Chapter one! Turns out I needed to write this and just more of this so... I guess this is my life now. As always, crossposted from AO3.

I don't know why this copy-paste into Doc Manager retained all my italics and formatting but the last one didn't. This site is so fucked ah haha. Anyway, enjoy! (I immediately started the next chapter because I have no self-control and an obsessive personality let's go).

In which Garrett knows he needs to stop.

Mismatched eyes scanned the small leaf of paper, getting narrower and narrower the longer they read. After pausing at the end for a second that went on too long, they lifted to meet Basso's.

"Don't gimme that look. What? Ya don't gotta take the job, it's just something someone wanted done." Basso's hands danced through the air as he spoke, emphasising.

Well. Danced was perhaps too gracious a word. Paddled, maybe.

Garrett set down the paper and folded his arms. "I steal objects, Basso, not people."

Basso blinked. "Eh? Oh, ya mean- Fuck, Garrett, I wouldn't ask ya to kidnap nobody. Jessamine is the name of the dagger."

One eyebrow quirked. "A dagger with a name? Bit strange for something that pretentious to be in the Old Quarter." Strange was an understatement - suspicious was more like it. Few people named weapons that weren't ceremonial or otherwise somehow remarkable; even fewer let them get lost in the dregs of poverty. Despite that, his fingers itched - Garrett wanted to take the job despite his misgivings. It was too suspicious, too likely to be a trap - a named weapon! And with a highborn sounding name like that - but he could already see where he'd put it amongst his collections.

A quick shake of the head. If he took the job, he'd not be keeping it anyway. That in mind, it wasn't worth the very likely trap.

"I dunno, Garrett, the guy who wanted it said it was an heirloom or something. Fuck if I care - he offered more coin than you're worth to go'n get it. Weird though, he did look like he coulda gone and got it himself." Basso turned and gave Gwendolyn a pet. The rook warbled softly, but didn't bite. Kinder than her predecessor. Garrett followed the movement, eyes narrow. Basso rarely got spooked, but Garrett had known him for long enough to recognise an anxiety tick when he saw it. "Shoulda seen his mask."

Garrett took note of that, already bidding farewell to the job. "More coin than I'm worth, Basso? Are you putting a price on my life?" Almost teasing, though; Basso wouldn't sell him out for any amount of money. It was an odd feeling, knowing that he trusted Basso to that degree, but - in this case at least - Garrett had gotten used to it long ago.

"Rork's teeth, Garrett." Flustered, aware it was joke but unaccustomed (no matter how many times), waving his hands again. Gwendolyn cawed and flapped her wings in response. "Ya seen the Thief-Taker's new wanted posters for you, right? Offering fifty thousand gold for your corpse?"

A soft, affirmative hum. "And double that if I'm taken alive. Flattering, really." Even if it made his skin crawl. Harlan wanted him alive far more than he wanted him dead. Given he'd not only stolen the Serendi ring attached to his belt but slipped out of the ancient Rotunda, all without getting caught and right under Harlan's nose; that he'd since continued to evade capture, and continued to steal anything that caught his fancy; that he'd not only been responsible for ending the Graven Dawn when the General himself had failed, but that despite his claims to the contrary that truth was still whispered through the alleys of The City - well, all that considered… Garrett prefered not to think about all the reasons the Thief-Taker wanted him delivered alive.

He had a feeling that he'd prefer the corpse method.

Basso rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well - look, I looked into this guy first, yeah? Obviously. I wouldn't trust my best lifter to some bullshit. Called himself Raven." Basso put his hands on his desk, leant forward slightly. Head tilted ever so slightly to the side - Gwendolyn warbled quietly again.

"You couldn't find anything on him, could you?"

A helpless shrug. "Not a damn thing. Guy doesn't fuckin' exist. Not a surprise really, but I got nothing. He can't have been in The City that long to not leave a trace anywhere." Frustrated, but Basso simply sighed and straightened up, gestured to the brief letter Garrett had set back down on the desk. "Wanted me to give that to you. Don't got a clue why he's so fucking cryptic with it - gave me all the information about the job anyway. Point is… normally I'd tell him to fuck off and be done with it."

"Oh good; you can still see a trap past that belly of yours."

Basso offered an indignant sound, swatting the air in Garrett's direction. "Yeah, yeah, fuck you too. The point is, mystery dick offered half a million coin for the dagger's safe return." An edge in his voice, there - and Garrett paused, going still in response. More coin than my life is worth… might not be an exaggeration. "And that's… a shitload of coin. So I figured that I'd offer you the job and let you decide."

Garrett shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tilting his head while he considered it. Obvious trap was obvious, but the bait… Garrett didn't even have anything he could really do with so much gold. He had no plans to leave The City - it was his home - and he couldn't rightly purchase an estate in Auldale.

Although, the idea was tempting. To live in luxury was appealing, but Garrett liked the Clocktower good and well as it was. No, it wasn't the space or the reputation that made the thought a temptation - it was just how funny it would be to see the Thief-Taker General's face the day he realised Garrett was living in Auldale. It was some glorious sort of middle finger to the man; almost as much as stealing his prized ring and sneaking out in silence and shadows.

It must have shown on his face, because Basso let out a sound of exasperation. "Jacknall's balls, you're really thinking about doing this, ain't you?" For a moment, Garrett was confused - Auldale? No, he really wasn't seriously considering living in Auldale - and then he remembered that Basso wasn't privy to his thoughts.

"You said it yourself, Basso. That's a lot of gold."

"Yeah, and you and I both know it's a trap."

Garrett shrugged. It would hardly be the first trap he'd knowingly walked into, and besides - he had his wits, his wirecutters, his focus. The dull ache flared up briefly at even the thought, but Garrett forced it down. Basso flickered with a blue shimmer for a second. Strong, bright. Fingers dug into Garrett's upper arms. It took a moment of silence and stress to realise they were his own.

"... I think I can handle a trap." Now that was a matter of pride. Stupid, stupid pride - he didn't need to have an ego, he knew he was the best. Garrett hadn't live this long by being stupid, he'd lived this long because he knew when to bail. He knew when to give up. He'd always known that fear was his friend. Healthy fear kept him alive, kept him from making stupid mistakes because of pride or greed.

Garrett thought of the Great Safe, and the Stone fragment that was all it had held. All I had to do was get you in the building. He'd known that had been stupid when he'd done it too. Live or die, flee or steal. It had been pride, and ego, and the overwhelming desire to stick it to the General as much as he possibly could. Stupid. He'd risked his life for nothing - for bragging rights. Who was he going to brag to?

