---
The lane shut like a book. Behind John, the market noise fell away. In front of him, two old walls faced each other across a strip of stone so clean it had forgotten mud. The last bruise of sunset slid off the roofs and left the air the color of tin. A single lamp far back threw a long V of light that did not reach them.
Fizz rose to shoulder height, ears tipped back, whiskers bright. "Three," he breathed. "Left, right, middle."
John did not turn his head. "I see them."
Brann stepped into the center of the lane like a man arriving at a meeting he had set himself. The neat coat. The neat hat. The neat calm.
Edda peeled out of the shadow on the left, braid tight, mouth smiling the way knives smile. Rusk came lumbering from the right, rope–tied trousers already complaining, jaw gone hard to hide the red in his ears.
"Evening," Brann said. Voice low. Voice sure.
"Evening," John said, the word landing flat, neither welcome nor fear.
