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tradesmen, washerwomen and other Shallows folk who had to step around them. It seemed like years since they’d shared that kind of moment, and it was like gold.
    Lysander recovered first, wiping tears from his eyes. “You are completely mad, but that’s what I like about you.” He pulled her to her feet. “So what’s this plan of yours, Madam Lunatic? The blackarms aren’t just going to hand you the keys to Pollux’s cell. How are you going to break him out?”
    She grinned as they resumed their walk. “If the only way everyone will be satisfied is if he’s dead...well, I suppose I’ll have to kill him.”

Chapter Three: At the end of her rope

    “Making friends as usual I see,” Tyford remarked as Duchess entered his “office.” She grimaced. Midwife Marna had helped her with the worst of the damage she’d received in the Deeps the previous day, but the bruises had nonetheless turned the most lovely shade of purple. “Funny how you’ve got that way with people.”
    “I must be picking up your charm,” she replied, her voice echoing throughout the vast warehouse where Tyford made his home. One of many low-district properties the old thief owned, if she’d fruned it true, although she doubted any cargo had been stored here in years. These days Tyford ran a different sort of business.
    “Glad to hear you’re picking up something. ” He was short and bowlegged, with wispy gray hair and icy blue eyes. From the Nerrlands, she guessed upon first meeting him, a land far beyond the plains the Domae roamed, in an area most commonly referred to as the Southern Duchies. She’d remembered once asking her father if Rodaasi and Nerrish looked so much alike, what was the difference? “Eight hundred years of history,” he’d replied. “The Nerrish are clannish, not given to living in large groups...much like Rodaasi before we came to the great hill.”
    “Oh, I’ve learned plenty from you, my dear Tyford,” she replied smartly, removing her cloak, folding it and placing it on a nearby table. “Most particularly, I’ve learned how much of my silver can vanish while you drink bad wine and make worse jokes.” Sniping aside, Duchess knew she had been lucky to retain the services of the crotchety old thief. By all accounts, Tyford had once been a highly ranked member of the Grey, but that had been years and years ago, before he’d scored a major coup by stealing a wagon full of newly minted florin right from under the noses of the Whites. After that he’d settled into a life of quiet retirement, investing in rental properties and selling the benefit of his experience to those with the silver to buy it. He hadn’t had a student in years, she knew. What she didn’t know was why he’d agreed to take her on.
    “That so?” He led her into the warehouse proper, where their lessons were held. The place was laid out like a classroom for thieves. One wall was outfitted with ledges, loops and other handholds, and along another was a series of wooden cabinets, each with its own lock. There were forms like one might find in a tailor’s shop, dressed in cloaks and tunics and other apparel and hung with small metal bells. Ropes hung in a line from the rafters, five to ten feet between each, some knotted along their length, others hanging smoothly. He gestured to one. “Well, here’s a joke for you. Try getting up one of those in less time than it takes me to finish a cup of my bad wine and maybe I won’t make you climb them all.”  
    Unlikely, she thought, as she rubbed her hands together and began to climb. Tyford was as merciful as he was kindly, so she suspected that no matter how quickly she climbed, this rope would not be her last. She’d always considered herself fairly healthy — tough and light and quick on her feet — but these lessons had convinced her she was a pathetic weakling, a notion Tyford was always ready to reinforce. “You’ll spend a good deal of time on those ropes,” Tyford had