything, I am the only one who cannot forgive my actions. Granny and I had our first long talk in a few weeks. I told her about my dismissal from the Dogs, my visit to my Lord Provost's house, and work with Hairden. I also helped her clean her rooms and fix a few minor problems which should have been see to weeks ago by her landlord. I had harbored some small hope that Granny would see sommat in it all that I had not, for she is a clever mot for all her age, but she could think of no one who would wish me so much ill.

I had to hurry home, so as to be back in time for guarding Hairden. I made my stealthy entrance through the back. And changed into a shirt and britches. In the common room below, my fellow guards were waiting, gathered round the usual table and looking bemused. I slid onto the bench between Tiron and Gore. "Where's Hairden?" I asked.

"Gone," said 'Fingers in a stunned voice.

"Gone?"

"Gone. 'E gave us th' night off."

Tiron shook his head. "I've worked for Hairden since I was fourteen -- that's five years -- and he has never given us a night off. Never."

"Did he say why?" I asked.

"No. He just trudged in here, you know that way he has, like thunder at midnight, and growled 'I have no use for you tonight,' and then he marched right back out again. You only just missed him." He stared down into his lap, flabbergasted, then he grinned. "I'm going to get a drink. 'Fingers?"

"Aye, laddy," his drinking companion replied with a grin. Inknose rolled his eyes, as if pleading with Mithros to give his fellows some of the good sense he had been granted.

Before I turned crooked, I never understood the phrase 'thick as thieves' but now, I think, I do. There is an instant easiness between two thieves, provided they are not rivals. It must come from the knowledge that the both of them are courting the hangman's noose on Execution Hill. Too, the folk who live by their wits are generally from the Lower City and the its like, and we don't keep how we feel all tucked away as the Nobles do. For all its crime, I think the Lower City is more honest then His Majesty's own palace, with its pretty manners and its politics.

Though they invited me to join them in their celebrations of the unaccustomed freedom, the memory of my throbbing head was still strong from the morning. I excused myself from the revelries by saying I had to go out and buy some food for tomorrow's breakfast. In truth, we have little need of it, for these past few days we have had no extra mouthes to feed, (the combination of getting up and walking through the cold and snow being too much for most) there is more then enough to go round. Gafell can make wonderful pasties when he sets his mind to it.

Even with nothing to do, it was nice to wander about the Night Market, the cold biting my cheeks and nose. Mayhap it reminded me of walking my watch, and mayhap it is only that I am still as infatuated with my Lower City as ever. For all it was well past sunset, the Night Market was bright and noisy. Steaming breath hovered in the air, like a mist. In no hurry to get back to the Dove to be wooed by a drunken Tiron, I wandered about the shops and stalls, not looking at anything in particular, but taking it in as a whole, the bright colors, the smells both enticing and foul, the merry talk and laughter. If the Lower City has a soul, it is the Night Market.

Quite suddenly, I caught a glimpse of familiar, heavy features under dark, white-flecked hair and a thick beard. Could it be? I followed the figure until he passed near a lantern, and I was sure. It was Hairden.

Curious, and probably cracknobbed, I shadowed him as he made his way out of the Night Market. He looked over his shoulder as he turned into Smite Hammer Row, and I ducked momentarily out of sight. What errand could he wish to perform that couldn't be done in front of his guards?

At the corner of Smite Hammer and Fish Monger, a cloaked and hooded figure waited. The street was empty and still. I thought it might be a woman, but it was hard to be sure through the cloak and the dark. I hid in the shadow of a doorway.

"Durati, what news?" I heard Hairden murmur softly to the figure. A hand was raised for silence, then searing red magic flared, briefly illuminating the dirty, snow-covered street.

I blinked my eyes rapidly torid them of the glare, but even so, I saw the two figures wink out existence like a pair of snuffed candles. A mage! What was Hairden up to? No matter my curiosity, I couldn't follow if they were invisible. I cursed softly. Whoever she was, Durati must be a fairly powerful mage, for I saw no footprints, which meant that she was either concealing them even as they were made, or she had lifted both herself and Hairden off the ground enough to avoid the snow. It would take a powerfully strong mage to do that for any time, and for two at once, as well as keeping them invisible.

I trudged home through the snow, going in through the back and thence to the kitchen. I have made a great discovery: for all his mournful ways and his glooming, Gafell has a kind heart. It pleases him to be thought fearsomely dire, though, so I will never let on that I know his secret. But, because I know it, I also knew that it would be possible to wheedle him into giving a weary wanderer sommat warm to drink without making her sit in the common room to drink it. It is lovely and warm in the kitchen, and I sat by the fire, sipping the warm cider Gafell had given me, watching him go about his tasks, and thinking. Presently, Pounce came down to the kitchen as well, and upon seeing my wayward cat, Gafell let a piece of the meat he was carrying into the other room fall to the floor, as if by accident. Pounce, true to his name, leaped upon the morsel and devoured it in seconds. That has made me think that, for all he's as gloomsome as a wet day, I have been missing a good friend in Gafell these past five months he's worked here.

My happy, warm, well-fed puss and I made our way to our rooms unnoticed and, I think, unmissed. I am cuddling him on my lap as I write this. I do not know how I would survive were I without my cat. I must buy some more ink soon, for I have used it almost all up in this journal.

I have thought about it a great deal, both whilst I was drinking my cider and now, and mayhap I'm grasping at straws, but this is how I see things:

For the counterfeiter to hide from all the Corus mages, he must be or have the assistance of a mage. How many mages are there in Corus who are strong enough to do that and don't have some honest work that pays better'n any theft ever could? Precious few, I would think. So, out of that handful of strong mages, how many have dealings with Rats?

I'm going to Dog Hairden, and Durati too if I can. I'm going to Dog them just like I did the Bold Brass Gang, almost nine years ago now. I'm going to ask questions, and learn everything I can about them. Dear Mithros, Mother Goddess and Tricksters All, let me catch them at counterfeiting!

I don't know what else to do if I'm wrong. How else can I get back into the Dogs?


I won't beg or threaten, but I will request that you review. I'm without my editor and in need of your aid! Please. Besides, reviews make me happy!

Oh, and Durati is pronounced Do-rah-tea. Don't make it sound like 'rat' in the middle. No no no no no no.

Sir Gwydion