“Who’s on the Mud?” asked “Hobbled Hob” Hobrim, not once looking up from his cards. Urvin Benks and his lazy eye looked up and shrugged.

“Well, I am,” said Big Brott. “But I don’t care to be goin’ back tomorrow, with all the floodin’ an’ sod.” The Mud was what Mudtown fisherfolk called the Argot flats, which stretched south, east, and west of the sprawling shantytown. The flats flooded like crazy in winter, but this year was especially sodden. Most agreed there was hardly even a proper road going south these days.

“Not goin’ back?” Red-neck Rodi glanced at Brott like he was asking the question direct, but half the table knew he was just craning for a peek at Brott’s cards.

“Said don’t care to.” Brott shrugged. He tilted his hand away. “Still goin’. Why you care?”

Rodi shrugged back. People from Mudtown often spoke in shrugs, sometimes two at a time.

“Not stayin’ long in town, neither way,” Brott said. “Not even to bed yer wife again, if that’s what yer gettin’ at.” Brott chortled and spat a wad of lip tobacco out the side of his mouth. It spattered the parlor floor, joining the thousand-and-one other stains that had, over the years, taken up permanent residence on the floorboards.

This particular room had a fine reputation for stains, and deservedly so, tucked as it was discreetly inside “Muff” Marfluen’s Happy-Time Brothel and Orphanage. The parlor was gaudy, and that was being kind. The walls were painted a dark sea green with gold-flecked fleurels molded out of plaster stuck in random spots near the sagging ceiling. It featured bright lavender curtains that draped over bawdy paintings of naked women framed to look like windows. The room had no actual windows, which was why it was a favorite. Some folks didn’t want it known they were at Muff’s brothel, even in Mudtown—even if it was just for a little innocent gambling.

(It never really was. Muff wouldn’t tolerate that.)

Rodi looked over at Brott for real. He didn’t look happy the big man was claiming on his wife, and Rodi was a large man—nearly as large as Brott. Everyone else looked away. Hobbled Hob had an uncomfortable expression as he sucked on his smelly Ace cigar, trying to pretend his cards were more interesting than Rodi’s notorious temper, even though Filch already knew they weren’t.

Brott didn’t care either way. He had bigger arms and a longer knife. “I did right for ‘er last Firsday,” he went on, smiling, “an’ that’s enough for me. She squealed like a sump rat with a hook in its neck an’ scratched twice as hard. My ass still gots scars.”

That brought laughter. Filch laughed too, though not loudest. Attention was something he didn’t need right now. “Here’s to the seldom-seen kid!” was a popular drinking cheer at Muff’s, and Filch preferred to be seen only when he wanted to be seen, which was basically never. And right now, he wanted every eye at the table looking a different direction so that none of the other players would notice the extra cards that were slowly…starting…to slip…out from under his stupid trick hat.

Teach me to go cheap with the props. Filch had paid twelve nubs for the thing and only now realized how much the fit counted for.

At eleven-some years, Filch was close to being the oldest kid at the orphanage, and considered himself the most worldly of the lot by far. He’d been many places most kids hadn’t: he’d seen the Rill and Downer, east and west of Mudtown; he’d seen the misty edge of Melanois, off in the distance, though Ambros had needed to point it out to him through all the fog. He’d seen the swamps, and they hadn’t scared him at all; the tales weren’t a damn thing next to some of the crot he’d seen in the Mudtown scrapes and alleys, much less in Muff’s own kitchens. Filch had seen his share of crot. Going a distance to see it wasn’t nothing to him, either. He’d been nearly two treks off the Mud once on a craw digger, and twice that far hauling bushels for a market man whose hauler had got sucked under. Filch had seen that happen with his own eyes too.

The Mud could suck, as they said, and suck it often did—especially to folks new to this part of the coast. Cheapest grave in the world, though. The commons that didn’t want to pay burial taxes just tossed their people on the Mud, and things took care of things.

With all this worldly knowledge, a smart kid would think to maybe check and see if his hat fit right. Flappin’ hat, he cursed to himself again. Filch could feel one of the cards tickling the back of his ear.

His look never changed though. Filch was good at looks. It was really the only reason Muff let him join in on the games. He looked younger than his years, and Muff liked dressing him up in oversized clothing to get a good laugh, and maybe distract the eye a little bit. “Little man,” she’d coo and fuss, clearly chuffed. She thought a big puffy shirt and a fat pair of suspenders were hilarious for some reason. Filch wore it though, and he did the song and dance and the Gorsh, heavens, mistah! act, and it pretty much worked. He usually lost, but Muff considered the losses even trade for keeping the clientele entertained, not to mention the chance to pick up idle strays of gossip. Muff loved gossip.

He wasn’t a bad player either, especially for a kid. When Filch actually won they all thought it was pretty damned funny, and the men who didn’t think so weren’t about to say it, much less beat on one of Muff’s kids for no legal reason. Muff was protective of her mites—Mudtown orphans or accidental whelps alike, didn’t make a difference. Any sign of trouble, she’d send Else to come see about it, and no one wanted to see Else. Any threat that ended in “—or Else” was taken pretty serious. The big woman had a repute, to be sure, and it wasn’t for being good in bed; Else had a bad temper and was real good with knives. And she always had her knives.

Either way, it was a pretty sweet arrangement for Filch, as far as he was concerned. Problems only arose when he got caught skimming more than his cut.

