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wife and kids. Shed used him out of pity for the wife.
    He headed downstairs. Raven followed, still arguing with Darling. Momentarily,
    Shed wondered if Raven was diddling her. Be a damned waste of fine womanflesh if
     someone wasn't.
    How could a dead man with four gersh get him out from under Krage? Answer: He
     could not. Not legitimately.
    Raven settled onto his usual stool. He scattered a handful of copper. “Wine. Buy
     yourself a mug, too.”
    Shed collected the coins, deposited them in his box. Us 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