True, he'd needed the fragment in the end, but he'd had no way of knowing that at the time. At the time, it had just been…. And the Keep had been in flames, crumbling around him - he'd risked Basso's life, sending him out into the riot and the panic alone and injured, all because he hadn't been able to resist the prize.

Pain flashed behind his right eye again. How had he known? Garrett pushed it all aside.

"You're right." And for once, Basso was silent, mouth open where he'd been about to speak, stunned. "What else you got, Basso? I'd rather avoid a blade in my neck. Or a rope around it."

Basso nodded, said something in agreement, ruffled through a series of papers. Garrett had to make himself listen; it dug into his chest like a Watchman's sword. It was a stupid job, an obvious trap. Too much money (nobody could actually pay that much), too far fetched a target (nobody left a prized dagger in the Old Quarter who couldn't retrieve it), too suspicious a client. Basso had no taste for violence, was heavier on his feet than a pregnant ox, couldn't have picked a pocket if his target was already dead and took more time to pick a lock than it took Garrett to pick a house clean - but where he failed at gathering loot, he excelled at gathering information. Garrett had never quite gotten the hang of that particular skill; yes, he could sniff out an expensive trinket a mile away, but Basso moved through information like Garrett moved through a shadow.

If Basso couldn't find anything about the strange Raven, then there was nothing to be found.

"... Captain's wife over in Auldale. Ask me those jewels are probably fake, but the damn comb's made of whalebone, so it's probably worth more with the damn things ripped off anyway. Garrett?" Lifted into a slightly higher pitch, stepped a little closer, concern alight in his eyes. The scars on his temple and jaw flickered in the candlelight, remnants of the ordeal Garrett had cost him.

Garrett unfolded his arms, let the carefully torn cloak fall about him more fully, obscuring his form as he eased back half a step more into the shadow. There was an odd look on Basso's face as he stopped, eyeing him. It wasn't confusion, and he didn't seem angry. Garrett wasn't very good at reading people's faces beyond that. Nevertheless, he felt the tiny nibble of guilt in his chest; it wasn't often he retreated from Basso. He wasn't even sure why he had - reflex, maybe. His thoughts had been leagues away.

"Hey, forget about that Raven cunt. How you doing, Garrett?" Low now, instead of lifted, but with the same edge of concern; almost soft. It wasn't unusual, exactly, not from Basso, but it still sat funny in Garrett's stomach.

Instead, he shrugged. "You're like a mother hen, Basso. Are you like this with all your blackhands?"

Ah. Shit.

Basso scowled at him, and although Garrett could read the anger it didn't quite seem… right. Not directed at him, maybe. Blackhands. Garrett had a funny relationship with the word himself - most thieves did - but Basso reviled it. Everybody had their quirks.

"Nah, Garrett. You're stupider than most of 'em, so you get special treatment." A different edge this time, turning away to pick out a small scroll of paper from the many on his desk and holding it out. That's fair. It was hardly his problem that he was better than all the others too. "Client got a drawing of the comb. Burn that, this time, yeah? Don't forget." A faint tremble, in his hand, as he let Garrett take the rolled up drawing - Garrett chose to ignore it. Easier that way, for everybody. "Owned by the new Lady Auberdine, in case you didn't hear me the first time." Garrett hadn't. Was it that obvious? Garrett could only hope Basso simply knew him that well. "Client wants you to meet them at that new Skinmarket inn, whassit called- the Wasted Stallion." And then, muttered under his breath, quiet enough Garrett only barely caught it: "Pretentious shitheads."

"You didn't tell them I'd meet there." Flat. Garrett wouldn't be caught in a place like that; rob it blind from the rafters, maybe, but never caught. Even somewhere dark and unpopulated, Garrett almost never interacted with their clients personally. Basso handled the people side of their arrangement; he took the jobs, gave back the goods, split the money with Garrett.

Basso offered him another scowl. "Course not. I ain't got sloop between my ears, Garrett. Tell you though, she seemed mighty disappointed she wouldn't get to meet you. I think you've got yourself a following of some sort. That stuff you got around your eyes? That the ladies use on their lashes or whatever? Some of them have started wearing it like you do." Shaking his head.

A moment of silence. That was an entirely different kind of not okay. "Forget the jobs, Basso. Time to skip town." Muttered, lacking bite because Garrett still had no intention of actually going anywhere - The City was his home - but the thought of not only being well-known enough for people to start imitating him but that people might actuallyimitate him-

Garrett shook his head.

"Don't worry about it. Same deal as always, Garrett. You steal the comb, I'll handle the rest."

A half shrug. It was better than doing nothing, although even in Auldale under Harlan's nose, he didn't expect it to be much of a challenge. "See you later, Basso." Grabbing the letter he'd discarded, Garrett turned and left. He used the door.

In the lamplight before he was lost to shadow, he reread the letter.

The Old Quarter. Her name is Jessamine. I was told you are the best. Casualties are unacceptable.

Handwritten, a tight even scrawl. The endless string of capitals made Garrett's headache even worse. Scrunched up in hand, and then shoved into a spare pocket - too cryptic, too demanding. Her name is Jessamine. A goddamn dagger. He didn't even realise he was gritting his teeth until he'd scaled the side of the building and settled in a comfortable crouch on the slatted roof. The ache in his jaw only made the rest of him hurt worse.

Casualties are unacceptable.

What in the name of every old god and new did that fucking mean? Obviously, Garrett wasn't there to kill anyone. He wasn't an assassin, and he never would be. Taking someone's valuables and taking someone's life were opposite ends of a very large, very imbalanced scale. It wasn't that he'd never killed anyone before - but he'd never set out to do so, and even in his long career it had only happened four times. Each time had come down a choice between their life, and his.

Garrett put it out of his head. He had other things to think about - right now, and pretty much for the rest of his life. Those other things decidedly did not include the last couple of years. Right now, they included the whalebone comb.

Now, that really was a rare thing. Whalebone wasn't common pretty much anywhere outside of the Empire of the Isles, but it was an even scarcer resource within The Eternal City. Trade with outside nations was fairly limited here; the citystate had always made do mostly on its own. It was one of the reasons (although Garrett didn't know or care to know the others) that whatever its original name, it had just become The City. Granted they were somewhat secluded on a large island off the west coast of Gristol, but they were pretty much the last place within the Isles themselves that hadn't ceded to the Empire.

A chill went through him at the thought. Their government had just been decimated. They were under martial law, had been for the last year, and the Thief-Taker was still having trouble keeping The City in line within the urban areas, nevermind the farms that were all stretched out across the remaining island above Cinderfall.