Or when he tried to cheat. Like now.

He’d been so sure the hat would work. He silently cursed as it slipped down further. He couldn’t even see anymore. Filch hazarded the gentlest of nudges in order to get the hat back up, worrying all the while his carefully placed cards would come spilling out for all to see.

“I’m thinkin’ maybe you take that back and speak some truths,” Red-neck Rodi said to Big Brott. He wasn’t letting it go. “I’m thinkin’ maybe Sherilee got much better things to do than you.” Rodi had set his cards down, turned, and was staring straight on at him. Means business, Filch thought. He tried to recall how many drinks Rodi had swigged but couldn’t come up with a reasonable guess. Filch propped his foot against the table leg, just in case he might need a push-off to lunge in a backwardly direction.

It was a good thing, too. Brott gave that crack-toothed smile of his, and he said, “Sure she do. And she did ‘em. There was like sixty-two guys in line ‘fore me, an’ another twelve behind.” Brott was crass enough to wink. “I came late, but she came lots.”

Brott was ready for Rodi’s swing, and he blocked it with a meaty forearm. A blink later and his heavy fist connected with Rodi’s jutting chin. Rodi flew back in his chair and crashed to the floor, taking Flatface Carl and both men’s cards along with him. Brott rose to make sure Rodi wasn’t getting back up any time soon, fists flying.

Filch didn’t need to toss his cards—didn’t need to kick the table, upend his chair, and fall back on his arse, but he figured, Why not? The game was over anyway, and luckily, he was in the clear now. Cards and coins were everywhere. It was a wash; he hadn’t won a single hand, but still considered himself fortunate to not get caught. Else Muff might’ve had Else see to him. Flappin’ hat! He’d need to get it replaced.

Filch snatched the hat up from the floor with his teeth (hated as it was, he wasn’t about to leave it behind as evidence) and crawled out beneath the chaos, heading for the parlor door on his hands and knees. He only scooped up the loose coins he could palm easily.

He got as far as the doorway—but his escape was blocked by a pair of garish blue boots, their beetle shine dulled only by the mud flecked across their pointed tips. Filch knew their owner immediately. Aw, him again, he groaned inwardly. Filch dropped the hat from mouth to hand and peered up, all puppy-eyed and innocent through his mop of dark hair.

“Hey, mister,” he said. “Might wanna move. There’s a fight goin’ on.” He looked as apologetic as he could, though in hindsight he might have tried a different look. Muff said he needed way more work on his “apologetic” face.

The man attached to the boots was white-haired and old, though he had a brisk way about him—energetic for his age. He was lean, nearly bony, footsteps full of vigor. He was tanned from days spent on the road, which meant he wasn’t from here; a man didn’t get tanned on the Mud in winter, for sure.

Filch had seen him more than once, knew he was a traveling merchant of some sort—a fancy guy who came to Mudtown every few months and liked to dawdle pretty Dancy on his knee, or Gelda if Dancy was taken. Muff always said he didn’t spend near enough coin to be truly fancy, even though he liked to dress it. He spent enough silver for her to go fetch Dancy whenever he showed, though.

“Love the hat,” the old man purred, his voice a rich timbre. He wore a loose cotton shirt under a copper-stitched dark blue vest, and his belt buckle was polished silver. His long white beard was meticulously combed. He glanced down at the coins in Filch’s hands and smiled. “It seems you got away with one this time.” The man’s blue eyes twinkled. He looked a little too pleased with himself.

“Uh huh,” Filch said blankly. Blank looks could sometimes get you out of spots too. The old man only smiled and didn’t budge. Probably a pervert, Filch thought. He knew all about perverts. Growing up in a brothel was literally the best education a kid could have. You learned everything about anything you needed to know, and weren’t forced into hard shoes to go learn useless crot at a school. An extra plus was always being able to spot a pervert.

Filch tried to crawl past, but a blue boot shifted to block his way. He noticed little silver stars painted at the fold.

“Zilwand,” the old man said by way of introduction. “We’ve never been formally introduced. I am Zilwand the Zephyr.” He gave a short bow and smiled wider. “I sell magic.”

Filch gave him a sad look. “Can’t pay f’ no magic, suh, beg pardon,” he said in his best Mudtown Orphan. It carried in pitch just high enough to eke past the sounds of fighting behind him. Red-neck Rodi wasn’t quite finished, it seemed.

“Din’t win t’day neither,” Filch added sorrowfully. Much as any boy might like to own some magic, he knew it was a hustle. Closest thing to magic Filch had ever seen was how Muff managed to fit into her white holiday dress every year.

“Well,” Zilwand said, still smiling. “Perhaps I can show you some magic later on.”

Filch almost sniggered. Because that didn’t sound completely wrong. At least the old guy was entertaining. He quickly ducked and rolled, nimbly slipping under the old man’s loose flax trousers and popping to his feet behind him.

“Nah,” Filch said, slapping his hat back on and dusting himself off, all pretenses dropped. The hour was late. Filch was eleven and tired of acting half his age. “But thanks. I’ll keep yer “magic” in mind.”

“Please do,” Zilwand murmured. The old man’s eyes glanced past him, down the hall, then back to the parlor. The fight had finally stopped—Rodi had finally been laid out flat—and the night had gotten quiet. The sound of giggling girls could be heard off around the corner. Somewhere behind a distant door a squeaking mattress complained loudly. Business as usual at Muff’s.

