Mirelle was waiting outside the garrison.
She stood in the shadow of a bread stall, pale and tense. When Roen emerged, she
grabbed his arm and pulled him into a nearby alley, away from prying eyes.
"What happened?" Her voice was low, urgent. "Did they hurt you?"
"No. They took the package." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration burning in his chest.
"And the remaining coins. I'm back to nothing."
"At least you're alive."
"Small comfort." He leaned against the alley wall, thinking hard. The commander had been
surprised when he mentioned the Pale Mountains. She'd recognized something. And she'd
taken the package personally, not handed it to a subordinate.
That meant it was important. Important enough to kill for.
"What do we do now?" Mirelle asked.
Roen was quiet for a long moment. Then he pushed off the wall, his jaw set.
"We get it back."
She stared at him. "You're insane."
"Probably." He started walking. "But that package is my payment. And something tells me
the woman who gave it to me won't accept 'the Imperials took it' as an excuse. I deliver it, or
I end up with worse than a knife at my throat."
"How? It's in a garrison full of soldiers, and the commander is a Gold Weaver."
"Then we don't fight through them." Roen's mind was racing now, plans forming and
discarding themselves in rapid succession. "We find another way. Come on. I know
someone who might help."
The someone was a man named Torven.
Torven was a former thief who'd lost a hand to an Imperial sentence years ago. Now he ran
a fence operation out of a butcher's shop in the tannery district, dealing in stolen goods and
information with equal facility. Roen had done jobs for him before—small things, nothing
major. But Torven knew things. He knew how to get into places that were supposed to be
impenetrable.
The butcher's shop was a squat building with faded red paint and a sign depicting a pig in a
butcher's apron. Roen pushed through the door, Mirelle close behind.
Inside, the smell of blood and sawdust mingled with something sweeter—spiced meat,
probably, from the legitimate business that served as Torven's front. A heavyset man behind
the counter looked up, his eyes narrowing.
"Shop's closed."
"Need to see Torven," Roen said. "Tell him it's Roen. Tell him I need to talk about the
garrison."
The man's eyes flicked to Mirelle, then back to Roen. He jerked his head toward a door at
the back of the shop.
Torven was sitting in a cluttered back room, counting coins at a scarred wooden table. He
was a heavyset man with a gray beard and a leather cap covering the stump where his right
hand had been. He looked up as Roen entered, his expression calculating.
"Kid. Heard you had trouble this morning."
"You hear everything."
"That's why I'm still breathing." Torven leaned back in his chair. "What do you want?"
"The garrison." Roen got straight to the point. "I need to get something out. A package."
Torven laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "You want to break into the Imperial garrison. For a
package."
"I need it back."
"Need doesn't make it possible." Torven shook his head. "That building has guards on every
entrance. Weavers on patrol. The commander herself is a combat veteran with twenty years
of experience. You'd be ash before you got within fifty feet."
"What about the tunnels?"
Torven's eyes narrowed. "What tunnels?"
"The ones under the tannery district." Roen had learned about them years ago from a drunk
who'd helped build them. "The ones the tanners used to dump chemicals before the Empire
banned it. They connect to half the buildings in this part of town. Does the garrison
connect?"
Torven was silent for a long moment. His eyes moved from Roen to Mirelle and back again,
calculating.
"You didn't hear this from me," he said finally. "But yes. There's a junction. Comes up in the
garrison's storage cellar."
"Show me."
"Problem is, it's sealed. Iron grate, locked from the inside. Has been for years." Torven
spread his remaining hand. "Nobody gets through."
"Can you get me in?"
"No." Torven stood, moving to a back room. "But I know someone who can. Wait here."
He disappeared through a doorway. Roen and Mirelle exchanged glances. The smell of the
butcher's shop was making Roen's stomach turn—or maybe it was just the weight of what he
was about to do.
Breaking into the Imperial garrison. Stealing from a Gold Weaver. What was he thinking?
He was thinking about fifty crowns. He was thinking about Sable's smile, and the way she'd
said "I'll find you." He was thinking about survival.
Torven returned with a girl.
She was perhaps fourteen, with dark skin and white hair that marked her as a northerner.
She wore the rough clothes of a laborer, but there was something sharp in her eyes.
Something watchful.
"This is Kisara," Torven said. "She can open the grate."
"How?" Roen asked.
The girl raised her hands, and Roen saw it: the faint shimmer of threads. Gray threads, solid
and heavy.
"Iron Weaver," Kisara said. Her voice was soft but certain. "I can shape metal. The grate
won't be a problem."
A Weaver. Roen shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. Thread-blind as he was,
Weavers were a different world. Richer, stronger, better. They didn't usually mix with street
rats.
"What's the price?" he asked.
"Twenty crowns," Kisara said. "Half now, half after."
He didn't have twenty crowns. He had nothing but a knife and the clothes on his back. But...
"I'll owe you," he said. "I'm good for it."
Kisara studied him. Her white hair caught the dim light, making her look almost ghostly.
"Fine," she said finally. "You can owe me. But if you die in there, I'm collecting from your
corpse."
"Fair enough."