Jack pulled in deep breaths, tried to relax his muscles. Made sure his expression gave nothing away. Did his goddamned best not to look down.

"Writing-paper." Juergen let the lid of the small wooden box fall shut, raised a sardonic brow at the guard to his right. "Now I wonder, who would there be for me to send letters to?"

Snickers sounded throughout the large vault-like space: Juergen's men, hidden in the gloom. Save for a circle of lamplight where Juergen himself was seated on a carved oaken armchair and his customers waited before him, the interior of the gatehouse was dark, its amber and red brickwork and the network of small pipes overhead barely discernible. The stained glass that had once graced the few windows had been boarded over, leaving only thin vertical slits here and there for defense. There was some illumination in the tower so that the men could see to climb its spiral staircase; apart from that dim glow, spilling through the tower's narrow corner entrance, vague shadows and the occasional flash of light on blade or gun barrel could be glimpsed. That was all.

Whereas, Jack knew, he and his boys were completely visible, and very good targets. And with hardly any interior walls to speak of, save for a huge arch to their right that spanned the width of the building, the place was a veritable shooting gallery.

The arch itself had been walled off. There the new brick and mortar were uneven, in stark contrast to the precise construction of the rest of the gatehouse, but there was no doubt that the wall was sturdy and thick. The steel door that had been set into its surface was firmly shut, though narrow slits here and there between the bricks allowed the protrusion of yet more gun barrels.

From behind this sealed chamber, mysterious and dim, drifted the soft, cynical laughter of the water baron's women. These were the ones who had offered Juergen and his men the only thing they had left to offer; and now amidst the deadly anarchy of the city they lived like queens, with food and drink and riches, armed protection and a solid roof over their heads. But the price they paid was terrible.

Jack didn't respond to the man's question or to the guards' amusement. He'd seen the customers lining up outside, had guessed that something big must have gone down at the other gatehouses—the brawl at one of them erupting into something more, or the too-long lines at the other one attracting unwanted attention—and knew Juergen wasn't going to waste much time haggling over prices now, not when there was more profit waiting at the door.

"Cufflinks?" Juregen continued. "And what would I do with these?"

"You put 'em in your cuffs," Chopper snapped, before Jack could stop him.

Juergen let out a bark of laughter that made Jack's nails dig deeper into his palms. "A bright boy, that one," Juergen said. "There's no getting anything past him."

Someone in the tower jumped the last few steps, or dropped something, or—whatever it was, it shook the metal floor and set it to ringing, and Jack's shoulders tensed involuntarily. Running over rooftops in the fresh air, swinging defiantly outside the Refuge's barred windows—that was one thing, but standing on the floor in here was a different matter altogether. Made up of large square tiles of metal mesh, it showed all too clearly the cavernous space that lay beneath the building, plunging three stories down through darkness before reaching the black surface of the water in the subterranean chambers. Every slight vibration, every echo was a nerve-wracking reminder that only a thin grating separated you from oblivion.

It didn't help that just behind Jack and his group, to either side, sat large rectangular wells where the floor simply...wasn't there. No metal, no brick, nothing but a straight drop into the depths below. Slender brass railings ringed these gaping holes, looking not so much elegant as downright insufficient.

Jack hated it.

Juergen's gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to the wooden box. "You're asking for twelve gallons."

Jack unclenched his teeth enough to answer, "Yeah." Not much for thirty-one boys, but they'd pulled together everything in the tunnel that could hold water and could be easily carried—carried at a run while full, if need be—and it had come to that.

"You forget who you're talking to, boy. You've only enough to hold eleven."

Jack winced inwardly, hoped that nothing showed on his face. The man was right, but the opening bluff had been worth a try. Juergen had obviously developed a keen sense for volume since the last time they'd been here; Jack would have to remember that. He watched the man's glance dart to the box again. "Then we'll take back them cufflinks, and make it eleven."

"Since your boy kindly explained how to use these, I've become rather fond of them." Juergen's gray eyes sharpened. "I keep the links. Six."

"You ain't serious. We can't live on six—"

"Then you'll die on five."

"Ten," Jack said.

"Five."

"Nine."

"Nine," Juergen repeated mockingly. He waved a hand at the stationery, the cufflinks, the ornamented silver spoon that sat on the large desk before him. "Nine. For these?"

"It's what we got—"

Juergen leaned back with a dismissive sneer, raised a muscled arm to beckon to one of his guards. "I should have you thrown out."

