Hal waited until the music had faded behind two turns of the passage.
"There's a man my aunt knows," he began. "From the place where they kept Benn."
Jon stopped. A servant came towards them with a basket of empty cups, wine dripping through the wicker onto her skirt. He waited for her to pass, then opened his chamber door.
"Inside. Tell me there."
Arthur brought the lamp. The room smelled of Jon's bath; Wylla's sewing lay folded upon a chest, black thread still wound round the needles. Hal stood on the clean rushes with mud falling from his hose. Robb pulled out a chair, but the boy looked to Jon before sitting. Martyn stayed by the door while Gawen shut it.
"Here." Jon poured him water. "Get your breath."
Hal drank too quickly and coughed into his wrist. One knee showed through his torn hose. There was blood in the dirt upon it, and he kept the leg tucked beneath the chair.
Jon rested a hand upon the table. "Is Rilla hurt?"
"No, my lord. She was putting the stools inside when he went past. She caught my sleeve and pulled me behind the shutter. He's the one who wouldn't let her fetch Benn." Hal pinched the upper rim of his ear. "There's a piece gone here. She knew him straight off."
"Did he see either of you?" Arthur asked.
"He was looking across the lane. I waited till he'd gone round the corner."
"Then followed him," Jon said.
Hal's fingers tightened round the cup. "She told me to leave him be. But then we wouldn't know where he'd gone."
He had followed the man downhill, beyond the streets where Rilla bought grain and vegetables. Hal knew some of those turnings from carrying dinners, though he made that admission to the cup. His aunt had forbidden him to go so far. Jon let him finish.
A dray had come between them; Hal had run round it and found the man again at a narrow crossing. Beyond the lime sheds, where the covered gutter came out, stood an old brewery.
"I can take you," Hal insisted. "I don't know what all the streets are called."
"And the man went inside?" Arthur asked.
"Round the back. There was a fellow out front with a cudgel. Two men had to speak to him before he'd let them in." Hal leaned forward, warming to the part he had done well. "Mine went to a little door in the gate. Looked both ways before he knocked. I got behind an empty stall."
Jon could picture him crouched there, a scraped knee in the muck, pleased with himself until the man turned round.
"I thought he'd seen me. But somebody opened up and he went in."
"Who opened it?"
"I couldn't see. There was a light. I stayed down till they shut it."
"No children?"
Hal shook his head. "I waited. Then I went home. My aunt wanted the Hand's man, but I said I'd come to you." His confidence faltered. "You asked about Benn this morning. You said you wanted to see him."
"You were right to come." Jon pushed the jug towards him. "Finish that. We'll need the way again."
"The Hand should hear this," Arthur said.
"He will." Jon lifted Wylla's sewing from the chest. "Hal has found a guarded door. I want to know what is behind it before the man disappears again."
"Then send that account to Arryn. He refused you leave to pursue this."
"I heard him." Jon pulled out his plain black coat. "Three houses closed, and the bastard walks about the city as he pleases. I am going to look."
Hal set down his cup. Robb had stopped moving the empty chair.
Arthur stayed beside the chest. "You have found someone the Hand is seeking. What do you think he will do when you tell him?"
Go after him, damn it. Arryn would act, and Jon could offer no honest reason why he would not. Yet he could already imagine lying in bed, waiting for someone to bring him word. He had spent the evening smiling over cups and armour. The wine was still sweet in his mouth.
He wanted his own men at that door. He wanted to decide when it opened.
"Gawen." Jon took parchment from the table. "Find a man to carry this to the Hand. Tell him we are going to Rilla's first."
He wrote what Hal had seen, named the shop and signed it. Arthur waited while the ink dried.
"Tell him I am with Lord Black," he added as Gawen took the sheet. "Someone at the shop will know where we have gone."
Jon watched the door close. "You need not come."
"Give me the mail." Arthur held out his hand. "And give me time to look before you put your men through that door."
Robb moved away from the chair. "I'm coming too."
"You haven't asked me," Martyn said.
"I'm asking now." Robb's colour rose, but he faced the captain. "You heard what Hal said. They may be keeping more children there."
"And you have heard nothing about how many men are in that house, or who else uses the street."
"Then I'll stay beside you while we find out." Robb glanced towards Jon. "I don't want to be left in a shop and told afterwards."
Jon could imagine the knife they had failed to notice, his brother caught in a doorway too narrow for anyone to reach him. Robb was watching his face now, waiting for the refusal.
"If we find children, they may need bringing out," Jon said. "You could help with that. But Martyn decides where you go."
The older man studied Robb for a moment. "If I tell you to leave, you leave. Even if your brother stays."
"I will."
"And no running after anyone."
Robb nodded. "I'll stay with you."
Martyn turned towards the door. Jon caught his brother's sleeve before he followed.
"Dark wool. Leave the silver here. Your ring as well."
Robb slipped it off and laid it beside Wylla's needles. The little fastening at his throat had caught a curl; he winced as he pulled the hair free. For an instant he looked exactly as he had when they were small and late for the yard.
Hal rose before they had reached the door. "Could I have a sword?"
He was looking at the shorter blade beside Jon's chest. His fingers opened against his thigh, measuring a grip.
"Have you used one?" Jon asked.
Hal's ears reddened. "Sticks. And my fists." He glanced at Arthur, then hurried on. "I could learn. I want to join your legion when you go back. I wouldn't just stand there if somebody came at you."
Jon had meant to send him for a coat. He looked at the torn knee, the eager face above it. "They will teach you before they put you in a fight."
"Then let me carry a spear. I can keep a man off with that."
Arthur moved between him and the chest. "Wash your face, Hal. Find a warmer coat. Tonight we need the way through those streets."
"I know the way." His voice rose. "I found him."
"Yes," Jon answered. "And you're coming to show us."
Hal looked from him to Arthur. He wanted to argue; Jon could see him working out whether another word would get him left here altogether. At last he went after Gawen, giving the sword one more look.
Alone with his uncle, Jon unfastened his feast clothes. The left sleeve resisted. Arthur eased it down his arm, then touched the shoulder lightly.
"Still that bad?"
"I can use it. I won't carry a shield."
He chose a padded jack and a short coat of mail, tightening his belt until it took part of the weight. Over both went the black wool, loose enough to hide the rings when he moved. Arthur checked the fastening beneath his arm while Jon drew his sword a hand's breadth and sheathed it again. His shining harness remained upon its stand.
Hugin hopped onto the chest and began pulling at a folded shirt. Jon held out his gloved wrist. The crow climbed upon it, claws gripping through the leather.
He could hold five now, and at a distance. That would be useful when there was daylight over the city. Tonight the windows showed him patches of lamplight with darkness between. A bird could get above a wall; it would not see through a closed door, or find a man in a lane where Jon could scarcely see his own boots.
"The small basket," he told Arthur.
His uncle fetched it. Munin shifted upon the bedpost as the lid closed over her companion, then settled again beneath her feathers.
***
The castle had not gone to bed. A guest lurched into a tray of cups and laughed while the servant caught what he could. Somewhere behind a closed door a woman laughed harder. At the head of the stairs a page slept upon a folded cloak, his fingers hooked through the handle of an empty jug. Jon stepped over his outstretched foot. By morning somebody would blame the boy for the missing wine.
Robb had exchanged silver and fur for charcoal wool over mail, with a plain dark cloak. Arthur and Martyn wore mail beneath their coats too. His uncle's grey-white cloak remained upstairs; this one was brown and hooded. Jon pulled his own hood over the white in his hair. He had been pleased enough with that forelock at the feast. Here it would make every description of him agree.
Gawen returned with Tomas, leaving another household man to watch the chambers. Six armed men, dark wool and plain cloaks, with Hal carrying Hugin's basket. Their badges had stayed upstairs.
The gate guard knew Arthur. He lifted his lamp, found Jon beside him and glanced towards the city.
"Horses, my lord?"
"We will walk."
As they passed, he bent towards his companion. Jon heard the beginning of his own name. So much for the hoods.
Below the castle, the prince's nameday had given the winesinks another night's trade. A fiddler sawed away beneath an awning. A woman in a yellow skirt was teaching a carter to dance; he trod on her foot, and she slapped his shoulder before dragging him round again. Robb looked back. His last partner had scarcely let her fingers rest in his hand.
Hal nearly collided with a man carrying spent rushes. The man began to curse, saw the swords beneath their dark coats and swallowed the rest. Sour water dribbled from the basket across Jon's boot.
