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Eye had been killed with a short blade.
    By then, though, it was too late: Wolf had already disappeared.
    Fowler’s constant strain of “I told you so” had nearly been unbearable on the way home.
    I kept to Ildrecca’s thoroughfares and streets as much as possible. The back ways would have been faster, but I didn’t know the twists and turns here well enough to take full
advantage of them. Besides, I was familiar with the kinds of things that could happen in strange alleys, and I didn’t have the time to deal with them now.
    I wondered again what had happened to Fowler and Scratch, whether or not the Oak Mistress and her man had made it. Despite Tobin’s hurry to be gone and Ezak’s cautions, I’d
done a quick nose of the blocks surrounding the actors’ barn, including a stint along the Slithers. I hadn’t been hoping to run into Fowler so much as to spot a specific pile of stones
here, or maybe a pattern scratched into a wall or doorpost there—any of Fowler’s thief’s markings or signs that could tell me she was alive and on the streets. But none of the
marks I saw were hers, and the few coves I risked talking to hadn’t heard anything of use. The best I’d been able to manage was to sketch a few reassurances for her below some
windowsills and leave a tuft of pigeon feathers stuck into the doorjamb of a tavern to let her know I was looking for her.
    I passed out of Five Bells cordon and cut across a corner of Needles. It was market day, so I avoided the main square and its retired stoning-pillars. Instead, I ducked and dodged my way through
the secondary streets, past carts heavy with silk and linen and wool, ignoring the calls of the fabric merchants and their barkers. Faint hints of stale piss and wood ash—trace odors left
over from the dying process, not fully faded yet—were overlaid by the heavier scents of mules and men sweating in the summer heat.
    It wasn’t until I was almost out of the place that a new scent caught my nose: cardamom and cumin, along with a hint of citrus, all of it riding on the dark, scratchy smell of grilled
meat. My stomach answered the call, and I realized that except for two boiled eggs and the fortified wine provided by the Boardsmen, I hadn’t eaten since before boarding the caïque.
    Mouth watering, I tracked the scent to a street vendor tending a rough metal grate set atop a fluted brazier full of coals. He was just off to the side of a narrow lane, not far from another
cross-street. There was a small crowd around him, watching and waiting as he deftly drew pieces of cubed lamb from a pot of spiced yogurt marinade, threaded them on a reed skewer, and placed them
on the grate. As each skewer was finished, he speared half of a young onion on the end, gave it a quick sear, and served it up with workmanlike nonchalance.
    I placed an order for two, looked about me, and then changed it to four at the last moment. He put the extra meat on the grill without a thought. Since this wasn’t my cordon, and I
didn’t want to attract attention, I waited until mine were done, rather than taking the next four that were available, which would have been the habit of most Kin.
    A pair of skewers in each hand, I walked over to the nearby lane and hunkered down against the wall, shifting slightly so that Degan’s sword wasn’t rubbing against my bandage. Taking
a small, hot onion in my mouth from one, I carefully placed two of the other skewers across the bowl of the beggar beside me.
    “Care-foo,” I said around the onion. “‘S hop.”
    The beggar looked at the offerings and nodded vigorously, a ragged smile on his face. He made the sign of imperial blessing with the remaining three fingers of his bandaged right hand, then
clasped both of them together in thanks. He was the picture of a pitiful, starving mendicant, grateful for the bounty that had so suddenly befallen him.
    That is, until I looked him in the eye; then, for the briefest instant, I saw the cold