When the old man glanced back in his direction, Filch made sure he was already long gone.
 
 
 

 
 
        Filch opened the bedroom door quietly.

“Hey, Pidge,” Filch whispered into the night-darkened room. “You awake?”

“Mm-hm,” the little girl answered, though not as sleepily as he’d hoped. Filch had in fact hoped she’d be all the way asleep, especially since she’d been sick. He slipped in quietly. Light eked in from the hall….

Filch stopped. “Pigeon?”

“Uh huh?”

“What’re you doin’?”

“Mm? Me? Nothin’,” she said in a small voice, tucked and hidden in the corner.

Filch knew when she sounded guilty. He went on a hunch. “Mitzi?” he called to the darkness.

“Yes?” another girl giggled in answer.

“Gabrol,” Filch sighed.

“Ya.”

“Aaaaand…Swoozie.” He pointed to a blotch of shadow in the corner, pretty much already knowing where she’d be.

No answer.

Pigeon hopped up onto a nearby bed. The old wooden frame creaked. She whispered into Filch’s ear, “Swoozie hadda go to the privies.” Pigeon was one of the newer additions to Muff’s extensively extended family. She wasn’t quite five. Her whispers were still pretty loud.

“Thanks,” Filch said dryly. He closed the door behind him. “Someone light a taper, eh?”

The little bedroom was illuminated in no time, confirming what he’d already suspected. Minus the missing Swooz.

“C’mon, now,” he said sternly. “What did Muff say about playing cards in Pigeon’s room?” The question didn’t quite have the bite he wanted it to, partly because he’d just been playing cards for real himself, and partly because he was trying to hold back a smile.

The cramped room had all the beds shoved together, with various scraps of food and secondhand toys scattered about. He imagined the loot had started out as some sort of ante but had quickly degraded into a mess as they played with it, or ate it, or both. The cards were scattered about just as haphazardly, some face up. From the looks of things, they were playing Tap the Jack, and didn’t even have a full deck. He doubted any of them cared, though.

Filch sighed. The room was supposed to be empty. Pigeon had the flux, and Muff had ordered the room cleared of all other children. The last flux in autumn had taken three kids and one of the downstairs girls.

The other kids didn’t have the guile to look guilty though.

“So d’we gotta go?” Gabrol asked. Gabrol was eight and had been left on Muff’s doorstep as a tot, the same as most. Everyone in Mudtown knew the Madame was good to kids—and she was usually able to feed them, too, so the occasional unwanted child ended up more often at the Happy-Time Brothel and Orphanage than anywhere else. A few of the kids were whelped by Muff’s girls, but most of the time the Madame made sure that didn’t happen; Muff traded generously for dunroot and made all the girls take it. She took ‘root pretty serious. Once she even shoved a raw one in Seguine’s mouth and forced her to chew it on the spot.

Muff liked kids well enough, sure—loved ‘em, in fact—but the way she saw it, pregnant girls meant wasted time and lost coin. Muff hated lost coin.

Mitzi piped in, “Tell us a story!” She sat on a bed and bounced. Mitzi wasn’t technically a child. Well, she was. But she was a seventeen-year old child with breasts the size of large cantaloupes. Mitzi worked for Muff but still preferred the company of kids, mostly because she was still a kid on the inside herself. Filch saw her as more than a little naïve. Sort of innocent. She just didn’t look it. When Mitzi bounced, she really bounced.

“No, it’s bedtime.” Filch twirled his useless hat on a finger. “Let’s move the beds back and then go sleep where yer supposed to sleep.” He gestured with his free hand. “Pigeon’s still sick.”

“I’m better!” Pigeon chirped. Pidge was the best kid, always looking up. She didn’t have it so good, either. Her ma’ was an upstairs girl who’d died of the redeye when she was still nursing, and Pidge caught it too. Pigeon had lost half a head of mouse-brown hair, which still hadn’t grown back, and the sickness had left her leg gimped besides. And now this flux….

But nothing made her sad. Absolutely nothing. Filch felt a little envious of her, at times, and often wondered if he had ever been that innocent.

He sort of doubted it. He’d had to pull his own weight since before he could even remember. Filch had been a door-drop like Gabrol, bundled in a cloak with a small sack of coins stuffed inside, or so the story went. That infamous bag of money was the source of his auspiciously haphazard name. “Bet you filched that coin an’ only found out later that a boy came attached,” someone once quipped to Muff. The name stuck. Muff called him “My little Filch” and considered it clever.

It wasn’t his fault he got good at palming things. Or, maybe he was just acting out his name. The name came first, after all. Either way, he sort of liked the name, even though it made people automatically suspicious. He took it as a challenge.

Plus, it was a better name than “Pigeon”. Pigeon liked hers well enough though.

“Can we stay? Pleeeeaaaaase?” Mitzi begged. She used that same look for earning tips, so he wasn’t fooled by it at all.

“Nooooo.” Filch pointed at the door and threw on his exaggerated stern face. “Gooooo.” He used the hat as if to shoo flies. Mitzi and Gabrol shuffled out, looking as though he’d just stabbed them. Yeah, I’m so severe. He sighed. He’d have to fix the beds and clean the mess himself, but… better than dealing with Mitzi’s teary eyes and Gabrol’s watery farts.

“What about Swoozie?” Pidge asked, yawning and climbing into her bed.