"Mind where you put your feet," Hal told Robb.
Jon was already rubbing his sole against the paving. A wet stalk clung to the welt. He left it; there would be worse before they reached the shop.
They passed lamps burning outside a winesink, then descended shallow steps between jars set to catch the roof drips. On the Street of Flour men were unloading for the morning's baking. A sack caught on a cart's iron binding and split. The man beneath it swore at his companion to fetch a tub, holding the rent together while flour whitened his sleeves. Jon tasted the dust. By tomorrow somebody would be paying for what lay in the wheel ruts.
Below that street Hal took them into Flea Bottom. The paving broke up beneath their feet. Water had spread out of the gutter, leaving a slippery ridge along the wall; Hal picked his way over a flat stone and a timber offcut, Hugin complaining at every jolt. Robb followed too closely and splashed his hose.
The bread smell lasted another dozen paces. At the wall hung with scraps of hide, Robb brought his sleeve over his nose.
"Gods."
"Other side," Hal warned. "There's a pit behind there."
A wet hide slapped against stone. Someone coughed, spat and went back to scraping. Jon knew dung and wet cattle well enough; he had worked through days when even his supper seemed to smell of them. Here the urine, rotting scraps and stagnant water stayed caught between the houses. He could taste it at the back of his throat. The tanner would finish, go upstairs and sleep above his own pits.
A shutter opened overhead. Arthur caught Jon's arm and pulled him under the overhang just before a basin emptied into the lane. Onion skins and a pale knob of fat struck the gutter. Water splashed the lower edge of Jon's coat.
"There's washing under there, you filthy bitch!"
Across the way a man had put his head through a window.
"Then bring it in! Been hanging there three days."
She shook out the basin and shut him out. He kept shouting. Hal hurried them past the dripping sheet; a drunk walked straight through it and began abusing whoever had fouled his boots.
Jon gathered his coat clear. He had walked here with Aries by daylight, noticing flowers in a broken bowl and a man pleading for his rent. Tonight light showed through what he had taken for cracks in empty sheds. People lived in them. They slept above the passages and under stairs, with somebody's cooking smoke coming through the floor. A child cried overhead. A woman began singing; below her, a cobbler drove another peg into a shoe held between his knees.
Arthur stopped at a covered passage. "Can we get through here?"
"They've built a room across it." Hal kept walking. "Have to go round."
Beyond a ladder and broken tiles, light showed beneath a new door. Jon looked at the timber driven into the old wall to support it. He would have had his builders take that out before they put a roof above it. Someone here had put a bed underneath.
They heard the blow before they saw the men.
A fellow stumbled backwards from a doorway and lost his cap in the gutter. He caught the wall with one hand. The other went to his mouth, blood leaking between the fingers. Inside, smoke hung low over a crush of shoulders; somebody laughed and called for the door to be shut.
"I paid you on market day."
The man following him wore an open leather jerkin, sweat darkening the shirt beneath it. He seized the fellow's coat and drove him back against the plaster.
"For the stall, you deaf fuck. What about that boy running round with a tray?"
"He's my son. He only—"
"Aye, we know whose he is." A thinner man in a greasy red cap slipped beside them and began feeling beneath the victim's belt. "Saw him by the steps. Busy little lad."
Across the lane a woman had been collecting cups. She put the last one back on the bench and withdrew into her house.
The purse came free with a snap. Its owner grabbed for it and received another shove, hard enough to knock the back of his head against the wall.
"Hands down."
Red Cap tipped two pennies into his palm. He peered into the empty purse, then held it beneath his companion's nose.
"Doing well for himself."
"That's all I've got. Look if you don't believe me."
"Oh, we'll look." Red Cap wiped a penny on the fellow's coat. "Lad's got the rest, has he?"
"Leave him out. I'll find it. Just give me till market—"
Arthur stepped between the bench and the doorway. "Take your hands off him."
"Piss off. We're talking."
Red Cap had turned before he finished. He saw Arthur, then Jon's hand upon his sword, then Martyn behind him. The pennies disappeared into his fist.
"He owes," the broad man insisted. His arm still pinned the stallholder, but his elbow had begun to sink. "Ask him. He knows what it's for."
The stallholder tried to nod with the arm against his chest. Jon felt a sour little satisfaction when Arthur stepped closer and the broad man's eyes began searching the lane. Six swords had improved his hearing wonderfully.
"Let him go."
Nobody came to help. The broad man loosened his grip and let the fellow slide sideways, coughing blood onto his sleeve.
"And the pennies," Jon told the other.
Red Cap looked as though he might argue. Jon took his hand from the hilt and held it out.
The man pushed the money and torn purse into their owner's chest instead. "There. All settled."
They backed into the drinking room. Arthur remained before the door until it shut, then turned to the stallholder, who was fishing his cap from the gutter.
"What are they called?"
"Couldn't say, ser."
He knew. Of course he bloody knew. Jon could see him listening for the door behind Arthur, turning the sodden cap over without making any attempt to put it on.
Jon offered a cloth. "For your mouth."
"No need. We're settled." The man held up the pennies to prove it, then hurried along the wall.
Robb had turned towards the drinking room. Hal caught his sleeve.
"Don't. Please."
"They're just in there." Robb pulled free. "Arthur, we can't leave them—"
"Look at him," Jon interrupted.
The stallholder had stopped at the turning. He was watching Robb. When his brother took a step towards him, he fled.
"He's got to put his stall out tomorrow," Hal muttered. "They know where."
A cart of empty casks rattled between them and the doorway. Arthur caught Robb by the shoulder before a wheel struck his boot. Robb shook him off, then swallowed whatever he had meant to say.
"What right have they?"
"It's their street."
"Their street?"
Hal hitched up the basket. "You try taking pennies where another lot takes them. They'll beat you bloody. The knight's men have the lime sheds now. Up to the steps."
"What knight?" Arthur asked.
"Big dent across his breastplate. My aunt knows who comes round."
Behind the passing casks, laughter rose from the drinking room. Robb heard it too.
"And the watch lets them? Father would hang them."
Jon wanted to take the door off its hinges. There were enough men with him to do it, and nothing difficult about hauling those two into the lane. Then they could all go home and sleep.
"We can take them," he answered. "Who stands beside that man's stall tomorrow? He won't even tell us their names."
"So we leave him to it?"
Jon folded the unused cloth without answering. Behind the cart the doorway was clear again.
"We have Hal to think of," Arthur said. "Stay together. Don't follow anyone through a door, whatever he tells you. They used to draw men into the yards that way."
"You knew about this?"
Arthur glanced after the stallholder. "I knew where I could drink and where to keep a hand on my purse. I wore a white cloak here for years. When somebody spoke of trouble, I left it to the watch." He rubbed at a splash on his sleeve. "I never troubled to find out whether they came."
Hal led them on. Jon followed with the cloth still in his hand. He had imagined new drains here, sound houses, properly supplied markets. Those bastards would be waiting when the first stall opened, collecting their pennies from improvements he had paid for. He would need men whose orders mattered after sunset. And he would need to know when those men began collecting pennies themselves.
A girl stepped out from behind the stall with a basket hooked over her arm. She held up a dark end of bread.
"Still good, masters. I've half a loaf at home if you want more."
Her eyes settled upon Robb's boots and the good wool beneath his cloak. He reached for his purse. Martyn caught his wrist; the girl snatched back her bread.
"It ain't stolen."
"No one said it was." Jon took a loose copper from his pocket. "That piece."
She put it into his hand and hid the coin in her bodice before he could ask for change. He broke the bread. The crust hurt his thumb, but the inside was soft enough. Robb accepted half, watching a man with a wine jar who lounged against the opposite wall. Martyn released his wrist. His brother put the bread away and kept his purse beneath his coat.
Hal had stopped to answer a woman closing her shutter. No stew left at his aunt's, he told her, but there was broth. She shouted for a boy to fetch a pot. He came out barefoot, squeezed past Robb and vanished beneath a bench two men were carrying uphill.
At the next winesink they had to go in single file. Two gold cloaks were prising drunken carters apart while the owner pursued them with a broken stool. One carter would not let go of the other's hair. His captor kneed him behind the leg, and both men bellowed.
"Find his fucking knife," the watchman panted. "Before one of this lot picks it up."
"And who pays for this?" The woman thrust the stool at him.
