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and bitter wind.
    The boy stood alone in the center of the market, his eyes darting to and fro, his fingers twitching. His entire being radiated hunger and desperation. The longer he waited, building his courage, the more attention he drew to himself. He’d drawn not only Tom’s notice, but that of several shopkeepers as well. It was only a matter of time until he was caught.
    â€œLeave it,” Porter said. “The boy’s of no consequence to us.”
    Tom turned, unaware he’d been so obvious. “What will happen to him?”
    Porter shrugged. “He’ll be beaten and he’ll learn.”
    â€œBeing beaten will teach him not to steal?”
    â€œNo. It will teach him to be a better thief.”
    It was a cruel joke, but obviously he was joking—wasn’t he? But Tom saw no signs of humor in Porter’s face as he gave a resigned sigh and pushed off the wall. “We can’t stay here any longer; it’s too dangerous.”
    â€œWho are we waiting for? Umbrey?”
    â€œNo.” Porter turned away from the market, shielding his face with his hood. “He and his men are gathering supplies.”
    â€œThen what—”
    â€œA man was to meet me here with three Letters of Passage. Forgeries, naturally, but good forgeries. Good enough to get us through the city gates and past Keegan’s guard.” He scanned the crowds, his fingers drumming impatiently against his side. “He and his wife run a stall near the east end of the market. I’ll find him.” He moved to go, then turned back, sending Tom a stern glare. “Wait for me here. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. And if you’ve any brains at all, you’ll change your clothes. That knitted shirt looks like women’s clothing.”
    Tom scowled at him in response, but the effort was wasted. Porter strode away without a backward glance.
    An icy wind whipped across the square. Soon Tom’s teeth were chattering. His black hooded sweatshirt—the one with the logo of his favorite snowboard company—did little to block the wind. He thought of the warm woolen cloak, a twin to theone Porter wore, lying on the chest inside, and silently debated the merits of freezing to death versus putting his pride aside and slipping it on.
    Just as he turned to go inside and grab it, a high-pitched shriek tore through the market square. The boy, Tom thought instinctively. A quick glance confirmed it.
    â€œThought you could take from me, did you? I’ll show you what thieves get from me!” An enormous man in a bloodied apron clutched a braid of sausages in one fist, the boy’s skinny arm in the other. “You saw it!” the butcher cried to the square at large. “I caught him plain as day!” He lifted the terrified boy off the ground and shook him hard. “I’ll show him what we do to thieves around here!”

    He drew back a beefy fist to deliver a blow that would surely loosen the boy’s teeth, if not snap his neck.
    â€œNo!” the boy screamed.
    Tom moved without conscious thought. He grabbed a fistful of eggs from a nearby vendor’s stall and sent them flying. The first two eggs splattered the butcher’s apron front; the third struck him beneath his ear. Gobs of runny yellow yolk matted his beard and dripped down the side of his neck. The butcher staggered backward, blinking in stunned surprise. He shook his head as though to clear it. Then his gaze slowly traveled the marketplace, trying to make sense of what had happened.
    Meeting the butcher’s stare with a cool grin, Tom calmly tossed an egg up and down in his palm. The butcher let out a bellow of outrage and shoved the boy aside, just as Tom had intended, and lurched toward the new object of his wrath. Tom held his ground, not moving until the stench of the butcher’s fouled and bloody apron was upon him. Then, twisting sidewaysand down, he ducked under the