Filch went and closed the window they’d left open. The pane was cracked, and so was the glass. It had been a tough winter, and probably wasn’t even close to done. “Swooz can do what Swooz always does.” Filch knew Swoozie would pick the lock on any door she wanted past. She’d even shown him a thing or two about that. There was a good chance she wouldn’t bother Pidge if nothing fun was going on in the room, though. Swoozie went where the excitement was.

“Filch?” Pigeon asked.

“Yeah.” He kicked a flattened play-bear under a bed. It looked as though someone had used it for a snot rag.

“You take good care of us,” Pigeon said sleepily. She yawned.

That brought him up short. He frowned.

Then he snickered. “Shut up. Yer a brat.”

“Brats, bats, rats, better scat,” Pigeon said, repeating one of Muff’s favorite nonsense sayings. “Violet says yer a pretty good hat,” she added with a shrug. Filch was pretty sure Pidge didn’t even know what that meant.

He laughed. “Violet’s crazy. That’s a fact.” It was a fact. Violet’s nickname was “Violent”. If Else had Violet’s temper, she’d be a danger to the entire town. Crot, she’d be a danger to every neighboring country. Melanois might decide to invade the Burgun-Dach territories again, like in the old days, just to put an end to the threat she posed.

“And I don’t have any good hats,” he added. He reached down and grabbed Pigeon’s threadbare blanket and tossed it over her head, then stuck his own useless trick hat on top. “But now you do.”

Pigeon giggled. Filch kept her head under for a few breaths and mussed what was left of her hair.

When she popped out, she looked happy as anything. She clutched the hat like it was the biggest prize ever. Nutty kid.

He headed for the door. Pigeon got a sudden look and tilted her head. “Filch, what’s a ‘hore?” she asked.

Filch frowned. “Who said that to you?” Muff’s girls weren’t allowed to say “whore” to the orphans. That wasn’t no way to raise a kid. Muff’s girls made good honest coin by being in charge of what was what, and that was that.

…Even though they were, frankly speaking, whores. “We’re all whores,” Muff would say. “All the town, the coast, the fishes in the Mud, all the Dach. The fluffs who think they’s better’n us, over in Melanois, or on holier-than-my-arse Avalonia, they’s all whores too. World’s fulla whores.”

But no doubt, it made Muff sorta mad when the girls called themselves whores. Muff thought it set a bad example, and, not for nothing, gave other folks an excuse to say it. And she sure as stink didn’t like it when her girls got cussed or called things by other people. Well, unless that was part of the job. She always made the men pay barrels extra for that, though.

Filch was glad he didn’t consider himself a kid anymore. Some of the best jokes he knew began with, “I once knew a whore…”

But he certainly wasn’t telling Pidge. “Well?” he pressed. Filch sat down beside her. Pigeon’s eyes were wide, and she had that guilty look again, sucking on her lower lip like she always did. One of her front teeth stuck way out, so that always looked kind of comical.

“C’mon. Out with it. Who said?”

“Randol,” she finally mumbled. “Randol said. He was in th’ room with us, with Swoozie, an’ he said—”

Filch was up and out the door before he even found out what rat-faced, cod-chewing, spit-licking Randol had said.
 
 
 

 
 
        Filch still remembered how it had all gone down in Racer’s Alley a few months back, and he wasn’t in any mood to forgive any of it. Not now, not yet, not ever.

Back then, winter hadn’t hit, so the rains weren’t a damn thing. You could still wade the flats and the fens, if you knew the right places that wouldn’t suck a kid down, and hand-scoop anything that caught the eye. Many of the kids busied themselves looking for turtles. Turtle racing wasn’t just in season—it was the best coin-maker to be found in Mudtown all year. Most kids didn’t take it too seriously, and thought all turtles were pretty much the same, a notion Filch took full advantage of. He knew turtle-racing, and knew the blue-necks ran (if “run” was the word for it) fastest on hard alley grime. He knew what time of day they were the least sluggish. Best of all, Filch knew where to find the best ‘necks.

Looking back, he probably should have packed it up when Dagg and Randol showed their ugly faces with their stupid turtle. But Filch had been on a roll with Kamizaan and had taken forty-seven nubs and ten tin bits from all the other gathered kids up until then—his best showing so far. He’d decided to take his chances and let his luck ride.

Big mistake.

Randol Mandil was an irritating little snot, known in the neighborhood for his peculiar laugh: a high-pitched bark that some compared to the braying of an infant mule whose tail had been set on fire. Folks could hear his laugh a mile out on the Mud. The fact that he was a sneaky, twig-limbed little stink didn’t help him win any friends, either.

Mostly, Randol was disliked because he was the right-hand crony of “Digger” Dagg, the biggest bully north of Turndown Street. Randol had the irritating habit of repeating every single thing Dagg mumbled, twice as many times and twice as loud.

The fact that they’d both shown up was bad enough; the fact that Filch refused to let go of his winning streak was really what made it worse. One race was all it had taken for Randol to decide to even the odds his own special way. He whispered something to his lumbering ally. Too late, Filch realized Randol had referred to Dagg’s boot as the “Stompmonster,” and not his turtle.

Kamizaan had been a real good racing turtle up until Dagg squashed him. With one gooey crunch, Filch’s meal ticket for the entire winter was gone.