His companion took her lamp and searched the gutter. A man at an upstairs window offered to come down and knock their heads together; his wife hauled him back by the shirt. The spectators laughed and pressed closer. The watchman rose with the knife, blood dried on his sleeve, and shoved a grinning onlooker out of his way.
Arthur drew Robb aside. The prisoners went past complaining about their hair and their knees, the owner still demanding money. Neither gold cloak spared Jon a glance. He waited until the woman had reclaimed her lamp, then followed Hal. He would have preferred the watch to be all of a piece. It would have made the argument he had just had with Robb much easier.
They climbed towards the edge of the quarter, where the houses drew apart and a breeze found the sweat beneath Jon's collar. Woodsmoke and onions reached him through the stink clinging to his cloak. Hal stopped at a corner.
"There. She's left the lamp."
Light showed beneath the cookshop door. The stools had been stacked upside down under its overhang; Hal squeezed past their legs, tapped twice and called his name. Rilla had the door open before he could knock again. She caught his arm and pulled him over the threshold.
"The castle, you said. Then not a word for half the night."
"I had to find him."
"You might have—" She saw Jon and swallowed the rest. "My lord."
"He was looking for me at the feast."
Her eyes went past him to the other men. "Come inside, then. All of you. Don't stand about where everyone can see."
There was scarcely room to obey her. Arthur moved a stool with his boot; Robb caught its edge before it struck the table. The hearth still gave off heat, and the wet wool began to steam. Jon tried to gather his cloak clear of Rilla's floor. A patch beside the hearth had been scrubbed almost white, though grease had worked black into the surrounding boards.
Rilla shut the door. She was as narrow as he remembered, flour dried into the creases of her wrists, her hair escaping its cloth. One cheek was red where she had rubbed it. Her gaze dropped to Jon's sword.
"Have you told the Hand?"
"A message is on its way."
"Good. I don't want that man coming back to ask what I saw. I was behind the shutter. He did not speak to me." She turned Hal towards the lamp and rubbed his cheek with her thumb.
"I washed."
"You missed half your face."
He pulled away, but she had already seen his knee. Jon expected another scolding. Instead she fetched a bowl from beside the pot.
"Hal told you about his ear?"
"The piece missing from the rim."
"A white scar where it healed. I'd know him without it." The bowl struck the table. "He stood two steps above me when I went for Benn. Said the boy owed money. I could fetch him when he'd earned it."
Her hand spread across the top of her chest.
"He held me here. Didn't even have to push. I had to stand there and listen to him." She looked at Hal. "That's the man you went following."
The boy found something to pick at upon his sleeve. Jon knew what the Hand's account called it: family debts. Rilla had gone to bring Benn home and been held off like a troublesome customer. He wanted the keeper in front of her now, with his own men holding the bastard's arms.
Arthur waited until she reached for the ladle. "The brewery Hal found. Have you been inside?"
"For spent grain, for my sister's pigs. Before the brewer died. His sons sold the gear; they still drink out front." She broke bread into the bowl and held it towards Robb. "For him, my lord, if you would."
Robb took it to Hal's stool. She watched the boy get his first mouthful down.
"There's a yard behind and a washhouse against the far wall. The ale went down in the cellars. I don't know what they've got there now."
"Hal says the knight's men collect in those lanes."
Rilla looked at her nephew over the pot. He bent to his bowl.
"Beyond the lime sheds. As far as the old well, last I heard. Three years ago he had none of it. Now the old collectors either pay him or they've gone. One used to buy his dinner here. Haven't seen him since the fighting by the well." She scraped broth from the bottom of the ladle. "I can't tell you where he's gone, either."
"You've seen this knight yourself?" Arthur asked.
"Once. Big man, nose broken sideways. Armour worth more than this shop. They say he fought for one of the companies across the sea."
"Who knighted him?"
"I don't know. His men call him ser." Rilla wiped a drop of broth from the table. "I saw him knock a man down outside a potshop. The man had an axe. He didn't get to use it. I call him ser as well."
Hal had stopped eating. "They came up here."
"A fortnight ago." She spoke to Jon now. "Said nobody would trouble him with his deliveries if I paid."
"But you paid them."
"For that week. Did you think they'd leave us alone for ever?" Hal's spoon sank into the bowl. Rilla drew breath through her nose. "That's why I told you to stay this side."
He looked up at her, then down again. She bent to push an ember into the hearth.
"The men by the lime sheds buy more. Hungry after their work. He comes home with the bowls empty." She stayed crouched, her face turned from them. Jon could smell the broth catching where it had spilled upon the iron. She had paid to send her boy out with his dinner basket.
"Has anyone gone to the watch?" Arthur asked.
Rilla stood. "People say his men are left alone. One was taken for stolen wool; two days later, there he was again. Maybe someone paid. Maybe he hadn't stolen it. I've a shop to open. I don't go asking."
Jon began to speak. She put down the ladle and faced him.
"Listen, my lord. I know the man with the torn ear. I know what he did to Benn. Don't go down there saying Rilla told you the knight keeps children. I never said that."
"I won't give them your name."
"They'll know somebody spoke." Her eyes went to Hal. "He shouldn't have followed him."
Hugin complained beside the hearth. She stared at the basket.
"You brought a bird?"
"He makes a fuss when I leave him."
Rilla moved it away from the crock of fat, then kept her hand upon the lid. "Your men will stay afterwards, won't they? You can go back to the castle. I've still got to open this door in the morning."
Jon turned to Gawen. "You stay with Rilla when we return. I'll send another man to relieve you." He looked back at her. "If the Hand sends someone before then, let him in. He'll be told why."
She waited for Arthur's nod before taking more bread to Hal. His leg had begun to shake beneath the stool. He clamped a hand over it when Jon glanced down.
"Let your aunt clean that before we go. Gawen will bring you back once you've shown us the place."
Hal's spoon struck the bowl. "You said I could come."
"To show us."
"I've been there. You haven't. What if he gets out another way?"
"And if he catches you?" Rilla took his chin, turning him towards her. "Look at me when I'm speaking."
He pulled free, his cheeks burning. Jon waited while he wiped his mouth.
"The Hand's men will need you to bring them down. Gawen takes you back."
"So I wait here while you all—"
Rilla knelt with the damp cloth. Hal shut his mouth and sat rigid while she cleaned the scrape. He would scarcely look at Jon when they rose to leave.
At the door she caught his coat and made him fasten it, though he was still chewing the last of her bread.
"With him." She looked at Gawen. "You come back with him."
Hal nodded. She held his coat a moment longer before letting them out and lowering the bar.
Hal led them past the turn where the woman had sent her boy for broth, then past the passage Arthur had thought to use. He kept ahead now, making them follow him down the steps hollowed by years of feet. Before long the cookshop's upper window had vanished behind roofs.
Heat lingered between the houses. At an open winesink two drunkards lay upon the floor, one snoring beside his own vomit. A third sprawled across the threshold. Hal stepped over his legs.
"Will they leave him there all night?" Robb asked.
"Till he wakes. Mind his hand."
Robb drew his boot back from the fingers trailing in the lane. Jon passed sideways, his shoulder close to the doorpost. He would smell this place in his clothes when he took them off.
Two whores stood beneath the next lamp, both young women, the nearer perhaps twenty. Their gowns hung askew, hems stiff with dirt; loose hair stuck to their cheeks. One held her bodice together where a lace had gone. The nearer rubbed her bare arms, then lifted her chin towards Martyn.
"Come upstairs, soldier. I've a warm bed."
Her smile appeared readily enough. Nothing stirred in her tired eyes. Martyn shook his head, and she was calling to the carter behind them before he had passed. Robb looked down and scraped his boot against a step. Jon wished she would pull something round her shoulders.
Beyond the lamp a woman gutted fish at a low table. Scales clung to her forearms; she flicked the offal into a bucket between her ankles and lifted it clear as Hal squeezed past. A trickle ran down the side and dripped beside his heel. He took the passage behind her stall without pausing.
Robb had to turn sideways round a timber shore. Above them a saw rasped, stopped, then rasped again.
"Hold the bloody end!"
Arthur put his hand against the post. It moved beneath his palm.
"One at a time."
Jon waited for Robb to clear it. There were people overhead, working by lamplight upon whatever they could afford to put in place of a sound wall. He kept his sore arm close and followed his brother.