They were vulnerable.

The ache pulsed in Garrett's head, spiking across to settle behind both eyes and spiralling down his neck. Swallowed the groan, but he dropped his head into his hands all the same, and then pulled down the scarf to squeeze the bridge of his nose. Fingertips dug into the corners of his eyes, pressing down. Normally, it might have hurt in its own right - now, it somewhat eased the ache a tiny bit. Or at least, it redistributed sensation until he fooled himself into thinking it hurt less.

"Well… Guess I know how we kept the Empire at bay all this time." The Northcrest family had been safeguarding and using the Primal for generations. It would, at least, have been an effective shield against their assault, and an effective weapon against their insurgence.

A sigh, fingers lowering back to the slats for balance. But the Primal was gone. Or at least, it was utterly uncontrolled. The Northcrests were all dead, their secrets dead with them. Most of the old noble families had been killed, driven out, or otherwise dismantled during the coup and over the following year. Power had shifted. Political clout meant almost nothing these days - military clout was where the power (and the gold) was at. Most of the new 'noble' families were those who had fathers in high places within the Watch. Harlan had taken the Baron's manor as a mixture of his own personal home and the new Watch headquarters.

Garrett didn't want to think about that.

But a pseudo-militia led by an obsessive monster like the Thief-Taker wouldn't protect them. When the Empire learned of the absolute clusterfuck their leadership had become, it wouldn't take long to strike. Thinking about it now, Garrett was honestly surprised that they hadn't already been subjugated.

No. He didn't want to think about that either. He wasn't sure what he'd do. Survive, steal - obviously - but if the endgoal was establishing a new rhythm and stealing from another new set of upperclassmen, that meant getting through the overhaul in one piece. Garrett wasn't much for politics or even national loyalty. As long as there was something to steal and he could continue living in The City, he would be happy. But he wasn't a fool - and the Empire was ruthless to those who opposed it. The Isles had once been four different kingdoms, and the citystates had littered all of them. The Eternal City was the last one left, and had been for so long Garrett barely knew the names of what had once been their kin.

The problem wasn't maintaining targets, should the Empire come to claim them. It was surviving the process in the first place.

Well. At least they'd take care of the General for him.

Once again, Garrett shook his head, trying to clear those thoughts. The ache burst outwards at the movement, and regret bloomed in his gut alongside nausea. "Fuck me," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose again. He was starting to consider raiding an apothecary. He didn't like most of their medicines at the best of times - poppy milk might be the worse offender, but he loathed the way they all dulled his senses and fogged his mind - but some days he couldn't even sleep for the pain. It was starting to be the worse evil.

Taking a deep breath, Garrett balanced on the roof, hands flat against the leaning slats between his feet, and tried to box everything up. His thoughts went away; the pain resisted but eventually settled back behind his eyes. He opened them, winced in the lamplight, and focused on the dark of his leather. It still hurt like hell, and it made thinking a little harder, the pain flaring outward again every time he caught light in his eyes, but it was better than nothing.

Please don't focus flare me right now. It had been bad enough yesterday; he hadn't gone out all night, trying to fletch some new arrows through the pain and over the strange greyscale flatness that the world took on when he looked through the Primal, and come daybreak he'd been so exhausted he'd passed out over the top of his blankets without even undressing. By the time he'd woken up (several hours past dusk), it had stopped.

He boxed the fragments of weird dreams - drifting fog that glowed like moonlight and coiled like shadows, luminous flowers that refused to bloom, the constant permeating clicking and claws and screaming and hollow eye sockets filled with hatred and light, the coldness of it, the distant voice that cooed and laughed - alongside everything else, took another deep breath, and stood up.

The pain got worse, but his vision and balance held, so he slowly pulled his scarf back up, wrapped securely over his nose, and looked around. There was only one bridge across the river to Auldale (at least, only one within the city limits), and myriad ways to sneak across it. Garrett really didn't feel like stowing away somewhere to do it tonight; it was too unpredictable, too unreliable. He very well might have to cling to the underside of a wagon or a carriage, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to sustain such a hold anymore. Not with the constant pain in his head, or how much it had cut down his appetite, or the shuddering of wheels across cobblestone.

But all the same, he didn't want to risk getting caught in an open spotlight, did not want to swim, and definitely wasn't going to steal a boat to do it. "Guess I'll climb the underside."

Sighed. It wasn't a particularly enjoyable climb - not like scaling the Clocktower - and while it wasn't particularly dangerous either (even if he did fall, and he wouldn't, it was a short drop into water, and Garrett at least knew how to swim to shore), the underside of the bridge was one of the last places in The City that one could find the scorpions.

Tiny things, sunset orange in daylight and pale grey in darkness, and their venom wasn't enough to kill a grown man but it hurt like an absolute motherfucker. Last time Garrett had gotten stung, he'd been totally out of commission for a week.

He'd just have to be careful not to disturb any of their nests. They were territorial little things, living in clusters, but they weren't overly aggressive. It wasn't a huge problem if he got stung, but he'd have barely enough time to make it back to the Clocktower at top speed before the venom fully kicked in if he did.

Right now… he wasn't sure he would make that. The thought made him want to hit something. Someone. He hated having to plan around this weakness. He hated not being able to rely on his skills, his body, the way he always had. He hated the Primal. It had taken so fucking much from him already. It had taken an entire year of his life. It had taken all chance of reconciliation with Erin. And that hadn't been enough, the fucking thing- energy, life, being, whatever it was, it hadn't been satisfied with all that, with nesting in his eye like some kind of parasitic worm and changing its colour, changing his senses. Now it was slowly crippling him too.

Not tonight. Later. Deal with it later.

Deal with it later and hope it goes away. Not exactly a good solution, but it was all Garrett could do about the Primal. What little he truly knew of it he'd picked up during his hunt for Erin; from her whispers and taunting in the visions, from Elias Northcrest and the few notes and murmurs he'd picked up around the Manor and his minions, from Orion and his whole bowl of crazy. He hadn't exactly gone out his way to study up on the subject, and he didn't have much interest in doing so. There was no one he could really ask about it, besides perhaps the Queen of Beggars, and she was reticent at best and downright fallacious at best. In all the years Garrett had known her, he wasn't certain he'd ever gotten a straight answer out of her.

Anything else that might have offered some insight meant either breaking into Northcrest Manor or going back to the forgotten library below the House of Blossoms. He wasn't particularly keen on doing either of those things. Being in the House of Blossoms at all was risky, a little frightening (he knew Madame Xiao Xiao was good to her girls, but she was ambitious and duplicitous and would skewer him in a heartbeat if he was caught there). Besides which, even with his scarf securely in place, moving fast and breathing as little as possible, the opium smoking the air was enough to dull his reflexes a little. He would rather avoid the whole place.

