Once, when I was younger, (and never mind how I got there in the first place, it's a long story) I'd managed to accidentally spring a poison trap, and found myself completely paralyzed and lying face-up in a grassy yard that had . . . not one, but two hungry-looking valeweed houndcats patrolling it.

I managed to wriggle out of that predicament. As it turns out, holding very still is a good way to keep a valeweed houndcat from attacking you or thinking of you as food, so being paralyzed was kind of a mixed blessing, though I hadn't exactly known it at the time.

The thing I remember most were the two hours I spent laying there, helpless, waiting for the poison to wear off, watching as these two massive, gaunt-looking creatures circled me, snuffing curiously at my face every now and again. My imagination painted a vivid picture of what it would be like to get torn into pieces by sharp feline teeth, viciously ripped to shreds while still alive, unable to cry out or do anything at all. It wasn't a pleasant sort of experience.

This was worse.

Watching the stream of stone and mortar falling towards the stairs made my guts turn to water, and every muscle tried to flex, go slack, and cramp simultaneously.

My arm shot through and broke the window pane as I clawed at the lurching window arch, desperate to reach beyond it and grip something solid. The teeth of my metal climbing spikes hooked into the wet stone of the outside wall as my palm slapped against broken glass and rain-soaked rock.

Roaring with effort, I pulled myself through the window, one-handed. Changing the grip I had on my device, I lurched my torso against what remained of the shattered pane, leaned over the sill, and then threw myself into the empty air beyond it, all in the same motion. My legs scraped along the top of the stone ledge, shards of glass snapping off in my thighs with a gravelly crunch, my feet still dangling just inside the window.

I heard the soft click of pebbles striking the stairs.

And then I was falling, like the hundreds of raindrops and bits of broken glass that surrounded me, clutching the wooden stock of my climbing device as my fingers urgently squeezed the lever jutting out from it.

There was a 'wrrp' of metal twine going taut, and I felt a painful yanking sensation in my shoulders right before I slapped wetly against the outside wall of the stone keep. I was now dangling by a metal thread, a mere four feet beneath the window I'd leapt out of. I looked down briefly and noticed that I still had two legs, and that both of them were the correct length.

Both boots were smoking, however.

My left hand reached out to grab onto a portion of the wall so I could steady myself. It turned out to be a very good idea.

The lifeline I'd been desperately clinging to slackened with a strange 'twern' noise, the anchored portion finally succumbing to the hot, black nothingness in the stairwell. My body fell a few sickening inches, my left hand desperately gripping the stone above me. I dropped the wooden rod I held and was pawing the wall with my right hand, climbing spikes frantically searching for an additional handhold on the rocky surface.

The smoking remains of the metal twine fell on top of me, the very end of it glowing white-hot as it fell upon my right shoulder. My cloak absorbed some of the heat, luckily, so it merely felt like I'd been stabbed with a red-hot branding iron.

“Gah!” I exclaimed, flinching my shoulder violently enough to shake the searing metal loose.

It was also enough to shake me loose.

I began falling once more, sliding down the rocky face, both palms extended and pressing against the fast moving surface of the wall. Both climbing spikes rasped their metallic protests, squealing as they scraped against the wet stone, my bleeding fingers clawing for purchase in their effort to arrest my descent.

Metal hooked onto stone, and the world was yanked sideways. I heard a second muted popping noise, and felt another sharp pain in my left shoulder, one that hurt enough to make me want to throw up. I threw the bloodied fingers of my right hand over a small outcropping I spied out of the corner of my eye and used it to stabilize myself, clutching the vertical stone face for all I was worth despite the various shallow cuts I'd sustained from the dozens of glass shards. My left boot scraped against the wall a few times before finding something solid enough to step on, and my right followed suit.

Body pressed close against the wall, my limbs shook with panic. I did a very fine impression of a devout farmer praying for divine fertilizer, reciting the two word phrase over and over like a mantra.

I looked down, realized just how close I'd come to dying, and decided to continue swearing some more.