The lane broadened by the lime sheds. Pale dust lay in the door joints. In the next yard hides soaked in pits, their sharp stink reaching him through drifting mist. Hal drew his coat skirt over the basket as they edged round a heap of scrapings. Hugin objected.
"Past the gutter," Hal told Robb, pointing. "Then round. Straight on takes you to the front."
The covered drain ended beneath a house carried upon two arches. Water poured into a channel choked with straw and broken crockery. Hal tested the plank across it, then went over. It bowed under Jon; he felt for firm footing on the far bank while Gawen caught the basket before Hal could lower it into the mud.
The nameday noise had dwindled behind them. A dog worried something beneath a cart. Two men played knucklebones in a doorway, and one drew his foot over the stakes as they passed. Above him a woman shook a blanket, let the dust settle, then began beating it against the sill.
At the crossing Hal touched Gawen's sleeve and pointed between two buildings. A lamp hung beside a broad doorway, a man with a cudgel beneath it. Another man approached and spoke to him. The guard moved just far enough to let him through.
"That's the front," Hal whispered. "There's a passage down the side to the back lane. I went round the other way."
Arthur drew him away from the crossing before he could point again. They followed a blank wall and turned behind a line of shuttered stalls. Hal stopped at the last, where an awning had sagged over an empty bench. From its side Jon could see the back lane running towards a closed double gate. A smaller door had been cut into one leaf.
"There. He knocked on the little door. Then he looked along the lane." Hal bent behind the stall's end, showing where he had hidden. "I stayed down until I heard it shut."
The brewery rose beyond the gate, its upper windows dark. An elder bush grew from the broken crown of its chimney. Light escaped beneath the gate and along the washhouse roof at the yard's far side, but nothing inside could be seen from where they stood.
Jon turned to Gawen. "Take him back now. Tell Rilla where we are. If the Hand's people have reached her, bring them."
Hal stood his ground. "I could watch this end. Shout if anybody comes."
"You are going back." Jon took the basket. "Your aunt is waiting."
The boy looked past him to Robb, who had been given a sword and was allowed to stay. His mouth tightened. He followed Gawen without another word, turning once at the crossing to see whether Jon had changed his mind. Arthur waited until they were out of sight before sending Tomas to the front and Martyn with Robb farther down the rear lane.
Jon set the basket upon the bench.
Arthur glanced along the lane. "Here?"
"I only need the roof. Keep people away from this side."
Jon sat under the awning. The bench was sticky through his glove; he wiped his palm on its dry edge and tucked his cloak beneath him. Arthur lowered a flap of canvas across the stall's open side, then sat where he could screen him from the crossing. The others were out of sight. A drunk sleeping off his cups could scarcely have chosen a less comfortable place.
Arthur raised the basket lid. Hugin climbed onto Jon's wrist and hopped to the stall's edge, white feathers showing as his wings opened.
Jon settled his hands on his knees. For a moment he still felt the bench pressing into his legs and the mail pulling at his sore shoulder. Then his weight diminished, his feet gripped wood, and he had to stop himself spreading his wings before he was clear of the canvas.
He climbed through the torn awning, swerved under a washing line and beat upwards towards the broken chimney.
Lamplight deceived him. A roof seemed within reach, then dropped away into blackness as he passed the window lighting it. He landed among the elder's roots and clung while loose mortar pattered down the chimney. He waited until he could distinguish the wall below.
Below, two lamps showed the yard: one over the brewery's side door, another on a cask beside a cart. The driver hauled a rope tight over bundles in the bed. The horse flicked an ear, its shadow shifting across the washhouse.
The double gate was shut. Jon edged along the chimney for a view of its far corner, but a sloping lean-to covered the place where it met the passage. More mortar gave beneath his claws. He stopped before the whole damned bush followed him into the yard.
The washhouse door opened. A child came out carrying a bucket with both hands.
Jon leaned forward. The boy stopped at a word from inside. He could not have been more than eight; he wore no shoes, and the bucket dragged against his knee as he brought it to the cart. The driver drank from it and handed it back. For a moment another small face showed in the doorway.
Then a man appeared behind the second child. He pushed the boy out of sight and came into the yard, lifting his head to answer the driver.
A piece was missing from the upper rim of his ear.
Jon held the bird still. Below him the man put his hand on the first boy's neck and steered him back into the washhouse. The child went quickly, trying not to spill the water. The door closed behind them.
A shutter banged next door. A woman leaned out to complain about the horse, loudly enough for Jon to hear every word. The driver's answer died beneath the roof. He tilted the bird's head, trying to catch it, but a handcart rattled through the lane and drowned him out.
A slight man in a brown coat came out of the brewery. He kept one hand inside his coat until he reached the lamp, then brought out a purse. The keeper joined him. One coin changed hands. A second appeared between the visitor's fingers, remained there while the keeper talked, then went back into the purse.
The keeper reached after it.
Jon had spent half the evening discussing prices. He knew that little pause before a buyer put his money away. What were they disputing here? The cart, the journey, the children? The boy had barely been able to lift the bucket. Below him, the two men went on bargaining.
He wanted down there badly enough to lean forward before remembering what body he wore. His claws loosened. He lifted from the chimney and flew back towards Arthur's hand, pale beneath the awning.
Hugin skidded upon the stall. Jon came back to the drag of mail and a cramped leg; his breath caught, and Arthur waited until he could speak.
"Two children. There may be more in the washhouse. I saw the man with the torn ear."
Arthur leaned close as Jon told him of the cart and the purse.
"What did they say?"
"The roof hid it. A woman was shouting, and there was a cart—" Jon stopped. "I couldn't hear."
"Then I'll try the front. Stay here."
Jon wanted to be through the gate already. Arthur had not seen the man's hand on that small neck, but arguing would keep him sitting here longer. He put Hugin into the basket and pushed it beneath the bench.
Arthur went round to the taproom. Tomas watched the crossing; Robb and Martyn returned to the stall. A man emptied a bucket into the gutter and sent them shuffling back from the spreading water. Overhead the woman who had been beating her blanket called her child to bed.
The brewery gate stayed shut. Jon rubbed at his sword belt. Robb watched him do it, then looked back at the gate without speaking.
Arthur returned smelling of sour ale, wiping his fingers upon his cloak. "A stair behind the cask racks. I heard something below. There's a door from the taproom into the yard."
Two men came out of the front while he was speaking. One was rubbing his sleeve with a dirty cloth.
"Little bastard threw up all down me."
His companion laughed. "You saw him retching. What did you pick him up for?"
Robb stepped out from beneath the awning. Martyn caught the back of his coat and pulled him into the shadow. The nearer man glanced their way, squinting; then his companion tugged him uphill. Jon stood with his teeth pressed together until their laughter faded. Robb's nostrils were white at the edges. He did not try to shake Martyn off this time.
Gawen returned by the lane they had taken from the lime sheds. There was mud up one side of his cloak, where he had slipped at the plank crossing. He caught his breath before speaking.
"Hal is with his aunt. No one from the Hand yet. She'll wait, and the boy will bring them this way."
Arthur drew him into the shelter of the stall and told him what they had heard. Jon was watching the gate when a bar scraped against the other side. One leaf swung inward, then the other. The driver came out to push a stone beneath it and went back to the horse.
Jon moved along the wall with Gawen. Martyn brought Robb behind them while Arthur and Tomas went to the passage beside the brewery. The woman in the opposite house was gathering washing from a line; at the sight of the armed strangers she went indoors, leaving the last shirt hanging.
Through the gateway Jon could see the cart. The horse blocked much of the yard, its ears twitching at a cry behind the washhouse door. Above the rear lane, a shutter opened a finger's width. An eye showed in the gap, then the pale oval of a face.
Small fingers curled round the washhouse's window bars. Jon looked back as they withdrew.
"How long?" the man in brown asked.
"He's bringing them."
The keeper lifted the bar across the washhouse door. Through the opening Jon saw a wooden cage. Children stood behind its slats, their faces turned towards the light. The keeper went inside and unlocked its gate. They drew back from his reaching hand.
The first child came out sideways, dragging a foot. Another followed with an arm about his waist. A cloth had been bound round the smaller boy's head and slipped over one eye.
"Up," the keeper said.
The older boy looked at the cart. When the man reached for them, the younger cried out before his hand touched him.
Jon beckoned Tomas back from the passage. "Fetch Arthur."
Martyn drew Robb close enough to hear. Jon pointed towards a recessed doorway on the wider stretch of lane beyond the stall.