So Garrett put the Primal and its problems out of his mind, as much as he could. He didn't know enough about it, didn't fully understand what it was or how it worked or why it had stuck to him like this. He didn't really know why it gave him all these… abilities, or what it had truly done to Erin - and frankly, he just wanted it to stop. They were useful, to a degree, but he didn't need or want the extra abilities.

And it had driven Erin mad. He didn't know what happened to her after trying to pull it out of her; if she was still alive all this time later, if she was sane, or back to her old self, or still out of her mind.

He didn't want it in his head, but given he wanted to gouge out his own eye even less, he tried to make do.

His musings had brought him to the Auldale bridge. For several minutes, dropping down from the buildings and settling into a comfortable shadow, he just observed. He could pick out the Watch patrols by their bobbing torches; there were, no doubt, half a dozen more Watchmen wandering the bridge in darkness. The General was quite aware of Garrett's penchant for slipping past fire-blind men when their backs were turned.

Of course, that applied to other thieves as well, but neither they nor the torchless Watchmen had Garrett's night vision. Even without focusing.

The thought pulsed pain across his face, and for a second everything stopped. There was white in his vision, and Garrett closed his eyes. When he opened them again, seconds later, the torches had rotated almost half their circuit. Longer than a few seconds. Fuck.

It didn't matter. He pushed it aside, waited for the torches to be as far away from the closest corner of the bridge as they were all going to get, and sidled closer. A late carriage was waiting at the mouth of the bridge, a pair of horses stomping impatiently and chewing their bits. The faint clang as their metal-clad hooves impacted the stone set Garrett's nerves on edge, like a faint ache in his teeth. Or maybe that was the Primal. Keep looking at them.

He had to duck behind it all the same, right as he slipped out of a shadow to jump over the edge, because a Watchman without a torch stepped out opposite him. Low to the ground, half hidden behind one of the carriage wheels, Garrett peered out again. The man had stopped, squinting in the soft light from the Watchmen talking to the carriage driver, and was staring at where Garrett had been. Curses flooded to the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them and simply waited. Come on, come on. It was just a shadow. Move on before-

"Alright, you're clear to go. Safe ride." There was a faint response from the driver, and Garrett heard the crack of the reins. Shit, shit. The Watchman who'd seen him was still there, taking a few steps closer now, clearly suspicious - although confused, or he would have already raised an alarm.

No choice.

Garrett twisted as the horses whinnied and started to move again, hooked his fingers through the framework on the underside of the vehicle, and reverse bunny-hopped his feet against the far corners of the structure. Already, a dull ache started up in his shoulders, weaving down between his shoulder blades to the small of his back; he twisted his hands until he was hooked by his palms, closer to the wrists than the knuckles, and well and truly locked in. His thighs took up the ache a few moments later, exerting a constant, tiring pressure against the corner beams of the undercarriage.

It was every bit of hell that he'd expected it would be. By the time he got to the other side of the bridge, Garrett had decided the comb wasn't worth this much trouble and more than not, he was likely to stab the client with it than actually see it returned.

The carriage stopped again. The jerking rumbling stopped, and he felt his jaw relax - when had he clenched it? - and he took as slow a breath as he could manage. Voices and firelight drifted down to him, but he stayed where he was; he couldn't drop here. He didn't have enough information, there was too much light. It was ten times harder to slipout from under a carriage than it was to get there in the first place. Everything ached. The pain behind his eyes was so sharp he was beginning to wonder if gouging out the Primal eye might hurt less after all.

Old gods, don't look down. His cloak was hanging from his shoulders, dragging on the ground. He hated that too, but he hadn't the time to tuck it over his waist and he didn't dare hang from one hand. Not right now, not with the pressure he had to hold with his feet to stay in this position; too little and he fell, too much and he risked damaging the wood, or at least distorting it enough to cause noticeable change. With one hand, it was hard to hold the right pressure at the best of times - he could barely concentrate enough on where all the Watchmen were around the carriage, let alone juggle that kind of change in leverage.

The reins cracked, the horses snorted low, and the cracking shudder of the carriage over cobblestone started up again.

Garrett's eyes closed.

He was pushing too hard. He was pushing too hard, and he knew it. Normally, unless he was forced to, Garrett did his best not to overwork himself. There was no weakness in stopping when he hit his limits - there was incredible stupidity in pushing beyond and harming himself, just for the sake of pride. He didn't need to go beyond his limits, most of the time. If he was tired, he would rest; hungry, and he would eat. He wanted for very little, materialistically. What he did, he could simply take. Garrett's best, and most indispensable tool, was his body. He tried to take as careful care of it as he did all his others.

But this…

There's something wrong with me.

There was darkness around them now, the road smoothing out from cobble to worked stone. The rattling dulled; not gone, but close enough. Garrett slowly worked his hands back out to just the fingers, clinging with all his strength, and glanced sideways. Again. He saw nothing in the dark, no feet or other horses. It would have to do.

He waited for a pause in movement, a natural slow as the horses adjusted their strides, and let go. The fall, as short as it was, knocked the breath out of him.

A gasp, but he didn't have time to be winded. Garrett waited the second it took for the carriage to drive on and expose him, scrambled to his feet, staying low, and swooped towards the nearest building. A moment later, he squeezed into the narrow alley between it and its neighbour, lost himself in shadow, and slid down the wall. Out of sight, now. Safe.

Okay, time to be winded.

He took his time, getting his breath back. It took longer than he liked; dropping from a carriage in motion often winded him. It was all about the landing. He knew how to catch himself safely in a fall, how to roll out momentum, but a drop like that - even short, it was blind and it was from an awkward, rigid position. Most of the time, he landed badly. Still, it was something he was used to, something he knew how to work through. Garrett knew how long it should have taken him to recover.

The ache slowly eased in his muscles, but the pain behind his eyes only grew sharper. Almost twice as long as he'd hoped- as he'd expected, Garrett unfolded his arms from his diaphragm and took a deep breath.

He was pushing himself too hard. Why? Why couldn't he just ease off until he figured this whole Primal thing out? (Or it killed him. Yeah… that was a distinct possibility). Even knowing he was being stupid, the idea of giving up - of letting the Primal defeat him, again - kicked up something violent in his chest.