Once I had cursed enough that it felt I'd recovered most of my composure, I began climbing up the rain-slick wall excruciatingly slowly and carefully, staying mindful of my left shoulder and my other assorted injuries. It was an painfully long process, but far less exciting than my previous ten minutes had been, so the time seemed to fly by. I soon found myself within arms reach of the topmost parapet of the keep, and pulled myself up onto the square blocks of stone, giddy with relief. I took a few minutes to just lay there, face turned to greet the rain, just enjoying how good it felt to be alive.

Ignoring my various aches and pains, I rummaged through my pockets for my tracking lens and peered through it. I was about level with the green glow, which was very bright, suggesting he was somewhere on the other side of the gently sloping roof, or perhaps in the topmost room.

With all the trouble it took me just to get up there, I'd be making damn sure he didn't get away from me this time.

It took very little effort to climb onto the slanted roof itself. I lowered myself into a crouch and crept up to the very apex, alert for any noise that might be coming from a source that wasn't either rain or thunder. Once at the top I simply stood there, listening.

Muted sobbing could be heard on the edge of the roof opposite the way I'd come. I checked the lens.

He was right there.

I quietly crossed over to the other side of the keep, to the portion of roof nearest him. I scouted the surfaces of everything nearby as I crept, determined not to be caught flat-footed this time. Soon I was within reach of the roof's edge, and reached out to grasp the wet wood in order to lean forward and get a better look below me.

Connor was huddled into a far corner of the short balcony, a battered cloak protecting him from the worst of the rain. He was making muffled sobbing noises, possibly still reacting to his injuries and the ordeal he'd been forced to endure at the hands of Blackstaag's knights. From what I'd been able to see of his face, they'd worked him over pretty good.

I felt kind of bad sneaking up on him like this, what with everything he'd been through today, but not bad enough to actually stop myself from doing it. Besides, my day hadn't exactly been a picnic either.

Skirting the edge of the wet roof, trying to remain unseen, I crept closer to a spot that looked like a good place to hop down onto the balcony below. I spied a trip-wire running along the roof. Taking great pains to very carefully step over it, I inched forward . . .

There was a sudden violent creaking, and a blurry wooden something slammed into my shins with a sharp crack, knocking my feet out from under me and sending me sprawling backwards across the tiles and towards the edge of the roof, five stories above the cobbled yard. Without pausing to think I scrabbled onto my stomach and slammed my climbing spikes against a grey wooden plank. The metal hooks grabbed just enough tile to keep me from sliding over the lip of the roof, legs dangling below me.

Connor's hooded, tear-streaked face appeared near the balcony. His eyes widened as he looked across the roof at me.

“Grrraaaauuuggghhh! Son of a bitch!” I cried through pain-clenched teeth. “Why is it always the shins with you!?”

“Get . . . get away! Stay away from me!” he yelled, stumbling backwards with his arms raised up, practically collapsing back into the corner of the balcony I'd seen him sitting in.

“Connor, wait,” I groaned, jaw clenched as I clawed my way back onto the roof, “I just want to talk to you, okay? Can we do that, please?”

“Stay away from me!” he yelled once more, now standing and holding what appeared to be two rocks out towards me, one in each hand.

“Look, I'm not going to do anything, alright? Just calm down a sec, and we'll talk,” I said, standing up on the gentle incline and slowly walking up its length towards him, my hands held out to either side. “That's all I want.”

“Get off my roof!” he shouted at me, now pointing both hands directly at my chest.

“Okay . . . technically, this is my roof, kid. Coronation Rise, everything on it - mine. And really, for all the trouble it took me to get up here, you'd think the least you could do would be to sit down and talk, even for a little bit, or-”

“There's nothing to talk about! You've ruined everything!” said Connor, voice cracking slightly.

“Ruined? Connor, I just saved you out there! Blackstaag's knights were going to take-”

“You made them think it was you!”

Huh?

I paused mid-step, furrowing my brow at him. “What are you talking about?”

“All that work I did, and the only person anyone got mad at was you!” he shouted, voice containing the barest trace of an accusation. His arms lowered what they were holding slightly, and he leaned forward with a furious expression on his face. “You ruined everything!”