"Take them there when we bring them out. Keep them together, away from the gate."
"And then?" Martyn asked.
Jon looked along the dark lane. Rilla's shop was a long way beyond the crossing, uphill all the way. "We'll need a cart for the ones who can't walk. Hold them there until we have the yard."
Martyn nodded. Inside, the keeper lifted the smaller boy by the arms and put him into the cart. His cry broke against the walls. Robb moved forward a pace, then stopped beside his captain.
Arthur came back through the passage with Tomas. "One at the front door, three inside," he said quietly. Then he looked into the yard, where the older boy was climbing after the younger.
"Can you hold the gate?"
"Yes."
"Gawen, stay with him. Martyn, the children. Tomas comes with me." Arthur looked once more at Jon. "Give us time to reach the front door. If they try to take the cart out before then, stop it."
Jon watched them go, then listened until their steps were lost in the noise from the taproom. The boy in the cart was whispering to the other one. A cup struck a table inside; someone called for more ale.
The keeper went back for the others. Three children came out together, pressed so closely that one stumbled over another's foot. The driver waved them to the cart and hauled them aboard. A girl followed from the washhouse, older than the others, perhaps ten. Her cropped hair stuck up at the back where she had slept upon it. She carried a little bundle against her chest.
"Leave that," the keeper said.
She held it tighter. He took it from her and shook it open. A shoe fell out, followed by a piece of comb and a ragged strip of blue cloth. The girl dropped to her knees to gather them.
The man in brown said something Jon could not hear. The keeper swore, caught the girl beneath one arm and hauled her towards the cart, dragging her feet through her spilled belongings.
Arthur would scarcely have reached the front door. Jon made himself wait. The girl twisted towards her belongings, and the keeper shook her hard enough to snap her head back.
"Leave it, you little bitch."
Jon stepped into the gateway.
"Put her down."
The keeper stopped. He let the girl's feet touch the ground, keeping a fist in her coat.
"Private yard. Piss off."
"Let her go."
The man looked him over. Whatever alarm the interruption had caused faded as he found a smooth cheek beneath the hood. His lip lifted over a gap in his teeth.
"Come round the front if you want a drink. Your father's men can fish you out of a whorehouse another night."
The man in brown eased away from the cart, palms open, as though none of this concerned him. Jon kept him in the corner of his eye.
"You kept a boy called Benn. Two of his fingers won't close." He took another step. "Take your hand off her."
The fist tightened instead. The girl made a sound through her teeth, and Jon's attention went to the white knuckles bunched in her coat.
"Swords!" a man shouted at the front of the brewery.
"Stay where you are," Arthur said.
Something heavy struck the floor.
The man at the horse snatched the tether from its ring. He slapped the animal's flank and hauled upon the rein, turning it towards the open gate.
Gawen pulled Jon aside as the horse came forward. The cart wheel struck the gatepost with a crack. One of the children screamed. A shutter slammed above the lane; another flew open.
"What's going on down there?"
"Hold him!" Jon shouted to Gawen.
Gawen caught the rein near the bit. The horse threw its head, dragging him a step. Jon drew his sword and went for the driver, who had dropped the tether and was reaching beneath his coat.
The knife came out low.
Jon turned his hips out of its line and struck the man's forearm with the flat of his blade. The driver cried out but kept the knife. He drove forward again, trying to get inside the longer weapon. Jon gave ground until his back struck the gatepost, then stepped round it. The man's shoulder hit the wood. Jon brought the pommel down against his mouth.
The knife fell between them.
Jon kicked it beneath the cart and caught the man by the coat. He hauled him away from the wheel and drove him face first against the wall. The effort pulled at his left shoulder. Pain spread hot and sudden down his arm.
"Stay there."
The driver spat blood against the stone. Jon set the point beneath his ear and felt him become still.
Gawen had the horse stopped. The cart stood crooked across the gate, one wheel wedged against the post. Beyond it Martyn had drawn his sword. Robb was pulling the smaller child from the cart into his arms.
The keeper shoved the girl towards Jon.
She struck his knees. He caught her with his left arm without thinking, and his shoulder failed beneath the weight. He dropped to one knee to keep from dropping her. The driver twisted free.
For a moment there were too many things moving: the girl clutching his coat, the driver running towards the side door, Gawen trying to hold the horse and draw his sword together. Jon could hear fighting inside the brewery, boots scraping upon boards, a man choking off a cry.
The keeper came at him with a short club.
Jon pushed the girl behind the gatepost and raised his sword. The club struck across it, driving the edge back towards his face. He let the force carry his blade down, rolled his wrist and cut across the keeper's wrist as the man tried to lift the club again.
The club dropped. Jon rose into him, driving a shoulder beneath his chin, and they struck the side of the cart together. The children inside scrambled away.
The keeper clawed at Jon's hood. Cloth tore at the neck. His free hand found Jon's sword arm and held it against the cart rail.
He was stronger than Jon.
Jon stamped upon his instep and drove a knee hard into his thigh. The grip loosened enough to turn the blade. Martyn caught the horse's rein from Gawen. Before Jon could bring his blade up, Gawen hit the keeper from the side and pulled him away.
They went down beside the wheel. Gawen got his knee between the man's shoulders and dragged both arms behind his back. The keeper began to howl.
The cart had stopped moving. Robb was setting the smaller boy upon his feet in the recessed doorway beyond the stall. The older child had climbed down after him and was trying to pull him away. The other three scrambled down from the cart.
"Wait," Robb said. "Wait, you'll fall."
The girl pressed herself against the gatepost beside Jon. She had both hands over her ears.
He lowered his sword. "Go to him. The boy with the red hair."
She did not move.
Jon crouched, keeping the bloody blade low and away from her. He opened his empty hand upon his knee.
"What is your name?"
She looked past him towards the little house.
"Is someone still in there?"
A shout came from the far end of the yard. The driver had reached the brewery's side door. He stopped so abruptly that his boots slid in the dirt.
Arthur came through it.
The driver raised both hands.
"Down," Arthur said.
The man went to his knees. Arthur held his sword low, its point steady, and glanced across the yard to Jon. Behind him Tomas dragged another man through the doorway by the back of his coat. A cut above Tomas's eyebrow had painted one side of his face red.
"Are you hurt?" Arthur asked.
Jon shook his head.
"Say it."
"My shoulder. Nothing new."
Arthur's eyes went to the sword in his hand, then the girl beside him. He nodded towards the lane.
"Get them clear."
Tomas took his prisoner back inside to join the others. Arthur made the driver lie face down, then cut a length from the cart's rope and bound his wrists before bringing him against the wall.
The man in brown had gone.
Jon reached the gate and searched the lane. A woman leaned from the opposite window, hair hanging loose over one shoulder.
"Which way? The man in brown."
She withdrew. A hand caught the shutter from inside and pulled it nearly closed. Through the gap beneath it they could still watch him.
Hugin's basket stood beneath the stall. Jon could fetch him, put him up again, search the roofs—but he had just felt how little the bird could make of these unlit lanes. He stood with blood drying on his sword, listening for footsteps he could not pick out.
"Jon."
Robb had seated the bandaged boy on his folded cloak. The older child clung to his sleeve and talked over him, breathless.
"There are more below," Robb managed. "He says they've left more below."
Jon went back into the yard. The keeper saw him coming and tried to roll beneath Gawen's knee. Sweat had cut pale tracks through the dirt beside his nose.
"Who was paying you?"
The man looked at the gate. "For the cart. That's what he paid. Ask him."
"He's gone."
"I don't know where. I don't—ah, leave that, ser, you're breaking it."
Gawen had drawn the injured wrist higher when he tried to turn. Jon caught a handful of greasy hair and brought the keeper's face round.
"Where were you sending the children?"
"He tells me when they're wanted. I keep 'em till they're fetched. I don't take 'em myself."
"His name."
"I don't know it." Spit shone on the man's lower lip. "Please. There's money inside. Have it. Take the bloody cart if you want."
The man was trying to find a price for Jon, watching his face as though he might have named the wrong sum. Jon held his hair tighter.
"I feed 'em," the keeper whispered. "Ask the little bitch. She's had her supper."
His gaze moved past Jon to the girl. "Tell him."
She said nothing. The keeper tried to turn towards her, found he could not and began to beg again. She watched Jon's hand in his hair.
He let go.
"Gawen, take her outside. Arthur, hold him."
