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calculation and hard-edged doubt that lived there, the tallying of costs and benefits, of risks and option,
that were signified by my simple gesture. What did I want? Could he touch me for more? Was this all a setup? But it was only there for an instant, because once he realized I was looking at
him—that I was actually
seeing
him—he was quick to mask his heart and avert his gaze.
    But still, he knew I’d seen the real man.
    I let the beggar look away and consider, as I swallowed the onion and took a piece of lamb. The char on the outside contrasted nicely with the sweet moisture the yogurt had imparted to the inner
meat.
    The beggar reached out and pushed at one of the skewers but didn’t pick it up.
    It was a feint. I saw his other hand slip into his rags. Knife? Nail-studded club? A sap of some sort? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to provoke a Master of the Black Arts in his
own alley if I could help it.
    I swallowed my lamb and gestured at the blisters on his leg. They were a vile, yellowish white, filled with seeping matter. “Nice work,” I said. “Soap and vinegar?” It
was a standard formula among those who practiced the Gimping and the Scroffing Laws: Rub a layer of soap on your skin, dribble some strong vinegar on it, and display the resulting
“blisters” to best possible effect.
    As for this fellow, he seemed to be a bit of an artist: It looked as if he’d added some kind of pigment beneath the soap, giving the blisters a slightly greenish tinge. It was an
impressive effect.
    All traces of the pitiful cripple vanished at my words. He cast me a sharp look, even as he tucked one of the skewers away in his rags and brought the other to his mouth.
    “What’s the dodge?” he said, using his chewing to mask his words. “You a Nose or a Whisperer or something?”
    I smiled. “Or something.”
    “I don’t know you.”
    “No. Just passing through.”
    “Then keep passing.”
    “I plan on it. But I’ve been on the fade for a bit. Taking the waters. Thought I might suss out the local talent for some mumbles.”
    He tore off another piece of lamb and glanced up and down the lane. Looking for support, or worried about being seen talking to someone he wasn’t supposed to? If he was an Ear for a local
Nose, his talking to me could raise uncomfortable questions once I’d gone.
    “What’s the dodge?” he asked again. “Why poke at me?”
    “Old habits,” I said honestly. After being away for over a week, I wanted . . . no, needed . . . to know what was happening on the street. I had my own people to check in with, of
course—people who did the job I used to do—but they weren’t here, and I didn’t want to spend the time it would take to cross the city and find them right now. “I just
want to get a sniff of what’s on the wind,” I said. “And you Masters are some of the best hounds I know for that.”
    The beggar looked at me for a long moment, then nudged his bowl. I dropped a hawk and five owls in it—a rich price for something I hadn’t even gotten yet. He scooped up the coins
before they had stopped rattling and nodded.
    “Small or broad?” he said.
    “Broad.” I didn’t have use for the local gossip; I needed citywide. “But I need something small first.”
    He eyed me warily but nodded nonetheless.
    “I’m looking for word on someone named Fowler Jess,” I said. “She’s been out of the city but should have slipped back in last night or this morning. Short, blond.
Loud when she’s angry.”
    “She Kin?”
    I nodded.
    The beggar shook his head. “No whispers about a short angry woman, loud or otherwise.”
    “How about someone named Scratch?”
    The beggar’s face soured. “Is he short and loud, too?”
    “Just the opposite.”
    “Nothing.”
    I considered. It was a long shot, but . . .
    “There’s also an Azaari named—”
    “I thought you wanted broad news,” said the beggar, “not a daily roster of comings and goings.” He tapped the bowl