Filch remembered how stupidly mad he got—though the details were still a little hazy. He didn’t remember any of the words he cussed, and hardly even remembered chucking mud at Dagg’s head. He sure remembered the hard punch that Dagg gave him in thanks, though. It had sent him sprawling to the alley floor, gravel and filth skinning his hands and elbows. Filch remembered it plain as rain, and he remembered Dagg standing over him with a muddy face, grinning.

Most of all he remembered Randol’s voice. “Gonna cry ‘cause you lost yer dumb-bug turtle? Huh? Stupid trollkisser!”

“Trollkisser” was Randol’s go-to curse, and it wasn’t even all that good. Nobody in Mudtown had ever even seen a troll.

Filch couldn’t let it go though. Well, he could have. But he didn’t.

“Always with the trollkissin’.” Filch spat blood then looked Randol in the eye, grinning like Gorvoi’s Ghost with blood between his teeth. “I told you, it was only the once. And yer ma’ was beggin’ for it. She paid extra.”

Whump. Dagg kicked him hard in the ribs.

Filch did his best to ignore the bully and just concentrated on taunting Randol. “She told me to hit ‘er, so you know what I did? I beat the warts off her face. Too bad they came back.”

Thud! Dagg hauled back and kicked harder. Filch was sure a rib got broke on that one, but luckily it didn’t.

That one really set Randol off. Apparently, he didn’t like other kids making fun of his ma’s warts. “Stupid ‘orephan,” the skinny boy had screamed at him. “Keep talkin’ yer mouth off! Yer dead!”

“You’d think so, right?” Filch had another volley. “But I din’t catch nothin’ from ‘er at all! No pox, no lip sores, no whuppin’ cough, no nothin’. Miracles do happen.”

Even Dagg had looked perplexed. He glanced at Randol and shrugged. Randol shot Dagg a glare that said the beating wasn’t happening near fast enough, but Dagg only chuckled; seeing Randol get worked up was apparently as funny as seeing Filch get kicked down. Randol glowered and stepped past Dagg; he leaned over and got in Filch’s face and let off a string of spit-laced curses, each one worse than the last.

“Now, that’s no way to talk to yer da’.” Filch had to get that last bit in before grabbing Randol by the hair with one hand and punching him in the nose with the other. It broke with a satisfying crickk. Best day ever.

Randol had stumbled off then, holding his bloody face and bawling like a newborn. Dagg gave one last Mudtown shrug, took a large step back, then let loose with a kick that caught Filch straight in the face. Filch woke up a while later in a completely different alley, stripped butt-naked and missing one of his back teeth.

Randol still owed him a tooth. And a turtle. The bony little slime-licker had a special place in Filch’s heart, to be sure. And the way he saw things, they still had a score to settle between them.

Swooz, he thought with a despairing sort of budding rage. Of all the muck-suckers. Why him?
 
 
 

 
 
        Filch slammed the skinny boy up against the alley wall, balled fists twisting on his raggedy vest.

“Trollkisser!” Randol cursed at him. He spat at Filch’s face and missed, then tried to take a swing, but Filch shoved a knee up between his legs and that ended that. Randol dropped and rolled in the mud, holding his balls.

“Filch!” Swoozie punched him in the arm, harder than Randol would have. It hurt.

He still couldn’t believe it, even though it was as bad as he feared. Filch had turned the corner and caught Swooz kissing Randol in the dark of the alley, hanging on him like nobody’s business. On stinkin’ Randol, of all people!

“Get back inside,” Filch growled at her. “I’m serious.” He wasn’t about to take his eyes off the snake.

Swoozie punched him again, then kicked him in the leg for what just seemed to be good measure. “Piss off and leave him be!” she shouted. Swooz looked ready to throw fists for real, which wasn’t good; she was taller, stronger, meaner, and could probably take Filch if she decided that’s what needed to happen. Hells, Swoozie had been ready to throw fists against the world ever since Dancy called her a big-nosed boll weevil, some six years back. Peevish at the drop of a nub, basically, and the peev sometimes stayed with her for days.

Filch wasn’t budging, though. He was protective of Muff’s kids, and Randol Mandil wasn’t one of them. And there was no way Filch was going to let Dagg’s pet weasel snog on Swooz. He’d searched all three floors for them, asking upstairs girls, downstairs girls, and even random brothel patrons with little luck. He finally found them outside, tucked snugly in the side alley, all cuddle-funny and engaged in a lip-lock of nearly adult proportions.

It just burned him up. Filch kind of liked tough girls, maybe even kind of liked Swoozie. He thought her big nose was kind of pretty.

If only she’d stop hitting him.

Filch was still trying to decide which one of Randol’s teeth he was going to yank out—and hoping to do it before Swooz beat the bloody crud out of him—when she suddenly screeched, right in his ear, “Filch! Just stop! He’s hiding!”

Filch looked at her once. “Hiding his tongue in yer mouth, maybe.”

She punched his arm again, which was getting really painful. Filch was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to move his left arm at all tomorrow. “Guppy!” She glowered. “I don’t tongue-kiss nobody! He’s hiding from a guy!”

“He seemed pretty into you, but that wouldn’t surprise me neither,” Filch muttered.

“I’m serious,” she said, and then to Filch’s amazement, Swoozie started to cry. Swoozie never cried. It almost made him take his eyes off Randol. “Stop beatin’ on him,” she choked out. “Randol was ‘bout to leave Mudtown anyway.”

Filch frowned. Randol was an alley rat who wouldn’t know which end of a mudskipper was which. “Where’s he goin’?” He glanced at Randol. “An’ why?”

