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they?’
    ‘Mostly,’ replied Grub.
    ‘Maybe if we’re quiet.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    Sinn fidgeted. ‘Stones?’
    ‘Hit it and they’ll wake up, and then out they’ll come, in a black swarm.’
    ‘I’ve always hated wasps. For as long as I can remember—I must’ve been bad stung once, do you think?’
    ‘Who hasn’t?’ Grub said, shrugging.
    ‘I could just set it on fire.’
    ‘No sorcery, Sinn, not here.’
    ‘I thought you said the house was dead.’
    ‘It is . . . I think. But maybe the yard isn’t.’
    She glanced round. ‘People been digging here.’
    ‘You ever gonna talk to anybody but me?’ Grub asked.
    ‘No.’ The single word was absolute, immutable, and it did not invite any further discussion on that issue.
    He eyed her. ‘You know what’s happening tonight, don’t you?’
    ‘I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere near that.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Maybe, if we hide inside the house, it won’t reach us.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Grub allowed. ‘But I doubt the Deck works like that.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Well, I don’t. Only, Uncle Keneb told me Fiddler talked about me last time, and I was jumping into the sea around then—I wasn’t in the cabin. But he just knew, he knew exactly what I was doing.’
    ‘What
were
you doing?’
    ‘I went to find the Nachts.’
    ‘But how did you know they were there? You don’t make sense, Grub. And anyway, what use are they? They just follow Withal around.’
    ‘When they’re not hunting little lizards,’ Grub said, smiling.
    But Sinn was not in the mood for easy distraction. ‘I look at you and I think . . .
Mockra
.’
    To that, Grub made no reply. Instead, he crept forward on the path’s uneven pavestones, eyes fixed on the wasp nest.
    Sinn followed. ‘You’re what’s coming, aren’t you?’
    He snorted. ‘And you aren’t?’
    They reached the threshold, halted. ‘Do you think it’s locked?’
    ‘Shh.’
    Grub crouched down and edged forward beneath the huge nest. Once past it, he slowly straightened and reached for the door’s latch. It came off in his hand, raising a puff of sawdust. Grub glanced back at Sinn, but said nothing. Facing the door again, he gave it a light push.
    It crumpled like wafer where his fingers had prodded. More sawdust sifted down.
    Grub raised both hands and pushed against the door.
    The barrier disintegrated in clouds and frail splinters. Metal clunked on the floor just beyond, and a moment later the clouds were swept inward as if on an indrawn breath.
    Grub stepped over the heap of rotted wood and vanished in the gloom beyond.
    After a moment, Sinn followed, ducking low and moving quickly.
     
    From the gloom beneath a nearly dead tree in the grounds of the Azath, Lieutenant Pores grunted. He supposed he should have called them back, but to do so would have revealed his presence, and though he could never be sure when it came to Captain Kindly’s orders—designed and delivered as they were with deliberate vagueness, like flimsy fronds over a spike-filled pit—he suspected that he was supposed to maintain some sort of subterfuge when following the two runts around.
    Besides, he’d made some discoveries. Sinn wasn’t mute at all. Just a stubborn little cow. What a shock. And she had a crush on Grub, how sweet—sweet as tree sap, twigs and trapped insects included—why, it could make a grown man melt, and then run down a drain into that depthless sea of sentimentality where children played, and, occasionally, got away with murder.
    Well, the difference was Pores had a very good memory. He recalled in great detail his own childhood, and could he have reached back, into his own past, he’d give that snot-faced jerk a solid clout to the head. And then look down at that stunned, hurt expression, and say something like ‘Get used to it, little Pores. One day you’ll meet a man named Kindly . . .’
    Anyway, the mice had scurried into the Azath House. Maybe something would take care of