“Kid, I didn't ruin a Baal-be-damned thing! The reason everyone's mad at me is because of you, not because of anything I've done. One morning I just woke up and discovered that a bunch of Lords wanted my hide decorating their mantle. How is that my fault?”

“Shut up! I hate you!”

I sighed. This wasn't going well.

“Connor, look . . . I'm going to come over there where you are, maybe sit somewhere safer. I just want to talk to you, okay, and I promise . . . wait!” I said, my heart in my throat, gesturing at him with an open palm as I saw him quickly lift one leg over the railing, like he was getting ready to jump. “Kid, please! Don't do anything drastic!”

Turning slightly, Connor favored me with an odd expression, one that seemed to say 'Huh?'

Right . . . he could fly. Gods, I was slow today.

“Okay, sorry . . . I keep forgetting. Still, you were very close to getting killed today, Connor! You have no idea what's out there, waiting for you. At the very least, let's talk a bit about what's going on, so you can know more about the situation, okay?”

He stopped moving, still straddling the bannister, looking at me.

“Okay?” I repeated.

Connor slowly lifted his leg back over the balcony railing and raised his outstretched hands towards me warningly once more, the two rocks he held leveled at my chest. He held them in a manner that suggested he could use them to do something unhealthy to me.

Ignoring my misgivings, I walked the rest of the way over and hopped gently down to the side of the balcony opposite to him, holding up my hands once more.

“Sorry, do you mind if I sit down? I feel like I've torn my arm off, and my shins are suddenly killing me as well. Again.”

He looked at me warily, then gave me a single terse nod, still clutching the stones and pointing them at my chest.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a moment to grab one of the rails and lower myself down to a spot of the balcony that, if not dry, was less wet than the areas that surrounded it. I closed my eyes upon sitting, feeling instant relief from the whereabouts of my shins. “Gods, I'm going to hurt tomorrow. Okay. So . . . you robbed a bunch of Lords. They started blaming me for it, and that's not what you wanted.”

“No,” Connor said, bitterly.

“Can I ask what you did want to happen”

“I wanted to start some fights,” he said, also deciding to take a moment and find a comfortable place to sit. He still had traces of the limp I'd seen earlier.

“Fights? Between who?”

“Didn't matter,” he mumbled. “All of them.”

“Umm, okay,” I said, giving him an odd look. “Why, exactly?”

“They ruined my life!”

“Kid, a few seconds ago you were standing there accusing me of ruining everything, and I still have no idea how. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that if-”

“They killed my dad!” he practically shouted.

We both sat there awhile, listening to the sound of falling rain. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance.

Deja-vu.

I felt my perception start to shift. Maybe our situations weren't too dissimilar when it came right down to it. Perhaps I could relate to him that way, talk him down. He was about the same age that I was when I'd lost my own family.

The Haundsing family had taken me in once the quarantine on Tucat Keep was lifted, and I was blessed with the gift of Theo's friendship as a result. Theodore had been there for me when I'd needed him, and I for him, and this kid didn't even have something like that. Even now, he was likely drifting through life alone with no family . . . no-one but himself.

He was even more alone than I'd been.

“How?” I asked, quietly.

Connor looked me briefly in the eyes, as if trying to figure out why I was asking in the first place. After a few moments he lowered his eyes, and began speaking quietly.

“My father could build things. Stuff you can't even imagine. Growing up . . . it was like I could do magic, like the magic crafters do, simply by picking up something he'd made and playing with it. It was what he lived for, and all he ever wanted to do. He made a fortune.” The boy turned to look at me, anger in his eyes. “He was forced to become a Lord. All he really wanted to was to make things. He didn't even really care about the money, except that it let him buy strange stuff and build even more things. Amazing things.”

There was a stretch of silence.

“He didn't do well as a Lord, did he?”

“His homeowners and shopkeepers would come to him with sad stories, excuses, and he'd feel so bad for them that he simply told them to forget paying him for that month, or suggested they make up for it when times got better,” he said, scowling. “He tried being a thief. He invented dozens of devices, all of them making burgling as easy as walking, but after each robbery he'd feel so bad that he'd eventually return the thing, anonymously.”

