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Maces.
    Beyond the wall the sounds of a full blown riot breaking out in the Fair could be heard. By the time the Maces restored order, Lhasha planned to be far, far away. She gave the ladder a firm snap, sending a rippling wave along its length. The grappling hooks on top came loose and fell at her feet with a loud clank.
    “Thanks for rescuing me back there,” she said as she rolled up the ladder. “They would have dragged me off to the Jailgates if you hadn’t stepped in.”
    “I didn’t do it for you,” he replied gruffly. “I don’t like the Maces.”
    Quite the understatement, Lhasha thought. “Whatever the reason, I appreciate it.”
    The man initially made no response. After several seconds of awkward silence he conceded in a grudging tone.
    “I guess I should thank you for getting me out of that mob before the Maces found me. How did you know the ladder would be there, half-elf?”
    Lhasha was momentarily taken aback. Few people noticed her mixed heritage. True, she was small and slight, but her features strongly favored her human father. People usually noticed her outlandish clothing, not the subtle characteristics—like the faint violet hue in
    her eyes, or the slight point of her ears—that betrayed her mixed heritage.
    “My name is Lhasha, not Half-elf, and I put the ladder there long time ago. I used to work the Fair, in my younger days. I always wanted to have an emergency way out, in case something like this happened.”
    “You are a pickpocket!” he exclaimed, his good hand dropping to his belt to check on his purse. In a cold voice he added, “So you were trying to rob me.”
    Lhasha’s back was to the wall they had just climbed. The man was between her and the alley’s narrow exit to the main street. She noticed his sword was missing—he must have lost it in the fight. He was at least twice her size, and from his expressionless tone she had .no idea what he was thinking. She chose her words very carefully.
    “Actually, I wasn’t trying to pick your pocket. I was trying to give your money back. It fell from your belt.”
    He grunted in reply, obviously not buying her story.
    She decided to come clean. “All right, I admit I did steal your purse. But when I saw you only had one hand, I tried to give it back.”
    “I don’t need your pity,” he spat at her. “You should have kept it—I’m not a beggar.”
    “Could have fooled me,” Lhasha shot back. “Not even enough coppers to buy a decent meal!” Instantly, she regretted her words.
    Rage twisted the man’s features into a grimace of primal fury, and he raised his good hand in a clenched fist above his head. But as quickly as the rage came, it vanished, replaced on his countenance by defeat and resignation. His hand dropped back to his side, his shoulders slumped.
    “So this is what I’ve become, Corin the Pitiful.” he muttered.
    He turned from her and began to shuffle away down the alley. Lhasha caught up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. She knew what it was like to be beaten down by life. She knew the value of a compassionate hand to help you up.
    “Corin… wait. I have a friend, a priest. Maybe he can help you.”
    Corin turned back and smiled at her, but it was a bitter, hopeless smile. “No priest can help me. I spent everything I owned on clerics of the Morninglord, and all I have to show for it is an empty purse—as you know all too well.”
    “Fve seen you with a sword,” Lhasha said, trying to encourage him. “You don’t have to live a life of poverty. You’re good. Good enough to still be working as a mercenary. “
    Corin gave a caustic laugh. “You think I don’t know that? But would you hire me with this?” He raised his stump for effect. “I’m not a stray dog, half-elf. You don’t need to look after me.”
    Despite his rebuke, Lhasha still wanted to help him— she owed him for saving her from the Maces. But sometimes a compassionate helping hand was less effective than a swift boot in the