Arthur took Gawen's place, bound the man's wrists with cart rope and dragged him against the wall beside the driver. Martyn could see both prisoners from the gate.
The girl backed away from Gawen. "Leave me my things."
She had hardly spoken through the fight. Now the words came hoarse and stubborn, and Jon saw that she meant to stay until somebody listened.
"Of course."
He crouched beside the washhouse door for the shoe, comb and blue cloth. Dirt stuck to the cloth's damp edge. Its corners held two little sewn bundles—coins, perhaps, or something she valued more. He did not open them. She snatched the lot against her chest and looked at the keeper again.
"He cannot follow you."
Her gaze moved to Arthur and the pale blade lying along his forearm. Only then did she let Gawen lead her out.
Inside the brewery, a man lay across the threshold between the front room and the yard. Jon stepped round him. There was a broken stool beneath his hand and a dark wetness spreading under his throat.
Tomas stood over two prisoners beside an overturned table. A fourth man sat upon the floor clutching his leg, his face grey beneath a stubble of beard. None of them was looking at the dead man.
"He came at Ser Arthur with an axe." Tomas nodded at the body, then pointed his sword towards the wounded doorkeeper. "And that one caught me coming in."
One of the standing men glared at Jon. "The knight rules here, boy. He'll hear of this. He'll have you dragged back here—"
Tomas punched him in the mouth. His head struck the wall, and he slid down it, choking on blood. The other standing man flinched away.
Jon glanced at Tomas's bleeding brow. "Have that bound. Where are the stairs?"
Tomas pointed behind the empty cask racks. Jon crossed to the stair and called down.
"Come up. Leave any weapons where they are."
"There's only us." A boy's voice, trying to sound older.
Jon went down.
The smell met him on the stair: wet straw, old ale and human waste shut below ground. He breathed through his mouth and tasted it anyway. Two lamps smoked in wall niches beneath a ceiling Arthur would have had to stoop under. Empty barrel racks lined the stone; near the stair, drips from above had blackened a heap of straw. A little coat lay folded on a rack, sleeves tucked beneath it.
At the back stood two cages, thick wooden slats bound with iron. Neither gave its boy room to stand. One pot sat in a corner, its rim crusted; straw had been kicked over a spill beside it. Wet straw clung to Jon's sole when he lifted his foot.
The nearer boy scrambled from his sword and struck his head against the slats. The other stayed where he was, swollen lip covering his teeth. He watched through a gap worn pale by hands. Jon made himself lower the sword.
Jon sheathed the blade. "Where are the keys?"
"He's got them."
"Arthur!" Jon's shout struck the low ceiling. Both boys flinched. He lowered his voice with an effort. "The keys. On the keeper."
While he waited, he tried the nearer door. It rattled in its frame. Someone had shaved a notch from one slat, not deep enough to weaken it. A child's work, with something blunt. He pressed his thumb into it and felt his face grow hot.
Arthur came down with the keys. He stopped beside Jon. His eyes moved from one boy to the other, then to the pot; his lips parted, but nothing came out.
"Give them here."
The first key would not turn. Jon tried it again, harder, until Arthur touched his wrist. He snatched his hand clear, chose another and opened the lock. The boy stayed against the back. It took Jon a moment to understand that he was blocking the way out.
He stood aside as Arthur opened the second cage. "Both of you. Come out."
The boys crawled clear and got to their feet with their hands against the slats. Neither straightened at once.
The coat had been folded carefully, though everything around it was filthy. It was a habit he had taught his own children, too long ago for their faces to come readily when he wanted them. He could remember a school jumper draped over a chair more clearly than the sound of his son's voice.
For a moment he could not make himself look away.
"Yours?"
The boy with the swollen lip nodded. Jon held the coat open. When his hand passed near the child's face, the boy ducked and covered his head.
Jon stopped. The boy had backed against the bars. There was nowhere farther for him to go.
He lowered the coat. "I'm sorry. Here. Take it."
The boy struggled into it himself. Arthur went ahead to clear the stair; Jon followed with the boys, keeping his hand near the weaker child's elbow without touching him. Halfway up, the boy stopped.
"He'll be angry."
"He can't put you back. We're taking you out of here."
"To fight?" The boy looked down at the open cages. "They bring us back after."
"No." Jon waited until the boy looked at him. "To a bed, and someone to see to your hurts. Come on. I'm staying with you."
The boy took the next step. His companion waited at the top, gripping the stair rail with both hands.
Outside, the yard was filling with voices.
***
A woman stood at the gate with a lamp, three neighbours close behind. Above them a shutter had been propped with a stick. A man in his nightshirt craned out of the window and announced that there was blood on the stones. His wife pulled a child back from the sill.
Jon brought the two boys into the lane. The six from the washhouse huddled beside Gawen, keeping their bare feet clear of the gutter. The girl had her bundle under her chin. Somebody upstairs asked where they had come from; a woman covered her mouth, then turned to speak behind her hand.
Eight. Jon counted again. Robb had moved away from Martyn.
"Any more below?" the captain asked.
"Those were the last. Has anyone searched the little house?"
"I called through," Robb answered from beside the cart. "No one answered."
"Look inside."
Martyn went with him. The woman with the lamp edged nearer, trying to see past Gawen into the yard.
"Is somebody dead?"
"Stay back."
"I live here."
"Then stay at your door."
"There's a bloody great horse across it."
Jon raised a hand before Gawen could answer. "Let her stand."
She lifted the lamp. During the struggle his hood had fallen back, and her attention fixed upon the white in his hair.
"You're the lord."
"These children are coming with us. Give them room."
She looked towards the keeper. "They're his, aren't they?"
"No."
"That's what he told my husband."
Jon turned to her. She drew the lamp against her breast, guarding it as though he had reached for it.
"Not all. Some were his sister's, he said."
The girl with the bundle had stopped watching the keeper. Her eyes moved between Jon and the woman. Above them another shutter opened, and someone called down to ask what was being said.
"The Hand's men will want to speak with you," Jon said.
The woman retreated behind her door. He could still see the lamp and the hand holding it. Arryn had warned him of frightened witnesses, and here he was, obligingly making one before his men had even arrived.
"You needn't tell me anything else tonight. Leave the lamp there, if you will. It helps."
She considered him through the gap, then set it on the sill.
Robb called from the yard. Jon went back through the gate. Arthur was testing the keeper's bonds; beside him the driver turned his head and spat blood against the wall. Tomas remained with the men inside.
Martyn waited at the washhouse door. The cage filled the back half of the room, its gate open and a lock hanging from the hasp. Blankets lay along the slats. There was barely room for the seven children they had kept here to lie down.
Robb was on his knees inside it, beside a sleeping shelf of planks laid upon loose bricks. He looked up at Jon. His face had changed; the redness was gone, and his mouth sagged open before he pressed it shut.
Beneath the shelf, behind a heap of sacking, a small boy gripped one of the planks. Only his foot and a narrow white face showed in the lamplight.
"He won't come," Robb said.
Jon examined the shelf. The bricks beneath the far end were loose; lifting it carelessly would drop them against the boy's legs. He could have men support the planks and draw the child out, but the boy was already shaking at the sight of them.
Robb set the lamp down. "I tried to move the sacks. He thinks I'm pulling him out."
The boy began to cry without making a sound. His mouth opened and closed, but his grip did not loosen.
Jon crouched beside Robb.
"We have the others outside."
The child shook his head.
"You can come with them."
Another shake, faster.
From the yard the keeper shouted, "You can't take them! They were put in my care!" The boy beneath the shelf pressed himself farther into the sacking.
Jon went outside and drove the keeper's head back against the wall with his hand beneath his jaw.
"You put them in cages."
The keeper tried to speak. Jon pressed harder. The man's mouth worked, his bound hands scraping against the wall behind him. Jon watched the colour climb his face. He could feel the throat struggling beneath his palm.
"Jon."
Arthur's hand closed upon his forearm. For a moment Jon resented him for it. Then he let go. The keeper folded forward, coughing, and a woman watching from above cried out. Jon could not tell whether she was frightened for the man or pleased. He went back into the washhouse without looking up.
Back inside, Robb had taken off his sword belt. It lay within reach beside Martyn's boot. He sat upon the dirt with his legs drawn up. Gawen had brought the girl back to the gate; she stood there holding her bundle, unwilling to come closer.
"He knows this," she said. She unwound the strip of blue cloth, hesitated, then held it out.
Gawen carried it to Robb.