“And the other Lords thought he was weak,” I nodded, seeing where this was going.

“He was weak, because he wasn't suited for that sort of thing at all! He was a nice person, someone who didn't want to ruin people's lives, or steal their things, or any of that stuff you Lords do. He didn't want any of it! And they knew it! Bit by bit the rest of them picked away at him until we had almost nothing at all.”

Connor closed his eyes, like he'd been visited by a painful memory.

“And then some Lord decided to swoop in, take everything he had left?”

“No,” he said bitterly. “We had no staff – he hated telling people what to do. He did everything himself.” He took a few slow, deep breaths. “Dad was making me a birthday present, and the only guys he could afford to do business with had bad reputations. One of them probably heard about what kind of money he used to have, or figured all Lords were rich. Dad went out, didn't come back. Robbed, knifed . . . bled to death in an alley.”

Gods . . . was there no-one in Harael who actually had a happy childhood?

“I know how you must feel, Connor,” I said, voice a whisper.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted. “That's a pretty easy thing to say. You don't know a damned thing.”

“This,” I said, pointing to the white skin on the bridge of my nose, “is what rose blight leaves behind. When you're lucky enough to survive it, that is. I was about your age when it happened. I had a father, a mother, and a sister back then . . . they got it too. Died right in front of me.”

Connor sat there, not meeting my eye. Several minutes passed.

“Sorry,” he said, finally.

“And I'm sorry about what happened to you, Connor. And your father. It sounds like he was a good person.”

“Yeah,” he practically snarled, “well, I'm not. I'm not going to feel bad at all, not like he did. You can't stop me either – nobody can!” He looked over at me, his expression daring me to say something.

“I see. You'll be trying this again, I take it?”

“They deserve it. Maybe you don't, but they do! I don't care. I'll have those greedy bastards at each others throats, you just wait!”

“Provided they don't simply end up blaming me again, that is,” I said, idly wiping some raindrops from my face with a free hand. “I mean, even I thought you were trying to frame me at first. Of course, you've figured out why those other Lords assumed it was me, and will be taking steps to avoid that, right?”

He looked at me, his angry expression now slightly uncertain.

“No? Well, a minor detail, I'm sure. Doubtless you've thought this through a great deal, all part of your master plan. So, these Lords will all have more of their stuff stolen and will suddenly start attacking each other for some unfathomable reason, several of them killing each other in the process. Interesting,” I said, nodding my head. Then, I furrowed my brow. “Is there any reason why you're not intentionally framing specific Lords then? You know, to hurry up the process?”

He looked confused.

“You know, leaving evidence behind . . . something belonging to another Lord,” I said, waving dismissively. “I don't know, it might be too obvious, your plan is probably much more subtle. Tell me, how do these Lords know which of their neighbors to become angry at, or who to attempt to kill? Do you listen to political gossip and jot down the names of Lords who hate each other? Do you plant false information in the streets for their network of contacts to pick up?”

Connor looked away, his sullen expression becoming scowl-like.

“Kid, listen to me,” I said, leaning forward the tiniest bit. “My experience is that nothing is ever as simple as we think it is.” I waved my arm at the cityscape that lay before us. “Everything out there has a built-in complexity that would astound us – no two things are similar enough that they can be considered exactly the same. No two people are alike, Connor. This notion you've got of 'Lords' and how they'll react to something being stolen from them doesn't take into account the hundreds of factors influencing their lives at any given moment, which means you're not accomplishing anything. Case in point – the current political situation caused everyone to believe I was the one stealing things, and you have no idea why.”

“Right,” he said snidely. “So I just shouldn't bother . . .”

“What you do is really up to you,” I said, shrugging. “It's your vendetta, after all. Sounds like the biggest problem is that you don't really understand your enemy. So far nobody's done what you've wanted, but, who knows? Maybe one or two of them will get angry enough to act like your suggesting, or continue chasing me around until one of them gets lucky and kills me. That'd be one Lord down, I suppose. Eventually they'll grow weary of things getting stolen, figure everything out, find some way to trap you . . . kill you. Fine end to this story, neh?”

More silence.

“And why should you care?” he asked accusingly.