It wasn't a feeling he liked. Garrett wasn't prone to emotional outbursts; he'd never been particularly driven by emotion. Sure, he enjoyed stealing and he basked in the precision and skill of it, but he wasn't ruled by his enjoyment. Logic was a much better motivator - reason, deduction, rationality. Garrett did what he wanted, when he wanted, so long as it was safe and he was in control. In control of himself, as much in control of the situation and the consequences as he could be.

Emotion made you stupid. It made you fragile. If Erin had ever taught him anything, it was that. She'd always been wild - out of control. Garrett had made an emotional decision to steal the Claw from her, and she'd made an emotional decision to fight him for it. She'd chosen pride and ego over safety and logic when he'd called off the mission. Garrett had stayed to save her instead of saving his own hide.

In the end, if they'd both just been reasonable - rational - they would have been fine. Emotion was dangerous. Garrett knew he couldn't get rid of it entirely, and he wasn't self-destructive enough to try, but he wouldn't be ruled by it.

But this… Even the thought of turning back now, of giving up this job and heading back to the Clocktower to rest and work on the Primal burning him out, made his chest tighten again. He should, he should - he needed to slow down again. He needed to stop for a while. It was the same thing he'd done after Erin had run off, to let his hand heal, to ensure he didn't ruin his future by being reckless and greedy now.

There was something wrong with him. He should go home.

When Garrett slid back up the wall and got to his feet, glancing up to search for the moon through the clouds, he chided himself. You're being stupid. You didn't chase the dagger job because it was a stupid risk. Why is this any different? But the headache dulled back to just his right eye, a deep coil of pain that made him feel heavy, and Garrett turned towards what had once been the Argent estate. It now belonged to Watch Captain Auberdine and his family. The comb belonged to his wife.

He made it into the house without much trouble. The family had three or four dedicated guards (made exempt from the Watch conscription by virtue of practically belonging to a Captain already), but Garrett barely had to try to slip past them. Like most, they fell into the folly of never looking up.

Finding the comb itself wouldn't be quite as easy, but he still didn't expect trouble. It was always possible he'd get lucky and overhear the guards talking about it, but once he'd gotten into the house he put the distant hope aside. He expected a housemaid or two, maybe a butler if Harlan liked this Captain particularly, but the guards were likely to remain outside. His first guess would be the master bedroom, then.

There were no convenient hidden passages that led down to the floors below - at least, not that Garrett found during his sweep of the top floor. A nice pair of earrings, left tucked away so far back in an otherwise empty room Garrett rather suspected they'd belonged to the previous tenant, and a small stack of coins later, and he was slipping down the stairwell as fast as possible, sticking to the walls. The carpet muffled his footsteps, letting him stay quiet even as he rushed, but he was still relieved when he came to the next hallway and ducked into the shadow of a large cupboard. He'd seen nobody around upon descent, but he pressed deeper into the wall and closed his eyes, willing the ache therein to fade and straining his hearing for any scrape of sound.

His heart thudded in his ears, heavier and faster than he was used to. He hadn't exerted himself all that much, had he? The movement over the rooftops hadn't been particularly difficult, not before or after the bridge, and while clinging to an undercarriage was never fun, it shouldn't have worn him out this much. Especially not after giving himself time to recover and merely sneaking through a house.

This time, he crept onto the top of the cupboard and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, he pulled his scarf free from his face to let himself breathe easier. It was the pain; he couldn't get his heart to drop into a more normal pace no matter how much slow breathing he did.

"Fuck." As soft as possible, under his breath, and then opening his eyes, pulling his scarf back up, scanning the hall. A flicker of blue washed across his vision, the shadows fading to white - voices reached his ears, suddenly clear despite the strange hollow reverberation that clung to them, and then agony filled his head. One hand went straight to the top of the cupboard, hard, too loud, but holding his balance where he crouched on his toes. His heels dropped under him, flatfooted now. The other hand went over his face, fingertips digging into his temples. His thumb pressed the fabric of the scarf into his mouth, tugging it out of place. It tasted like dust as he bit down on it, but it kept his teeth from grinding and offered some tiny, paltry resistance.

Now was not the time for this.

Even as he slowly opened his eyes, the pain vibrated through his whole body and slipped under his skin. The oily feeling filled him, and the sensation of ignition wasn't far behind. Garrett held his teeth tight, jaw aching with the pressure, but he stayed still and listened to the voices.

In hindsight, 'voices' may have been too tame a description. Gasps and moans caught in his ears, shivering against the thunder of his heartbeat. A faint sense of coldness trickled out from his chest. It didn't mix well with the burning oil pain emanating out from his eye. Reflexively, he wiped at the curve of his nose and under his eye. His fingertips came away smudged with kohl, but dry.

Clenching his hand, Garrett tried to unfocus, tried to think. The pale glow dimmed, but didn't fade completely; focus flared. A useful term that meant nothing to anyone else, but it was what Garrett had taken to calling the bouts of uncontrollable focus.

They'd been happening more and more.

That'll be the master bedroom, then. Just his luck they'd be having sex in it right when he showed up. On the other hand, most people in the middle of sex didn't notice an extra shadow.

He didn't have to show off right now. He just had to get the comb, and get the hell out before this focus flare really knocked him on his ass. Garrett could feel it coming, the oozing pain creeping deeper into him as the seconds passed, slowly surrounding muscle and organs and bone until there was nothing left that didn't feel like it was on fire.

Curse whichever pit the Primal crawled out of.

Garrett dropped down from the shadow, watching the air shudder with little white ribbons as he neared the door from which behind the moans came. He glanced around, moving his head slowly to ensure he didn't give himself whiplash, and made sure there were no other little shimmers. Nothing approaching.

The ache in his eyes should have made him blind, if not for the flatform lightlessness that saturated everything. Garrett hadn't felt this nauseas for a long time. He didn't think he could manage another trip across the bridge under a carriage, if there were still any crossing (and there always was, if he just waited long enough). This unsteady, there was no way he could safely make the climb under the bridge, and if he got caught in a spotlight then the Watch would take him straight to Harlan.

To make it back over, he'd have to swim. The thought made the nausea worse, but it was better to be swimming across the surface the whole way than to get stung by a scorpion and fall beneath it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to find it again.

He finally unfocused as he eased the door open to the bedroom, the shimmer and disorienting shadowlessness fading back into darkness and candlelight. Even just a tiny bit, the pain inside his skull dimmed. The moans were much louder in here, even as he closed the door most of the way again and slunk around the wall, keeping his body low to the floor and holding his steps as he moved, keeping silent. Fragments of each other's names filled the air like opium, the heady gasps shuddering after them. If Garrett had been in less pain, he'd have been uncomfortable. It wasn't as if he hadn't snuck past people having sex before - in fact, it was more common than he really appreciated, and the entire House of Blossoms was nothing but. Even so, he would much prefer the alternative.

