At first bell the city drum walked its knuckles down the stones. Levy in the south lanes. Bring coin or be counted. The wise chose a different street. The desperate had nowhere else.
Estaron and Sera took the ground early. Good corners. Clear lines. A place to stand that was also a way to leave. The boy showed as promised. Strap tight. Wooden sword up. Jaw set like he had borrowed it from someone older.
The stranger came and went like a shadow that knew what it wanted. He checked the boy's grip, tightened the strap with a tug that bit, gave one small nod when the guard held. Then he moved into narrow space between brick and smoke. Estaron followed the sound of his boots for a breath and then lost him. Only a man who knew fighting and knew how to be present and gone in the same minute.
A scuffle broke at a bucket line. Two thugs shoved a vendor for water. The boy stepped toward them without thinking and put himself between the trouble and the woman. It was sloppy. It was better than yesterday. Chin down. Blade across his chest. Feet under him. Sera slid through bodies and pressed two fingers into the right place and turned the shove into a muttered apology. Estaron took a wrist and turned it without pain and made a hand let go as if the collar had burned the skin.
The men slunk off with their pride licking its wounds. The vendor whispered thanks and stared at the boy as if the wooden blade had done the work. The boy stared at it as well. He wanted to believe the shape of it was enough.
"Learn where to stand so you do not get cut," Sera told him. Her voice was not unkind. "Then learn when to move."
"I am trying," he said.
"Good," she said. "Try again."
By midday the talk had a name. A big Exalted was leading the sweep. Taller than most. Mail stretched over a chest that spoke of too much meat. The dead lanes would empty for him. Doors would learn how to become walls and stay that way. The people who could vanish would. The people who could not would fold themselves into shadows and hope.
Estaron rolled his shoulders under the cloak. "We keep the boy safe," he said.
Sera nodded once. "We keep the boy safe."
They took their places when the drum sounded again, closer now, like a fist knocking against the ribs of the city. From the mouth of the dead lanes a stream of people moved the wrong way. Heads down. Hands bare. Eyes slid away from any uniform. A few stragglers slipped into holes meant for bolt and rat. Most simply stopped being where trouble wanted to be.
The boy did not move. He stood where the stranger had set his feet that morning. The strap bit his forearm. The wooden sword was steady. His heart did not know how to be quiet. He chose not to run.
Sera swore very softly.
Estaron did not. He stepped as near as he could without being seen and let the street tighten around him. He set his hand near his hilt and made a quiet promise that only he heard.
Whatever came around the corner next, it would not take the boy without cost.