I paused for a long, thoughtful while before answering.

“Just before all this started, there was a Lord . . . a young man who wanted revenge. His own father had died when he was just a boy, like yours. He was very smart, and skilled beyond belief. He bankrupted a very powerful Lord, and made plans to kill me as well. He practically took on the entire city of Harael . . . so great was his need for retribution.”

Connor watched me intently as I spoke.

“You see, he was so intent on avenging his father's death that he was blind to any other possibility,” I said, sighing softly. “He wouldn't allow himself to believe that his father's memory could be honored by something other than revenge. He died, leaving behind a son who barely got to know him, and a wife who loved him. I tried to show him. There are times when it feels like I'd give anything for the chance to go back and try again. Perhaps when I look at you, I see a little bit of him that I can save . . . or a little bit of me, for that matter. Maybe that's why I'm sitting here in the rain, talking to you. Maybe I don't like the idea of a talented young kid running off and getting himself killed for no good reason. Who knows?”

Minutes dragged on as the two of us sat there in the rain, neither saying a word. Low rumbles of thunder were making themselves heard in the distance, the dim flashes of the lightning that spawned them appearing briefly, muted by the dense grey clouds that flooded the sky.

“You sound like your dad,” he said, finally.

He must have caught the expression on my face, because his own expression became a touch afraid, and he practically stammered, “I didn't mean to read it! It just opened once I got it here safely, and I wanted a quick look. I just . . . I never saw writing like that before. It was like he was telling a story, speaking only to me.” He bowed his head slightly, guilt and shame battling for control over the expression on his face. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?” I asked, suppressing the surge of annoyance I felt. This kid hadn't really known what he was doing, and it would be senseless to get mad at him. “You're sorry because you read my dad's journal? Or because you stole it? Either way, something like that can be forgiven when-”

“It . . . it got a little wrecked,” he whispered.

I went cold inside, and gave him a look that caused him to shrink away from me a tad.

“What?” I asked, my voice doing its level best to sound calm.

“I was careful! I didn't think I'd hurt it, but then when I was reading it one of the pages just sort of fell out of it, all by itself! I caught it before it hit the floor! I even tried to fix it!”

Relief flooded through me, and I began to laugh.

“Oh gods, you had me worried,” I smiled. “Page twelve. That page has always been a problem . . . I've forgotten how many times I've had to tuck it back in place. Not your fault.”

Connor breathed out heavily with his lips pursed before fixing me with a grin. After a couple of moments he turned his relieved expression into one of thoughtful curiosity, and he looked at me. “So, what happens now?”

“Now? Well, I'll be taking my book back, of course. In addition, if it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate you handing over some of the other things you've still got, so that I can perhaps keep both of us from getting murdered.” I watched him nod glumly. “After that, well . . . I suppose most of what happens will be up to you. At the very least, you may want to find out more about this city and how it works before you try this sort of thing again. We could talk some more, maybe even do it someplace where there's less rain. There's several other possibilities you may not be aware of, some of which might even allow you to create a life for yourself here in town, something other than running around on rooftops at night trying to disrupt other people's lives. Although,” I frowned, “I've done that sort of thing often enough myself, so I guess you could do both, really.”

“I'm not giving up. No way,” he said, setting his jaw stubbornly. “He was my dad.”

“And you're doing this to honor his memory . . . believe me, I get that. I was the same way - working myself to distraction, trying to be the best thief I could, running my territory like nobody else. I did everything I could think of to make him proud. One day, I was asked which my father would have preferred - a son who worked his fingers to the bone trying to do everything his father would never get a chance to, or a son who was happy, and enjoying his life.” I adjusted how I was sitting slightly to lessen the pain in my legs, and I looked over at him. “What do you think your own father would want for you?”

I allowed minutes to go by with nothing but thoughtful silence passing between us.

“I think-” Connor began, his words hesitating and uncertain, “that maybe things might be a little more complicated than I thought.”

“And do you think your father wished to see you alone, wearing rags, running on rooftops while being chased by a bunch of angry fellows with swords?”