Was it so much to ask that all the normal daylight people be asleep by now?

He couldn't help the way his hair went on end as he crept past them to the big dresser drawers; he was only human, after all. By the time he'd opened the fourth drawer, spotted the false bottom, frozen at the pause in sound and then carefully slid it to the side just enough to tug the comb out from under it, Garrett's skin prickled uncomfortably, an altogether different and equally unwelcome heat mixing with the Primal's oily burning feeling. It was too hot in this room; he could feel the slick stickiness of sweat under his leathers.

The comb went point up into one of the leather pouches tied to his harness, trying to keep the teeth from doing any damage, and Garrett put the drawer back in order. As fast as he could, he moved back around the walls of the room, opened the door the crack he needed to slip out, and shut it behind him.

Moans of crescendo followed him out, and he shuddered. It wasn't his heartbeat thundering in his skull, he'd realised, it was just the pain.

Really, seriously, time to go.

The trip back to the bridge was a little bit of a blur. For as far as he could, he stuck to the rooftops and atop the estate walls, but eventually he had to drop down to street level. It had never really been a comfortable altitude for him. It took him several minutes, and Garrett chewed the inside of the scarf in frustration, struggling to shove away the pain, but he counted four bobbing torches. One less than before. What had happened to it? Maybe the patrol had broken up, joined their fellows - maybe they'd gotten tired and bailed. Maybe they'd fallen over the side and into the river. The thought brought a modicum of amusement to him, although he couldn't bring himself to laugh through the agony flooding his body.

There really is seriously something wrong with me.

He knew, because the thought that maybe the missing patrol had expanded their routes didn't even occur to him. He slunk out of the shadows, heading towards the side of the bridge, intending to drop down and swim, and it wasn't until the shout went up behind him that he realised he too was casting a shadow.

The firelight bobbed behind him, closer. Shouting - "The thief! Catch him! Shoot to maim, you dogs - don't kill him!" - and the whole bridge erupted into chaos. The ground by Garrett's feet blew, stone fragments pinging off the sides of his legs. The leather protected him from cuts, but at least one of those was going to bruise. Winking innocently, the bolt buried itself in the cobble.

It hurt, but Garrett broke into a dead sprint. It hurt so much he could barely see - couldn't keep track of where the Watch was, who was shooting, what direction they were coming from. He bolted for the Auldale bridge, blackjacked the only Watchman who was quick enough to meet him head on directly in the face, and raced from shadow to shadow. His muscles burned, his chest tight and the thundering in his skull thudding in time with his footsteps, but he couldn't stop. The sound of shouting was everywhere, firelight was starting to converge. There was the sound of exploding stone, too close, with too much regularity.

Instinct took over.

He darted back and forth as he ran across the bridge, dodging as many men as he could, and those unlucky few that he couldn't avoid caught a blackjack to the head - or whatever part of them Garrett could reach. A sword missed him by an inch, swung over his head with enough force to send the Watchman to the ground as he met no resistance. Garrett's hood was ripped back, and without missing a beat he tore down the scarf to make breathing as easy as possible; kept running. They already knew his face, what did it matter? He wasn't exactly hiding now.

Past the bridge, into Stonemarket, keep going, gasping for breath, like his whole body might combust at any second, every movement slippery, keep going, careening into walls as he went around corners, not daring to lose speed, unable to hear if they were still on his tail over the ragged heaving breath in his throat and the crashing beat of his heart in his ears.

Blue.

There was so much blue, the whiteness and the winding ribbons of light as the clamour of his feet filled the air, and the shouts followed him, and insults flashed by from citizens awoken from sleep. Garrett had lost track of where he was going, trying desperately to think while he fled. All he had to do was get somewhere safe, he just had to lose the Watch and hide. They weren't that clever, and there were millions of shadows available.

Lose their trail. Get to safety.

Can't think. Move. Why is everything so fucking blue?

The Primal was scorching in his right eye, an excruciating wet pressure like his eyeball had ruptured. No time to check, just running. Would probably accidentally poke it out if he tried. Might not be a terrible idea.

Eventually, he had to slow down or be sick. He was only human, he had human limits. He'd never pushed so far past them unless he had to. Why had he…? The whalebone comb pricked his fingers as he dug it out roughly, staggering against the wall and into a shadow. Fuck you. But he couldn't let it go.

Where was he?

Tried to look around, frantically, looking for something familiar, a landmark to orient himself. Everything looked… wrong. Even with the glowing blue and the shining whiteness that made the whole world look flat, it was almost like the perspective was wrong.

I'm on the ground.

Garrett was so used to seeing The City from the rooftops. Maybe he should climb the building he was leant against, get a better handle on his surr-

Twisting and looking up nearly made him vomit. His whole body was agony, the pain in his head so acute he could almost hear it, borderline blind in his right eye. Safe. He just had to get somewhere safe.

The comb teeth hurt like hell, but it was a different kind of pain. Sharp and immediate, something tangible to concentrate on over the howling voices of a thousand nebulous pains. The beads of blood looked almost black viewed through the lens of the Primal, flecked with a million glittering blue dots.

Safe. All he had to do was get somewhere safe.

Comb teeth biting into his fingerpads, his other hand pressed against his right eye as if the heel of his palm could stop the Primal leaking out, Garrett took off running. He didn't even try to stick to the shadows.

He couldn't even see them.

It was the footsteps that first alerted him. Rushing, the panicked sound of someone fleeing without regard to the noise they made. Caught his attention, lifted his head, and then Basso scowled as he realised they were getting rapidly closer.

"Oi, listen 'ere you half-arsed lifter, I ain't gonna hide you from the W-" and the man careened into the basement, stumbling- all but falling down the stairs, and it wasn't Nikol like he'd thought it was. The hood was ripped back, the face exposed for all the world to see, black hair (black? Had he ever even seen that before?) wild.

Blue-green light coiled up between his fingers like smoke, bleeding past the hand that covered the right half of his face.

"Garrett…"

Stunned. Basso had seen Garrett hurt before, and once or twice he'd even spent the day curled up under the Burrick, too sore or tired to make the climb back up the Clocktower - or the stones too iced over to risk it.

In all that time, he'd never seen Garrett panic. Never seen the naked fear that filled the eye Garrett hadn't covered. It gleamed back in the candlelight, the soft brown wide, pupil narrow. He was panting, breath jagged in the cool night air, and for a long moment everything seemed to stretch. Basso felt his heart stutter over the shock.

