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Buy yourself a mug, too.”
    Shed collected the coins, deposited them in his box. Its contents
were pitiful. He wasn’t making expenses. He was doomed. His
debt to Krage could miraculously be discharged and still he’d
be doomed.
    He deposited a mug before Raven, seated himself on a stool. He
felt old beyond his years, and infinitely weary.
    “Tell me.”
    “The old man. Who was he? Who were his people?”
    Shed
shrugged. “Just somebody who wanted to get out of the cold.
The Buskin is full of them.”
    “So it is.”
    Shed shuddered at Raven’s tone. “Are you proposing
what I think?”
    “What’s that?”
    “I don’t know. What use is a corpse? I mean, even
the Custodians only stuff them in the Catacombs.”
    “Suppose there was a buyer?”
    “I’ve been supposing that.”
    “And?”
    “What would I have to do?” His voice barely carried
across the table. He could imagine no more disgusting crime. Even
the least of the city’s dead were honored above the living. A
corpse was a holy object. The Enclosure was Juniper’s
epicenter.
    “Very little. Late tonight, have the body at the back
door. You could do that?”
    Shed nodded weakly.
    “Good. Finish your wine.”
    Shed downed it in a gulp. He drew another mug, polished his
stoneware industriously. It was a bad dream. It would go away.
    The corpse seemed almost weightless, but Shed had difficulty
negotiating the stairs. He had drunk too much. He eased through the
shadowed common, stepping with exaggerated care. The people
clustered near the fireplace looked demonic in the sullen red of
the last coals.
    One of the old man’s feet toppled a pot as Shed entered
the kitchen. He froze. Nothing happened. His heartbeat gradually
slowed. He kept reminding himself that he was doing this so his
mother would not have to freeze on winter streets.
    He thumped the door with his knee. It swung inward immediately.
A shadow hissed, “Hurry up,” and seized the old
man’s feet, helped Shed heave it into a wagon.
    Panting, terrified, Shed croaked, “What now?”
    “Go to bed. You get your share in the morning.”
    Shed’s relieved sigh nearly became tears. “How
much?” he gasped.
    “A third.”
    “Only a third?”
    “I’m taking all the risk. You’re safe
already.”
    “All right. How much would it be?”
    “The market varies.” Raven turned away. Shed closed
the door, leaned against it with closed eyes. What had he done?
    He built up the fire and went to bed, lay listening to his
mother’s snores. Had she guessed? Maybe she wouldn’t.
The Custodians often waited for night. He would tell her she had
slept through everything.
    He could not sleep. Who knew about the death? If word got out,
people would wonder. They would begin to suspect the
unsuspectable.
    What if Raven got caught? Would the Inquisitors make him talk?
Bullock could make a stone sing.
    He watched his mother all next morning. She did not speak except
in monosyllables, but that was her custom.
    Raven appeared shortly after noon. “Tea and a bowl of
porridge, Shed.” When he paid, he did not shove copper across
the counter.
    Shed’s eye widened. Ten silver leva lay before him. Ten?
For one dead old man? That was a third? And Raven had done this
before? He must be rich. Shed’s palms grew moist. His mind
howled after potential crimes.
    “Shed?” Raven said softly when he delivered the tea
and porridge. “Don’t even think about it.”
    “What?”
    “Don’t think what you’re thinking. You would
end up in the wagon.”
    Darling scowled at them from the kitchen doorway. For a moment
Raven seemed embarrassed.
    Shed slunk into the hostel where Krage held court. From the
outside the place was as crummy as the Lily. Timidly, he looked for
Count, tried to ignore Asa. Count would not torment him for fun.
“Count, I need to see Krage.”
    Count opened big brown
cow eyes. “Why?”
    “I brought him some money. On account.”
    Count heaved
himself upright. “All right. Wait here.”
    He