Randol had finally gotten back to his feet. He was leaning heavily on the wall, sucking breath. He’d been crying as well, though not for the same reasons as Swooz. Filch knew how bad it hurt from personal experience; Randol’s balls probably felt the size of apples right about now. He wasn’t about to feel sorry for him though.

“She told you already, ya dumb-bug trollspanker,” Randol said with a hoarse voice, glaring. “There’s a guy that’s after me. He was outside my home, so I been hidin’ here.” Randol looked exhausted, and filthier than usual, Filch noted, now that his vision had accustomed itself to the alley’s gloom. Randol’s deep-set eyes had dark circles beneath them. His face had always been bony, with jutting cheekbones and a pointed chin, but now he looked almost skeletal. And he sure looked scared, though that wasn’t much of a change. Randol had always been a nervous sort.

“Ain’t you heard nothin’ lately?” Swoozie asked Filch accusingly. “Kids are disappearin’. There’s talk all over Mudtown. You never listen.” Swoozie went to Randol’s side and put her arm around him.

Filch scowled. He couldn’t argue her point. Between running Muff’s games and caring for Pigeon, he’d hardly had time to hit the streets at all in the past month. And Filch had to admit his biggest fail as a scammer: he wasn’t ever any good at listening.

“Kids have been gettin’ took straight off the street,” Randol said, not seeming to mind Swoozie’s arm around him at all, which annoyed Filch more than he wanted to admit. “Piv’s gone, Lissie vanished right as soon as her ma turned her back at Skunk Park. And Wiggle died too.”

“Wiggle got run over by a cart,” Filch pointed out. “It’s not technically “disappeared”.” Wiggle had been a nice kid, always dodging trouble. He couldn’t dodge that, though. Freak accident. A nine-spoke wheel had cracked his neck.

“Dagg’s gone.” Swoozie said it quiet, like it was a bad thing. Randol looked sad and even more scared. Filch didn’t cheer out loud, though more out of concern for Swoozie’s right hook than Randol’s feelings.

“One ain’t got nothin’ to do with the other,” Filch said, shrugging. “Ain’t no shadowman comin’ after Mudtown kids. That’s just paranoid shite. Might as well suggest we all pack up and leave the Mud, and that ain’t happening.” All the talk of leaving was fine and good, but not when there was no place else to go. The only home any of them had ever known was Mudtown. Filch was pretty sure Randol’s ugly ma would come after him anyhow.

“That’s what I said!” Swoozie was half-glaring at Randol now. She was just the glaring sort. “You can’t just leave, Rand. You can stay with us!”

He hadn’t said that, exactly. Filch scowled. It was a safe discussion, though. There was no way Muff would ever let Randol eat and sleep at her place for free, even if he didn’t eat much. Especially if the little twit was thinking of feeling up one of her orphans.

“I ain’t goin’ back in there,” Randol mumbled, solving it himself. “I told you. I saw that guy inside. He’s followin’ me, an’ lookin’ on me real weird.”

“Weirder than yer da?” Filch asked, eyebrow up.

“Trollkisser! Shut yer noise-hole about my da!” Randol’s old man took it on occasion to run the streets naked—he said he liked how free the mud made him feel. Filch always just assumed he was hitting the mash again, or smoking twitch, or some shite. Thinking on it, Filch could see why Randol might want to leave. Both his parents were crazy. It was way better being an orphan. As far as Filch saw things, his own life was pretty sweet, compared to most.

“We don’t know the man is lookin’ for you,” Swoozie said to Randol. “Anyway, we can just wait it out. He ain’t from here, he’s gotta leave sooner or later.”

“Wait, is it that old fart?” asked Filch. He only just now remembered Zilwand the “magician”, and how the old man’s fake smile made his hackles rise. “That guy is creepy, but he’s also old and slow. He’s harmless. Plus, he’s busy now that Dancy’s free.” Filch had found out the old man had booked with Dancy while he was searching the brothel for Swoozie.

“He’s pretty big for an old man,” Randol muttered.

Filch blinked. “No, he’s not. Kinda smallish, actua—”

“Crot!” Randol’s eyes had gone large. He was staring past Filch, straight down the alley. Randol began to back up. His face was all terror. “He’s here!”

A man stood in the alley, blocking access to the main street. Randol was right. It sure as stink wasn’t Zilwand.

The man was a monster—at least six-and-a-half paces tall, with wide shoulders and powerful-looking hands. His skin was pale, his hair long and lank, yellow-blond and balding at the top. He had thick moustaches that drooped past his squared jaw. Beneath a wool tunic the man wore a ring-mail jack; the steel loops stuck out from under his clothes and gleamed in the moonlight. He had a fat two-handed sword looped across his back.

He looks like a sodding northman, Filch thought, amazed at the sight of him. Stories about northmen never ended good, either. Nords, Boreans, Fulki…all those epic-song warriors had a famous habit of dying at the end of their tales, not to mention taking most everyone else with them. “…And then everyone dies,” was pretty much how most of ‘em ended.

“Run,” Filch suggested under his breath.

Swoozie and Randol had already taken that cue. The sound of their retreating footfalls echoed in the alley. Filch spun and sprinted away from the man as fast as his feet would fly.

“Split up!” he called ahead. The back of the alley was a sheath of darkness that covered the entrances to three separate side-alleys, so he already knew the man had no way of knowing which one any of them might take. Filch heard one set of footsteps go right, the other straight, so Filch went left, his feet skidding in alley gravel.