Then, all at once, that eye rolled and Garrett collapsed. The blue smoke spiralled to nothing and something clattered to the ground from his other hand, his whole body crumpling, and as Basso shot forward to catch him ("Shit! Garrett!"), he saw that it was the comb, speckled with blood. Shock was an open wound in Basso's chest, hollow and cold. For a long moment, all he could do was stand there and hold Garrett's limp form.

He was… light. Basso hadn't ever carried his weight before, but he had seen the lithe way Garrett moved when he'd been drenched in light - or at least not completely hidden in shadow. He'd gotten a fairly good feel for it rowing them over to Moira, because he knew the difference in stroke effort between them both in the boat, and Basso alone. Even accounting for how Garrett had been noticeably narrower and lighter after his missing year, Basso was good at mental math.

Too much of the weight in Basso's arms was from the leather and Garrett's other gear.

"Fuck, Garrett. What did you do?" Dragging him up a little more, Basso carried the unconscious thief back to the nook where his bed was tucked away. Even though Basso was a public face in his enterprise, it didn't mean he liked being in the open while he slept. He had one foot in the shadows, after all. "... I shouldn't have let ya take this job." Muttered, hot with guilt even as he set Garrett down on the bed and started stripping off weapons and tools. The bow came off first, and the quiver right behind it - Basso handled that as carefully at he could manage, not just because he knew Garrett had created the bow himself, but because he also knew Garrett crafted his own arrows, and he had absolutely no desire to find out what happened should one of them blow up in his face. He set them on the bookcase beside the bed, a couple of shelves down. An easy reach when Garrett awoke and found himself weaponless.

The cloak came off easily, and the scarf with it. Basso took a moment to study Garrett's face; he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. Garrett always had the scarf pulled down when they spoke - a display of respect, at first, and later one of trust and (dare Basso believe it) affection - but this was the clearest he'd ever seen him.

The glow that sometimes came on in his murky blue eye wasn't there, or at least wasn't visible through his eyelid, but the jagged, pitted scar that ran from his hairline down to his jaw had the faintest milky sheen in the dim candlelight. It didn't sit very deep in his face, but the edges broke and danced like a canyon seam; it was (with his eye closed) his most distinguishable feature. Again, as always, the low burn of hatred settled in Basso's gut. The Northcrest Manor should have been reduced to nothing but cinders.

Black hair fell around his head in a wild halo; there were obvious twists where it normally sat under the leather hood, totally flattened, but it wasn't as short as Basso might have expected. It had a strange matte look, lacking glossiness - it almost looked as if Garrett had rubbed kohl through it. Basso resisted the urge to touch and find out.

The climbing harness that locked around his torso proved harder to get off. Basso kept working at it, until practically every buckle he could find was undone, and eventually he managed to twist it off one arm at a time, wincing as the movement pulled Garrett into an unnatural position. He didn't resist the whole time, limp and pliant under Basso's hands - like a fresh corpse.

Hell's cunt, Basso. After the thought had surfaced though, he couldn't help it. He kept checking that Garrett was still breathing. An almost silent endeavour, slow, but his chest rose and fell with comfortable regularity. He didn't make a sound as Basso manipulated him - didn't even twitch.

Well and truly down for the count.

Basso was starting to worry about poisons, as he unclipped and tugged off Garrett's gloves, followed that up with his boots, removed all the remaining pouches that were attached to his outfit, and then moved him to the far side of the bed. More shadows there, and once Garrett was tucked under the blankets and his head settled on a pillow, Basso extinguished the candle closest to him, quietly moved his chair near the base of the stairs that led down here, and resigned himself to a long night. It wasn't as if he'd been going to get much sleep tonight anyway.

What in the fuck had put Garrett down like this? He knew Garrett wasn't in good shape, but he also knew that the thief had always taken good care of himself and didn't consider weakness in the same stupid way a lot of other thieves did. The way Erin had. If he'd gone too far, he'd have stopped.

Right?

So what had happened, in the mere six hours since he'd been here last, to cause this? And he'd been running, fleeing - he'd been caught. Not counting some of the absolute shit that the Thief-Taker had pulled, Garrett almost never got caught. He wasn't infallible, of course, but even when he did get spotted, Garrett didn't run like that. Shadows hid the man like physical shrouds. It was honestly a marvel that Basso knew he'd never understand, let alone replicate; it was a hallmark of the best thieves in The City which ones could melt into darkness like that. Garrett was a master of it - Erin wasn't too far behind. Hadn't been. There were a few others in The City who could do it (Ardan, Linnea), but none like Garrett.

And he was a clever man. If he'd been spotted, he would have dodged and climbed a building and hidden. He had never had a problem losing the Watch's trail before.

So what had happened? Why was he here? Why had he come sprinting in like a terrified rabbit only to pass out?

Gods' bells, this was a situation.

Garrett wasn't going to be happy when he woke up.

"Yeah. That's an understatement." Basso sighed, rubbing his face. Honestly, he wasn't even sure how Garrett would react to discovering Basso had pseudo-stripped him; but there was no way that Basso was going to let the man sleep it off wrapped up in weapons and cloak and whatever trinkets were in his pouches.

From what had Basso had felt while he'd manhandled Garrett, it hadn't been all that much. That a compulsive pickpocket like Garrett had come back with nothing but the actual target item would have been enough to make Basso worry, if he hadn't been able to feel the reason for it through all Garrett's leathers. His harness had been cinched up to its tightest, and while it wasn't yet loose with the buckles so close together, it was a near thing. The last time Basso had cared to take note of every detail he could garner just by looking (when Garrett first returned after the accident), they'd been three or four notches down. Before that, another notch again - on the comfortable side of bigger.

Basso paused.

Actually, on second thought, he was quite sure Garrett had altered the climbing harness since he'd last seen it. There were more notches now - it went tighter than it had ever been intended to go. The chill that flew under Basso's skin had nothing to do with the warm summer breeze that drifted down his steps; Garrett had made the harness adjustable to allow for ups and downs in his own weight and size. It was intentional - it had to be. His leathers held a mild elasticity in their own right, and could be comfortable and form-fitting while maintaining a bit of give. The harness had to spread Garrett's entire weight and safely dangle it from a rope, had to suspend him perhaps indefinitely without cutting into his body or risking injury or damage despite extreme strain. Basso had seen Garrett leap from buildings with nothing but a thin braided rope and his climbing harness to keep him out of Red Jenny's claws. The harness had to fit correctly.

