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blood still on it probably won’t show until the shirt dries,” he said. “Here, put it on.” He thrust the shirt at Haft.
    But Haft realized what Spinner was doing and had already put on the other shirt. “No,” he said. “You got that one wet, you wear it.”
    Spinner glared at him.
    Haft spread his cloak out on the floor of the shed, made a few folds and closed some snaps in it. The Frangerian cloaks were versatile: not only were they double-reversible so they could be worn with any of four colors on the outside, they also had snaps and concealed straps so they could be turned into packs. Finished transforming his cloak into a pack, tan side out, Haft put his own shirt into it along with everything he was carrying that he didn’t want to be seen wearing. He put a Jokapcul hat on his head. “I’m ready,” he said. “What’s keeping you?”
    Spinner muttered something under his breath but made up his own pack and was soon dressed as Haft was, though a bit soggier.
    They looked at each other. The sleeves of their new shirts were too short, and there was no point in trying to put on the pants of the much shorter Jokapcul soldiers, so they were only partly dressed in enemy uniforms. Still, at a distance, in dim light, and certainly to the townsmen of New Bally, they could pass as Jokapcul soldiers—Spinner more easily because his dusky complexion somewhat resembled the saffron skin of the invaders. But if a Jokapcul saw them close up, or if they had to speak, or if a Jokapcul even noticed the weapons they were carrying, there was no mistaking them for anything but what they were—impostors. “You know,” Spinner said, “if they catch us they’ll hang us as spies.”
    Haft shrugged. “If they catch us, we’re dead regardless.”
    Spinner nodded. He would never surrender, would not allow himself to be captured by the Jokapcul, and he knew Haft would also not allow himself to be taken alive. The Jokapcul were notorious for their ill treatment of prisoners. No, they’d rather die fighting and take as many of the enemy with them as they could.
    There was one chore left. Careful not to get any blood on themselves, they lowered the corpses through the hole in the shed floor so that anybody checking the shed wouldn’t raise the alarm. A quick glance inside probably wouldn’t reveal the fresh gore that spattered it.
    Spinner put his eye to an opening between the boards of the shed wall. Most of the soldiers were prowling the ships’ decks. The few on the docks were looking down into the water or watching those searching the ships. No one was looking toward them. “Let’s go,” he said. He opened the door and Haft stepped boldly through it.
    Without seeming to hurry, in seconds they had rounded the shed and entered the alleyway behind it. They headed back in roughly the same direction from which they’d come. This time they didn’t skulk through the shadows and sprint across the thoroughfares. Instead they marched in step, side by side down the middle of the streets and byways. They didn’t test their luck too much, though. When they saw a uniformed soldier, which was far more often than they wanted, they turned and marched in a direction that took them away from him, or into a street or alley where the enemy soldiers couldn’t see them. Frequently they moved in a direction that would have led them back to the docks if they continued, but never for long.
    “There seems to be more Jokapcul in the city now than there were before dawn,” Spinner said after they’d avoided getting close to enough soldiers to form a regiment.
    Haft nodded. “They’ve taken over the city like flies on a corpse.”
    Once, they stopped where they could see a small square without being seen themselves. It was filled with sailors packed hip to haunch. Chains linked the captives. Makeshift gallows, just posts with top arms, dotted the square. Bodies dangled from the top arms, two or three to each. More of the hanging bodies were