The man came after and chose left too. Filch could hear him breathing like a bull. And he was gaining, too.

At least I’m keepin’ the ugly flapper off Swooz’s arse, he thought, ducking his head and running for his life. If the man was after Randol, for whatever reason, he might end up grabbing Swoozie as an extra prize. Filch really didn’t care what became of Randol either way, ‘cept that Swoozie seemed to like him now. “Boggle that,” he grumbled to himself. He turned on the extra speed and left the big man back somewhere in the dark.

One turn, two turns, four turns later, Filch found himself on the other side of Muff’s sprawling manor. Twelve good strides and he would find himself in the open street with—

The open street was blocked. Barricade! He skidded to a halt. Someone had sectioned off the alley between Muff’s and Laramido’s Luxuries, barring access to the street with a tall, rickety-looking fence. Garbage and broken building supplies lay strewn all around, a virtual rat’s nest of unused construction trash. A wooden gate had been built into the new wall—but the door to the gate had been cross-boarded and nailed shut.

Because that’s what doors are for, Filch thought sourly. He seemed to recall hearing about oil-fingered Laramido doing something to the alley, but as usual, with Filch, it was in one ear and out the other.

Why don’t I ever listen? Filch had an answer for every question, usually. Just not that one.

He looked around wildly. One quick glance back told him all he needed to know: the towering northman had rounded the corner and was still coming hard. The huge man’s face was reddened by the effort, but his breathing was only a little labored. He was in good shape for a balding guy. The man’s strong arms and wide shoulders pumped, flexing with every stride.

He could rip my arms off. Filch was going to have to do his best to avoid that, though being trapped in a closed-off alley wasn’t the best way to start. Now he knew how the mice felt when Else was sent to stomp them.

The man slowed to a stop. He looked wary rather than confident; his face held no hint of triumph at Filch’s entrapment, his eyes showing nothing but a determined stare.

You’d think I’d at least get a glower or something. Filch would be sure to give one if he had to chase some stupid kid all the way around the crooked boundaries of “Muff” Marfluen’s Happy-Time Brothel and Orphanage. But the man’s face looked as though it had been carved out of stone.

The northman removed something from a pouch in his belt. His eyes never left Filch except once, to glance down at whatever was in his hand—and then it began to glow. Filch stared. The man held some sort of green-colored…crystal…thing. It looked like an emerald, though Filch only thought that because Mitzi had once been given an emerald the size of a ladybug as a tip. She claimed it was real, though everyone else thought it was fake. Filch wouldn’t know a real emerald if it put his eye out, so to him this was an emerald.

But this northman’s emerald was the size of a strawberry, and it was glowing like a lightning bug. It lit the man’s face, casting it in a greenish hue.

That is not your average emerald. Filch considered himself a brave little mock on most occasions, but he knew he was way out of his depths with this. Faced with anything that went beyond his worldly comprehension was a sure sign it was time to leave. He gathered himself for a scrambling attempt on the new wall.

The crystal flared. It made no sound but suddenly flashed a brighter green. When the flash subsided, a wavering green image sat in the palm of the northman’s huge hand.

No way.

He didn’t believe in magic, of course. Filch wasn’t a kid anymore, and the Reformation clerics that wasted their time preaching the Illumination Enlightenment in Mudtown said magic was dead anyway. There hadn’t been magic on the Argot Coast for centuries. He knew it wasn’t magic.

But he damned sure knew wrong when he saw it.

The image suspended above the northman’s hand was of a kid’s head, floating and disembodied, like the head of some green-faced ghost—like something out of the stories he’d tell Pigeon and the others when the hour was late and the lights were low. The head was facing toward the man, so all Filch saw was green hair. It wasn’t a real head—more like a fancy, palm-sized sculpture, like someone had carved a miniature bust out of green light. The northman looked at it again, then looked back at Filch. He took another step forward.

Oh, crot. Filch didn’t know art, but he knew what he didn’t like—and what he didn’t like was a glowing green gemstone that made a “wanted” poster with his face on it. Filch didn’t even have to guess whose face it was anymore. It all but confirmed his sinking suspicion the man hadn’t been after Randol at all. And he recalled, just then, that there were more than a few annoying flappers who had suggested Filch and Randol sort of looked alike. He punched people for that. But…

Why else would he come here?

Filch had no answer to that. Some sorta stinkin’ bounty hunter, he thought, though even that sounded wrong. He certainly didn’t rate a price on his head. Sure, he had future plans—big plans!—but arresting him now seemed a little premature. And yeah, Filch had taken part in a number of small-time burglaries, pocket-snips, grab-and-dashes, and half a hundred scams. He’d committed more petty crimes in Mudtown than most people would in their lives, for sure, but they were small time things. And Mudtown authorities never bothered with hiring mercs. The sober ones would just make a guess, catch the slowest one that ran, and throw the poor bastard on the Mud.

None of Filch’s escapades had ever been traced back to him. ‘Til now, he thought glumly. And it was probably way too late to make amends.

Not that he ever would. He wasn’t real good at saying sorry.

“Come here, boy,” the man said. “I need to look upon you.” His voice was a deep, commanding baritone; his accent northern, to be sure. Filch could tell the man was squinting hard. There wasn’t enough moonlight on this side of the alley to see by, and the gem’s glow had probably killed what little night-sight he had. Filch leaned further back into the shadows.