But Garrett had allowed for healthy changes. That he'd had to add more notches just to ensure it kept doing its job meant he knew he was too thin. Too light. What the hell was going on that Basso hadn't noticed? Guilt gnawed uncomfortably in his chest. He'd not seen Garrett eat often, it was true - and he never drank anything someone else gave him - but the few times it had happened hadn't left Basso with the impression Garrett had any trouble with it. Daresay, when he was given the opportunity for a nice meal, Garrett even savoured it the same as any man.

That he hadn't been eating lately was obvious, but… Ya old guttershite. Basso was an idiot. He should have picked up those subtle signs before it had ended up this cascade of fuckery. How? How had he missed something so obvious?

Well… that Garrett rarely let anyone touch him might have hindered it. It was only putting him to bed that Basso had seen the reality of how thin he'd gotten.

That's where his shit-lordly smirk went. Fuck me.

The flutter of anxiety and guilt didn't ease as the night wore on. Basso kept one eye on the stairs, ears open, waiting for the self-righteous clomp of Watch boots or the whisper of one of this thieves. As dawn began to break, Basso finally got up, stretched his stiff legs, and set his chair back behind his desk. The light was starting to filter in through the window, weak and grey right now but promising a clear day. While the back corner of bed Garrett was tucked into would be free of the sunlight, Basso still pinned the small blanket across the window to keep it dark, and then hesitated; studying the sleeping thief. Still breathing. Basso had watched long enough that he could even hear it, now, ever so faintly.

On her perch, Gwendolyn warbled a morning greeting. Quieter than usual, keeping her wings folded in when normally the sleek black rook flapped them until Basso gave her a morning treat. She yawned as Basso approached her, beak clicking shut. The sound was quiet (Basso knew for certain), but it seemed to echo in the cellar, louder than Garrett's ghostly breaths.

"Stay here, feathers," Basso murmured to her, scritching just behind her beak for a moment and then picking up a scrap of bread leftover from (very) late dinner. It was tough and stale now, but she took it from his fingers - without biting! - and crunched it up all the same. A soft warble. "Screech if anyone but me comes down here, right?"

Another scritch, letting Gwendolyn rub the side of her beak against Basso's fingers briefly, and then he was locking the cellar door behind him and making his way up into the Burrick proper. Drathen was already in for the day, setting up glasses and making sure the kitchen was ready. The pub was, admittedly, technically a front for Basso's fencing and criminal dealings, and didn't turn nearly a big enough profit to warrant staying in business in its own right, but it made a nice side gig. Honestly though, Drathen was probably the biggest profit it had ever made. He was the Burrick's chef and barman, and had been since her grand debut.

When Basso came in, Drathen set down the glass he was cleaning, and walked around to him. "Basso. You slept yet?" Basso just shrugged back. It wasn't like he couldn't get by on no sleep if he had to, but it took its toll on him, and fast. Always had. Fuckin' night owls. Drathen jerked his chin back towards the door. "Get some kip, Basso. I can take care of the old girl."

Waving a hand dismissively, Basso leaned against the counter. "Yeah, gotcha. First though, I gotta place ya first order of the day. Jug of water, two glasses, and breakfast that'll keep." Drathen raised an eyebrow at him, and didn't move. For a long moment, they just stared at each other - a war of attrition. Anger coiled in Basso's chest, wet and hot, but he did his best to swallow it. He wouldn't win this battle. He never did. A moment later, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Got a guest."

Drathen offered Basso a lewd grin. "Oh? And here I thought the only tail you could get was Gwendolyn."

Offering a snarl, but Basso wasn't really offended. The snarl was pretty much ruined by a snort of laughter all the same. One foot in the shadows and all, but Basso weren't no thief. He couldn't survive in his business without having friends - in high places, literally and figuratively - in low places, where they had their ears (and everything else) to the ground. And nearby, whom he could trust. Drathen fell into that last category. He'd been in on the gig for years, didn't care. Probably thought it was funny when someone stuck it to the Watch, the blighter. The fact Basso cut him an extremely generous paycheck probably helped.

All the same, he knew Drathen wouldn't snitch him.

"Don't be stupid. Why settle for women when you can get coin? Besides, you know I look after my lifters. Family and all that shit." A joke, to be certain - he'd protect his thieves sure, as long as it was safe and they weren't inordinately stupid (Nikol) but there was only a few he'd go that far for.

Drathen laughed; a rich, content sound. T'was a rare man who was truly happy in The City, but Drathen had never been anything but. Sometimes Basso swore he was simply high at all times. It was the only reasonable explanation. "Sure, sure, Basso. Must be one mighty fine lifter you got down there in your bed." The grin still there, grey eyes gleaming. Another snarl, this one lacking the snort, but Drathen just waved both his hands and laughed again. "Give me ten minutes, Basso. You can take down breakfast, get some shuteye you tottering bastard, and maybe I'll even set Graves to keep watch on your door."

At the sound of his name, the dog perked his head up from where he lounged behind the counter, hidden from view of patrons and Watchmen alike. A low whuff drifted into the air. A dopier hound Basso had never seen; his skin folded in too many places and his ears flopped either side of his head. Not to underestimate the creature - Basso had seen him give a wicked bite to those who threatened his master - but Drathen always trained his hounds well and this one was stupider than most.

"Keep that fleabag outta sight," Basso called after Drathen as the man vanished into the Burrick's little kitchen. "He'd soon as invite the damned Watch in than bite their feet off."

Laughter floated back out. "Graves! Black Tax!" The dog sat up sharply and growled. Not at anything in particular, it seemed, but his hackles were up even as he remained sitting, teeth gleaming in the early light and lingering candlelight from Drathen's arrival shortly before dawn. Even knowing Graves wouldn't bite him, Basso felt the unease that a snarling dog always brought. "Good boy. Lie down." And a piece of chicken sailed unerringly through the kitchen door towards the dog as he obeyed. It was snatched out of the air and all but inhaled.

Basso shook his head. "Yeah, yeah. I already got a guard, Drathen. Keep him around to intimidate the dregs."

Soon enough, Basso was heading back down, juggling the tray and the key to the cellar door, and then he was taking his plate (Drathen had given him two) and stretching out on the battered couch that helped shape the alcove his bed was in. Separation screens lined the back of the couch, the bookshelf delineating the rest of it. Basso couldn't see Garrett in the dimness, even if he twisted around to look, and that would be enough - he hoped - to keep Garrett from freaking out when he did wake.

The plate was still half full, balanced on the far edge of the couch, when Basso knocked off.