"May I give it to him?" Robb asked.
She nodded. "Tell him it's Moll's."
"Is he afraid we'll make him fight?"
Another nod.
"He's slow," she said.
"Is he hurt?"
She shook her head. "He doesn't understand when they tell him things. Then they hit him."
Robb looked beneath the shelf again. He held the cloth where the boy could see it.
"Moll gave me this. She's waiting outside."
The fingers upon the plank shifted.
"I'll stay here," Robb said. "You can come to me."
Jon could hear someone calling for the watch in the lane. There would be questions about the dead man, about whose men had drawn steel, about why Lord Black was standing in a brewery with blood upon his sleeves. The man in brown was getting farther away with every breath.
Robb waited.
He had imagined Robb beside him when he took a crown: sword in hand, northern men behind him, ready to fight whoever called Jon a pretender. His brother was sitting on a cage floor, offering a scrap of cloth to a child. Jon stood in the doorway with his palm still tingling from the keeper's throat. He could scarcely bear to look at either of them.
"I'll see to the lane," Jon said.
Robb nodded without looking up.
Two gold cloaks shouldered through the neighbours. The spearman shoved a woman against her door; she began to protest, saw his face and shut her mouth. His companion stopped at the blood beside the wheel. The gold cloth on his shoulder was dark where rain and sweat had soaked it.
"Who gave you leave to break this place up?"
"Tell them!" the keeper croaked. "Killed Harrold, they have. They're taking the children."
The swordsman put a hand to his hilt. "Back from the gate. All of you."
Jon stayed where he was. "Children from the fighting houses are locked up here. These men were loading them into a cart."
"I heard you. Take off the sword."
He scarcely looked at the children. His eyes went over Gawen, stopped on Arthur's blade and found Tomas in the brewery doorway. The spearman sidled towards the wall for room to thrust. Jon closed his hand upon his hilt. Gawen set one foot behind the other, the way he did in the yard when he expected a blow.
"I am Lord Black of Dragonstone. My sword stays with me."
The name checked them. The swordsman's eyes returned to Jon's face, then went beyond him as Martyn emerged from the washhouse. Another armed man. Jon saw him count.
From an upper window somebody shouted, "There's little ones hurt!" The spearman looked up sharply. The face vanished; the shutter stayed open.
"Then we'd best get them back inside while we find out—"
"They are not going back in there."
"My lord, you can't come down here killing men and carry off whoever you please." The swordsman drew an inch of steel. "Where are your orders?"
"Word has gone to the Hand," Arthur answered. "His men are coming."
The spearman's gaze flicked towards his companion. Neither moved. Around them the neighbours had fallen quiet; Jon could hear Moll drawing her bundle tight against her coat.
"That'll be them," a woman called from above. "Coming with Rilla's boy."
Hal pushed through the crowd with three men behind him. At sight of the falcon and moon on the foremost man's surcoat, the swordsman let his blade slide home. He stepped aside and waved a neighbour back with an open hand.
"Make room there. Give the children some air."
Jon stared at him. The man avoided his eyes.
"Lord Black." The knight had greying hair cut close and river mud upon his boots. "Lord Arryn sent me to Rilla's. His runner found me at the river gate, questioning a carter. You had already gone."
"They were loading the children into a cart."
"We came as soon as we heard the trouble, ser," the spearman put in. "Keeping them here safe till our captain comes."
The knight surveyed the yard. "I am Ser Androw, of the Hand's household. Which man has the torn ear?"
Jon pointed. Androw's eyes narrowed. He gave the watchman a curt order to fetch his captain, then sent his own men to cover the doors. "I am to take charge here, Lord Black, and bring you back to the Hand."
The gold cloak bowed. A moment earlier he had been finding space for his spear. Jon watched him retreat through the gate, wondering which part of this night's work had angered him so much.
Hal came to him before following the others.
"There's a man at my aunt's door," he said. "One of the Hand's men. He said he'd stay."
"Good."
"Was it like Benn's place?"
"They keep the children here between fights." Jon looked towards the open gate. "One of the boys says they bring them back afterwards."
Hal swallowed. He went to the girl with the bundle and crouched at a distance from her, speaking softly. She looked up when he mentioned his aunt's shop.
In the yard, Martyn came out carrying a rolled blanket. Robb followed with the last child against his chest.
The boy had one arm locked round Robb's neck and the other hand tangled in his hair. Robb's face was red with effort. He had left the sword belt for Martyn to bring.
"He came out," he said.
Jon put a hand beneath the child's dangling feet to keep them clear of the wheel. They were bare and cold.
"Will he let me take him?"
The small arm tightened at once.
Robb winced. "I don't think so."
"Then keep him."
The child pressed his face into Robb's shoulder. Jon looked at his brother above the cropped head, and Robb gave him a brief, exhausted smile.
Jon returned it.
***
The watch captain came at last. They had backed the horse into the yard and wrapped the children in whatever could be found. One spoke hung loose from the broken wheel; Martyn would not put a child in that cart, and Jon could hardly quarrel with him. The dead man lay under a blanket. Tomas had put his axe upon the table, clear of the prisoners.
Androw heard Arthur first, then Jon. The knife, the club, the man in brown. Jon kept looking towards Robb, who was shifting the child from one aching arm to the other. Androw waited whenever Jon stopped speaking. He meant to have the whole account.
"I saw his face. I would know him again. The keeper admitted taking his money; he said it was for the cart."
"I heard him," Gawen added.
Androw looked towards the wall. "Orrel. We have been looking for him."
"You knew who he was?" Jon turned. The keeper had lowered his chin to his chest. A name, at last, and the bastard pretended he had not heard it.
"One of the children named him and described him. We did not know he was here."
Androw went to the captain, who was hearing the woman with the lamp repeat her husband's story. Jon watched them. He would have liked to trust the gold cloaks enough to leave; he kept seeing the spearman making room to thrust.
"Nine children," he reminded Androw. "They need beds and a maester."
"Septa Meriane has the others. I'll send ahead." The knight glanced at the boy clinging to Robb. "Can he walk?"
"I'll carry him." Robb shifted the boy higher.
Androw left one of his own men with the captain and ordered the prisoners brought separately. Jon was glad of the man staying. He followed the knight's lamp out beneath the crowded windows, where a woman leaned across her husband to count the children.
Hal walked beside Moll. Her answers were too low for Jon to hear, but at least she was answering. The bandaged boy rode on Tomas's back. The others kept so close to the armed men that Jon shortened his stride for fear of treading on a bare foot.
Gawen had found two little coats beneath the washhouse bedding. Jon carried them over his sore arm and Hugin's basket in his other hand. The wool smelled of the place. He kept rubbing his thumb over an empty buttonhole.
Androw took a broader street round the drain. Farther, damn it, but they could hardly carry every child over that plank. They passed barrels stacked outside a yard and ovens banked for the night. A baker came to his door scraping dough from his forearms. He looked at them, then silently shifted a basket from their path.
Robb stopped against a wall. When Martyn approached, the boy tightened his grip upon Robb's neck.
"I'm not taking him." Martyn slid an arm beneath the blanket, supporting the child's weight. "Let your hands rest."
Robb nodded, breathing through his mouth. His forearms trembled. Jon put down the basket and stripped off his right glove; blood had dried along its stitching.
"We can carry him between us."
"He'll think we're passing him away again." Robb bent his head over the boy. "Give me a moment."
Jon waited. Moll tucked the blanket round the dangling feet while Hal held her bundle. When they moved again, Martyn stayed close, taking what weight he could.
Light showed beside a small, dark sept. A woman in grey wool came out of the adjoining house, pulling a shawl over her cap. Her eyes went straight to the children.
"The two being carried, in here. How many?"
"Nine, Septa Meriane. I've sent for a maester."
"Good. The rest through that door."
Another woman brought a candle. Meriane took Moll's bundle, and the girl snatched at it. The septa stopped with her elbow against the latch.
"Yours?"
Moll nodded fiercely.
"Keep it, then. I meant to put it beside your bed."
Jon wiped his boots upon the threshold. They still left marks. Inside smelled of soap and damp wool; straw mattresses lined the walls, close enough that one sleeper's heel had strayed onto his neighbour's bed. Two children sat up to stare. Jon put Hugin's basket beneath a bench, out of their way.
Meriane drew a curtain and had the bandaged boy laid near the light. She took the coats off Jon's arm, sent Hal for a basin, and turned back to Jon.