“I got a better idea. How ‘bout you piss off?” Filch edged closer to the barricade. His eyes darted left and right, looking for a safe spot to try to launch himself over the wall, but the rubbish piled around it looked too haphazard to test. There was garbage, jagged pieces of busted wood, loose nails, and slats of rusted metal piled and strewn about, as well as shards of broken glass scattered across the alley floor.

“What is your name?” the northman asked. He took another step forward. One of his steps was like two.

“Gone.” Filch spun and leaped for the fence in three quick bounds. The man was slower to get his long frame in motion, so Filch was at the gate even before he took one step.

But instead of trying to scramble over, Filch bounced off the fence, launching himself sideways against the alley wall. He hit the wall and kicked off with full momentum, using the corner as a springboard, leaping straight back at his pursuer. The northman was forced to skid to a stop, broken glass grinding beneath his heavy boots. He faltered only a heartbeat’s time and Filch flung himself between the man’s long legs.

The towering man almost fell backward, surprised.

It didn’t last. Filch only got halfway through before one of the northman’s powerful hands shot down, snagging his ankle. He felt it get yanked hard. Filch’s chest slammed to the alley floor first, and his chin hit next. All the air left him in one quick whoosh.

The next thing he knew he was being held upside down against the alley wall, like a prize fish. “Troublesome,” the tall man said, scowling.

“I get that…a lot…” Filch mumbled, disoriented. When everything else stopped working, his mouth never seemed to.

The man said nothing more. He reached down and grabbed Filch by the neck. For a moment Filch thought he was going to just snap it and be done with him. Don’t I even get to know which caper I got caught for? he wondered dazedly.

But the man only righted him. He switched Filch from his right to his left hand and bent down to retrieve the green gemstone he’d dropped. Filch vaguely realized it had stopped glowing.

He wondered, still dizzy, if that meant the man was magic rather than the gem.

And then something massive hit the barricade wall. CRACK!

The northman whirled to face the barricade and almost dropped him.

The next sound was an explosion of wood, glass, and metal. Filch felt splinters and chunks of wood hit him. They hit the northman as well. Filch heard him grunt, and then something huge—something bigger than the stinkin’ northman—powered its way through the debris. In the dim light of the alley Filch’s fuzzy vision could only make out the shape: a head, bald as an egg, and shoulders big enough to belong on an ox.

The northman dropped Filch, snarling a curse in some glacial tongue, and reached for the two-handed sword on his back. The lumbering thing that had just made kindle out of a wall—out of a bloody wall!—rushed at them both. Filch saw an axe-head, moon-shaped and lethal, gleaming in the dim light.

Filch thought ducking might be a good idea, then realized he was still laying on the ground. He just flattened himself and hoped for the best.

The newcomer’s charge proved faster than the blond man’s sword—though only because the alley’s narrow width temporarily prevented it from being fully drawn and readied. But the northman was able to compensate with surprising quickness, throwing himself backwards and parrying the axe. The force of the blow quivered the air with a loud TANG that reverberated through the night.

The hulking newcomer spun his axe and sent the butt against the merc’s chin. The northman grunted and reeled back, bringing his sword to bear more fully. A moment—a breath, no more—passed as the opponents faced off with one another. No words were exchanged between the two huge men. The alley’s shadows draped their features so that they were no more than two dark, gargantuan shapes. They took up the whole alley and seemed to blot the sky.

The newcomer lunged first and the northman braced.

But the ox-shouldered, egg-headed man didn’t attack. He snatched Filch up by the collar of his shirt instead, jerking him to his feet—no, past his feet—and straight into the air.

“Wulk—!” was the sound that came out of Filch’s throat, and the next thing he knew he was thrown, heel over head and limbs flying, straight over the demolished barricade wall.

He landed hard in the middle of the Scamp Street walkway, twenty paces from Muff’s. Somewhere back beyond the shattered wooden wall the two massive men collided again, though the sounds of it seemed muted, now that it wasn’t happening directly over his head. Filch tried to scramble back to his feet—tried as best as he could, anyway—but realized he needed the bloody ground to stop tilting sideways first.

It didn’t matter. He was helped to his feet by yet another strong hand. “I’ve got you,” said a friendly voice.

No sooner was Filch on his feet than he was jerked back off them and tossed sideways onto a wooden surface. As soon as he landed, he felt the world bounce, and only then, after a blink or four, realized he was on a wagon. It bounced twice more when the man jumped onto the driver’s seat.

“Hyah!” the man called out, snapping reins. A horse whinnied and the wagon lurched forward.

“Wuh…?” Filch mumbled the beginning of a question that sort of only made sense to him now.

“I liked you better when you were talkative,” said Zilwand the Zephyr (and no one else, ever). “Much more endearing. But we can chat later. You met my silent associate, just now. We call him Ogre. Terrible conversationalist, but I don’t keep him around for his banter. He’ll be joining us once he’s finished with the Nordr. This is a fine mess you’ve found yourself in, but fear not, the fix is in! Keep your head down if you don’t want to die, hm?”

Filch was, for once, completely speechless. He kept his head down.

“Welcome to the Magic Wagon, kid,” added the old man as the wagon bounced and sped down the bumpy street. “Where dreams come true, and nightmares too. I have the feeling that you and I are going to have us some good old-fashioned fun.”