That did it. Nine miles here and nine miles back, the fight, the wait, all for nothing—Jack let his control slip, let his frustration boil over. Snoddy was closest; Jack rounded on him. "Gimme a little help here, for christsakes. You'se just standing there like you ain't got a thing to do with this."

If Snoddy was startled by the sudden outburst, he hid it well, fists tightening defensively. "Back off. You expect me to do something, you should've said." He'd raised his voice only slightly, but the warning was clear.

"You keep bringing in nothin' but junk," Jack shot back. "We could've had a deal with Juergen by now—"

Snoddy's lip curled. "I don't gotta take that from you."

"I told you that goddamned paper was good for nothing 'cept tinder." Jack strode forward, reaching for the box. "At least we can keep from freezin'—"

He saw the blow coming fast, but couldn't avoid it completely. The butt of the guard's rifle struck him in the shoulder, knocking him to the floor; an instant later the weapon was shoved against the back of his neck, pinning him down, giving him a close-up view through the mesh of the black void below. His stomach roiled, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. His left wrist, jarred by the fall, redoubled its throbbing; he concentrated on it instead, on the noises around him.

"You touch nothing until I tell you we're finished," Juergen was saying. "Tinder? Imbeciles." He fairly spat the word. "Eight, and get out of my sight."

When the guard let him up, Jack got to his feet, braced himself on Juergen's desk with his uninjured hand. "Eight."

A jerk of the chin from Jeurgen, and men were moving to the pulleys rigged from the ceiling, hoisting pails from the wells and emptying them into the containers Jack's group had brought. The splash and smell of fresh water made Jack realize just how parched his throat was from the day's long journey, and he swallowed hard.

He watched the clear liquid being poured into the bottles, the buckets, the canteens, kept up a mental tally as they were filled.

Goddamn it. When the men tossed the pails into the wells for the last time and stood back, Jack staggered a little, caught himself on the edge of the desk. An instant later Skittery was beside him, taking his elbow.

Jack leaned against his arm, and muttered in his ear, "Seven."

"Seven," Skittery confirmed under his breath.

Jack turned to Juergen. "That's a gallon short."

"So you can count." Juergen had the box open again, riffling his fingers through the stack of writing-paper. "Be grateful my men didn't shoot you on the lawn for fighting outside my door. Seven is what you get."

"They was trying to take—"

A rifle muzzle pressed beneath his ear cut Jack's words short.

"They can still shoot you on the lawn now," Juergen informed him pleasantly. "You have ten seconds."

Jack gritted his teeth, but there was nothing to be done about it. Silently, they gathered up their purchases, and were escorted roughly to the front door.


Shortly after they turned the corner, moving as fast as they could down the block, Snoddy reached out and took the three bottles from Jack's slightly-unsteady grip. "That wrist busted, Cowboy?"

"What, this?" Jack shrugged. "'Course not."

They kept their voices low. Returning with precious cargo like water could mean that you wouldn't die of thirst when you got home, but it could also mean you never got home at all.

Blink, Mush, and Toms appeared from behind a ruined wall, relief evident on their faces. Snoddy shook his head at the rapidly-bruising wrist, traded the bottles and a bucket for his shotgun, and said, "You'se a good actor, Jack, but you ain't that good."

"What happened?" Mush asked, handing Jack his knife.

"You shoulda seen it," Skittery grinned. "Jack here bluffed 'em like he was Doc Holliday."

Toms tossed Chopper a pocketknife and a slingshot, examined his friend's face skeptically. "Yeah? That why you got a bloody nose?"

Chopper swiped a ragged sleeve haphazardly across it as they headed quickly towards the next rendezvous point, two miles downtown. "'S already stopped. And anyway, that was from the fight before."

"What fight?"

"There was a fight?"

Jack pressed his wrist to his side, trying not to jostle it as they jogged down the street.

"Some bastard tried dippin' in me pockets." Chopper rubbed at the stains now on his sleeve. "We hadda take all his friends on."

"Then Juergen threw 'em out," Skittery said, "you should've seen the looks on their faces. Only favor the son of a bitch ever did us. How'd you know he wanted them papers so bad, Jack?"

Jack smiled grimly. "He's a businessman, ain't he? Said so himself. You ever known a businessman who didn't like writin' stuff down?"

"You mean, like what he sold, what he took in?" Mush suggested.

"Or people who owe him something," Blink said.

"People to deal with."

"People to watch."

"People to kill," Jack muttered.