“No,” he smiled, “probably not.” He furrowed his brow and gave me a suspicious look. “Why are you telling me all this? I stole your book – you were chasing me around yourself. Why are you trying to help me now?”

“I know more about the situation, for one. Maybe it's because I know what it's like to be completely alone. To be perfectly honest, I have a feeling you could probably steal everything of value I own if you put your mind to it, so maybe I'm also looking to get on your good side,” I said, giving him a wry smirk. “You can do amazing things, Connor, stuff I've never seen before, and I don't think you know what kind of possibilities exist for someone in your rather unique position. In fact-”

“Yes?”

It was odd, but I suddenly felt conflicted about even mentioning the possibility of seeing the Prince. Here he was, an impressionable, talented kid. If the Prince got his hooks into him this early, who knew what his life would end up like. Handing him over might eliminate any chance this kid had for a normal life, or a Lordship of his own. He'd be nothing more than a political tool . . .

Like me. Maybe this was guilt I was feeling.

I suppressed it, pushing any misgivings aside, thinking instead of the information the Prince was holding over my head. This was the kid's decision to make, so I wasn't going to force him, but I would bring the possibility up. I had my own vendetta, after all.

Justice . . . not a vendetta. I had justice to pursue. That's what I meant.

“Well, one of the big reasons why I'm here right now is because of Prince Tenarreau. He pulled me clear across town this afternoon just so he could find out more about you, and he wishes a meeting. I can't say for certain, but I believe he wants to discuss the possibility of . . . a job, of sorts. Working for him. Now,” I held my palms up disarmingly, “it would mean a great deal to me if you went, but I'm not going to force you to come along with me. It'll be completely up to you. It would get you off the streets, of course, but there's other possibilities to consider as well. For instance-”

“Prince Tenarreau,” he said softly, his face slack with disbelief. “He . . . wants to see me?”

“Yes, but like I said, the decision is yours to make. I won't force you to-”

“I'll do it. When can we go?” he asked, pushing himself up onto his feet and looking down at me. “Can we go now?”

Well, that certainly didn't take much encouragement.

“Err,” I said, trying not to sound like I'd been taken completely off guard. “We may wish to sort of . . . clean up a little. You've been worked over pretty good there, and I'm not sure what Tenarreau's policy regarding bleeding on his floor is, but it's probably not a good idea. If you like I can take you tomorrow, after we've fixed you up and got you into some clean clothes . . maybe given you some time to think about it. I don't want you thinking you have to go and see him - there's lots to-”

“I'll go. Tomorrow. That sounds fine,” he said, nodding down at me. “The stuff I've still got isn't much, there's only about four or five things, including your book. They're up here in the attic, I can pack them up in a minute or so.” He gestured over his shoulder, practically bubbling with excitement.

I hate being off balance like that. I'd expected this kid to be more wary, maybe even a little scared. I mean, this was a meeting with the Prince for crying out loud!

“There's no need to rush, Connor. We've got time yet, a full day at least. Plus, I don't think my shins could take any sort of rushing around right at this moment.”

“Right. Sorry about that,” Connor grimaced. “It's a long way to your keep though, isn't it?”

“Yes, but if I know my Knight-Captain, he's either in a carriage waiting exactly where I'd left him, or he's pieced together where I've gone and is somewhere nearby. Possibly, he's outside this building as we speak. Actually,” I said, pursing my lips thoughtfully, “I guess hurrying wouldn't be a bad idea after all. No offense, but this could be the scariest place I've ever visited. If Cyrus is downstairs, he might be trying to figure out a way to get up here, and I'd hate for him to get killed attempting to rescue me.”

“Good thinking. Most of the security inside started getting out of control a while back, and there's hardly a room that's safe in there at all anymore,” he chuckled. Then, he gave me a curious look. “How did you manage to get up here, by the way?”

“Oh, I climbed up into the room with the second-story window, down the hallway to the stairwell. Then I managed to get back outside through the other window, scaled the wall the rest of the way.”

Connor's eyes went wide.

“The second story – the hallway? You came in through the east hallway and the stairwell? Are you insane?” he said, gaping at me. “I stopped going in there years ago . . . how are you even still alive!?”