"Will you put some water on, my lord?"
He had barely nodded before she was busy with the boy again. In the kitchen a sleepy girl showed him the clean water. He held the kettle while she filled it, then fumbled with the hearth hook. His left hand shook. He swore under his breath, changed hands and pushed the embers together.
Robb was on a mattress when Jon returned. The boy had released his hair but still held a fistful of his coat. Moll knelt beside them, murmuring; Jon caught the name Will.
"She says he'll let go when he sleeps." Robb glanced down at the trapped cloth, then up at Jon.
"We have time."
Meriane turned the bandaged boy's head towards the light. Her mouth tightened, and she called for clean linen. Jon was watching her hands when Androw came to him.
"The Hand asked for us back."
"When they're settled."
"I can leave a man here."
"So can I." Jon faced him. "I am staying until I know they have what they need."
Arthur stood behind the knight without offering to settle it. Jon was grateful; another patient explanation of what he owed Arryn would have been more than he could stomach just then. Androw set down his lamp and took off his gloves.
"Then I will send him word."
Let Arryn hear it. Jon could not go back yet, knowing he would spend every moment of the walk wondering whether the maester had come.
Meriane came to him after examining the cellar boys. Her sleeve was damp where a child had held it, and a stubborn grey eyebrow stood out from her narrow, lined face. She rubbed at it with the back of her wrist.
"Your steward pays for the beds, Lord Black. We shall need more. Bedding, shoes, bread for another nine."
Jon reached for his purse. Here was something he could give her without making her wait for a message to be carried across the city.
"Buy what you need in the morning. Send the rest of the account to him."
She counted the silver before putting it away.
"Do you know where their families are?"
"Not yet. We have ships going north, and to the ports along the coast."
"That may help when we have names we can trust. Some were told to give a different one at every house." She glanced towards the beds. "Some won't tell us about a brother or sister. They think we'll fetch them too."
Moll lowered her face to her bundle. Jon had been about to ask her. He closed his mouth, angry that he had not thought of it.
"Will they speak to the Hand's man?"
"Some. He's been here. We let them rest between his visits."
Meriane thanked him and went back to the bandaged boy. Gawen touched Jon's elbow before he could follow.
"Hal wants you, my lord."
A boy waited beside the kitchen door, in a shirt too large at the neck. He held an earthen cup with both hands; two fingers of the left stuck out stiffly against its side.
"Benn, my lord." Hal stood aside.
Jon crouched. The boy studied his hair, then his face.
"You sent the pennies."
"For the maester. How is your hand?"
Benn lifted it. The two fingers would not bend. "Hurts when it's cold. I can use it." He looked past Jon. "Did you get Orrel?"
"Yes. The Hand's men have him."
"Is he coming here?"
"No." The boy still watched the passage. "To the castle. He won't be brought here, Benn."
Benn swallowed before drinking. Hal asked about his letters. At first the boy scarcely took his eyes off the passage; then Hal admitted he could not remember one Benn knew. Benn put down his cup and went for his writing board, bare feet slapping the stairs. Jon stayed crouched until the sound had gone.
When he rose, Will was asleep. Moll had freed Robb's coat one finger at a time. Robb stood carefully, rubbing his neck, his hair sticking up where the child had gripped it.
The maester arrived with his bag, still fastening his chain. Meriane took him to the bandaged boy; Androw closed the door. Jon waited to see the bag opened and the maester kneel beside the mattress before following his brother out.
Robb leaned against the passage wall and tried to roll back his sleeve. His fingers would not obey. He tugged until the seam creaked.
"'In my care.' Did you hear him? As though we'd come to rob his house."
"The two in the cellar were in cages."
His hands stopped. "Down there too?"
Jon nodded. Robb's face reddened as he looked at the closed door.
"I wanted to go out there and put my fist through his teeth. Will kept pushing himself under the bed, and I couldn't—" He broke off. Water splashed into a basin on the other side of the door.
"I put him against the wall." Jon could still feel the keeper's jaw. "Arthur stopped me."
Robb turned to him. For a moment Jon expected another question, or an angry word about Orrel. His brother said nothing. Jon rubbed his palm against his coat.
"The boy thought I was going to hurt him," Robb went on. "I only moved the sacks. I wanted to give him room." He worked a thumb over the nail marks on his wrist. "He wouldn't even let go when we got here."
Jon had seen. He could not offer his brother a single useful word.
"I thought we'd find some men to fight. Have a story of my own for once." Robb gave an unhappy little laugh. "Gods."
Arthur was speaking with Androw near the outer door. Martyn waited with Robb's sword belt over his arm. Robb watched them, then pushed himself off the wall.
"Moll ought to stay beside him. He listens to her."
"Tell Meriane before we leave."
"I could come after the lists." Robb hesitated. "Would that frighten him? Seeing us again?"
"Ask her. I don't know."
Robb went back to the doorway. He listened to the septa's answer with his head bent, nodding once. When he returned, he was trying to smooth his hair.
"She says I can come, but I mustn't wake him. Moll can stay beside him too."
Martyn held out the belt. Robb struggled with the buckle until Jon reached to help. His shoulder caught. They stood a moment, both frowning at the damned thing, before Robb managed it himself.
***
At Rilla's, Hal went under his aunt's arm without protesting. She waited until he was inside before catching Jon's sleeve.
"Your man stays?" She looked towards Gawen.
"Until his relief comes."
Rilla released his sleeve and went in after Hal.
Gawen remained beside the Hand's guard until he could be relieved. Tomas took Hugin's basket and promised to arrange fresh men at the castle.
Meriane had bound Tomas's brow. Jon's shoulder had stiffened during the walk; when he tried to lift his arm to settle his cloak, he could not bring it above his chest without pain. Later that day he and Robb were meant to enter the melee. Robb was walking with his hands open at his sides, too tired even to rub the cramped fingers. Jon would need someone to examine the shoulder before he put on armour again.
They passed the house where the men had held the stallholder against the wall. Its door was shut. A woman sat upon the step combing out her hair, a little heap of broken teeth from the comb beside her foot. She drew her knees in to let them pass.
Farther up, someone had scattered ashes over the worst of the gutter. Fresh footprints crossed them already. The girl who had offered bread was asleep beneath the shuttered stall, her empty basket held against her stomach.
A bell sounded above the roofs. Grey light was finding the upper walls, leaving the lanes dark below. Crows gathered on the Street of Flour where the sack had split. The carter swore and flapped his arms; they rose just far enough to let him pass.
Arthur fell into step beside Jon as the others drew ahead.
"He was within reach." Jon scraped dried blood from the seam of his glove with his thumb. "The man with the purse. By now he could be emptying another house."
"I wanted him too." Arthur looked as tired as Jon had ever seen him. "Androw has the description?"
"And Orrel's admission. Gawen heard it."
What he had seen through Hugin must remain between them. He had seen the fugitive's face from the gate as well; he could describe that honestly, though he wanted to do far more. Put the crow up when the light came. Find where that bastard had gone.
People would return to the brewery by daylight. Buyers, perhaps; parents asking for children. He would watch it and hear what Androw learned. He had rescued nine, and a man whose name he did not know could already be moving the rest. Ahead, Robb stumbled against Martyn's arm. Jon pushed his glove back on and quickened his pace.
At the castle gate the same guard raised his lamp. His gaze lingered upon Tomas's bandage, then moved to the falcon upon Androw's breast. This time he asked no question about horses.
Within the castle, servants were sweeping yesterday's rushes from beneath the gallery. Jon's coat smelled of the brewery. There was mud in the creases of his gloves and a drying smear on his sleeve that he could no longer name. A ribbon from the feast lay caught in a drain. He stepped over it, too tired to remember whose colours it was.
Androw led them to the Hand's chambers. A page opened the outer door before he knocked; light fell across their boots, and the boy stepped back to save his hose.
Robb stopped beside Jon.
"I'll tell him I asked," he said quietly.
"I know."
Arryn stood at the table inside, dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the feast. His collar was unfastened. A cup sat untouched beside the lamp, and Jon's message lay open beneath his hand.
His eyes went first to Robb, then to the blood upon Jon's sleeve. He looked at Arthur last.
"The children?"
"Nine," Jon said. "With Septa Meriane. A maester was attending them when we left."
Arryn closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he drew the letter towards him.
"Good. Now tell me why you took armed men into the city after I expressly forbade it."
Jon stepped into the room.