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“This will take a while, but you don’t need to worry about Andels locking you in. You might as well leave by our entrance; it’s closer to the stables, and there’s someone on the door at all hours,” the actor said, as they followed him through a side door. He wasn’t pitching his voice in a way that made it obvious he wanted to be heard—but if Mags was any judge, he was making sure that anyone who wanted to hear him could.

Puzzled now, Mags still held his peace. The actor went one way at a t-junction in the hallway, but Nikolas went in the opposite direction, and Mags followed. Nikolas opened a little door that looked as if it led to a storeroom with a key he had on his person.

He opened the room, and somewhat to his surprise, Mags saw that a lamp was already burning in it. It probably had been a storeroom at one time, but now it held just two things: a rack with clothing on it and the lamp safely mounted on the wall. Without a word, Nikolas handed Mags a set of clothing not unlike what he had worn as the blind beggar and took down a similar set for himself. Very shabby and threadbare, but carefully mended. Shirt, jerkin, and some sort of loose trews, all in faded dust colors, with the faint remnants of stains on them. But clean. Mended clothing and clean—that put two more things in Mags’ mind. He and Willie Weasel were supposed to care about how they looked, but Willie didn’t spend a pin more on anything than he absolutely had to.

Things were beginning to make sense for Mags now. This was where they would transform into their other identities—perhaps not every night, but given that Nikolas was a familiar creature around here, they would be using this room often enough. It was probable that someone had come to ready the room and light the lamp as soon as he and Nikolas had settled at their table. Then it had just been a matter of someone coming up with an excuse for Nikolas to go talk to the actors. Their comings and goings in an inn that was already frequented by Heralds in general (probably because of the plays) and patronized by Nikolas in particular would not be noted.

The actor who had accosted them was clearly one of Nikolas’ confederates. Now that he had the general shape of things in his mind, Mags was confident that when Weasel and his boy left this inn, they would leave by a side entrance that no one would note.

Huh. Guess I been learnin’ a lot I niver thought ’bout.

“All right, then,” Nikolas said, very quietly, in tones barely above a whisper, as Mags hung up his uniform. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

Mags did, and Nikolas nodded with satisfaction. “I’ve built up confederates and places like this on a network that I inherited from my predecessor,” he said. “This particular resource was his; he actually was an actor before being Chosen, and this inn belongs to his family. Remember the soapmaker you utilized?”

Mags nodded.

“I’ve recruited her,” Nikolas said with satisfaction. “She’s a fantastic resource. As you noticed, no one pays any attention to the person who comes to clean the ashpits.”

Mags felt a sudden pang of guilt. This was all very well but—what if they were ever trailed back to these bolt-holes by someone dangerous?

“But—I wouldn’ wanta bring danger on ’er—” he said hesitantly.

“That’s another reason I am relieved to have you partnering me, Mags,” Nikolas told him as he cracked the door for light, then blew out the lamp. “You should be able to sense if we are being followed, and in that case, we take another way back, one that will take us through a few cellars. That should effectively lose them. And if for some reason that doesn’t work, we’ll lead them straight into Constables or the Guard.”

Mags felt much better about that as he closed the door to the little room and made sure that it locked behind them. He wondered if they would leave through a cellar this time. In fact, they left by a side entrance so lost in darkness and shadows that they had to grope their way along the alley it let out on to find a street. Not a nice street, either. Not a dangerous street, but there were a fair number of disreputable looking characters and establishments on it. Mags fell into his character immediately, sticking close to Nikolas and not reacting to sounds at all. Unlike the street of their inn, this one smelled. It wasn’t rank, but there were faint suggestions that someone had been sick, overlaid with beer, cheap wine, and burning grease smells.

The neighborhood gradually became dirtier and darker. Not that Mags could see the dirt, but he could smell it. Places where cats and dogs (and probably people) had relieved themselves. A stink of unwashed bodies and unwashed clothing. Slops poured into the gutter only added to the reek, which would persist until a rain came and washed it all down to the collection basins. People living here weren’t supposed to do this, but unless you actually caught someone at it, it was hard to tell who the culprit was.

Finally Nikolas paused at a shuttered storefront halfway down the street from one of the few streetlamps, took a key out of his belt pouch, and opened the door. The universal symbol of the pawnbroker, three coins, was painted beside and above the door. The paint was fading. The symbol was the visual representation that the pawnbroker would lend you two coins but would get back three, whether he got it when you redeemed your pledge or when he sold it.

It was as dark as the inside of a hat in there, and the place smelled musty. Mags held absolutely still while Nikolas groped around at the edge of the door. He came up with a tallow-dip, which he took to the dim little streetlamp and held it up until it took. He brought it back, sheltering it from the breeze with one hand, and Mags followed him and the light inside.

The shop seemed to hold a mish-mash of just about anything and everything; there were tables heaped with old clothes and shoes, battered tools and kitchen utensils hung on the walls, and above them were shelves with boxes on them. Everything on the wall had a paper tag on it. Only half the shop was open to the public; the other half was behind a wall with a barred window in it and a counter behind the window. It had another locked door, which Nikolas unlocked after lighting a lamp in the front. They both went inside, and Nikolas locked the door behind them.

This, clearly, was where the valuable things were kept. Tools in much better condition, silver plate, some jewelry in trays. There was more in labeled boxes on shelves along the walls. Mags didn’t have a chance to do more than glance around when a bell over the door rang and a man entered.

“I hope that boy of yours came with you this time, Weasel,” said the man, sounding irritated, as he pulled a small box out of a pouch and shoved it under the bars of the window.

“He ain’t my boy, and aye, I got ’im,” Nikolas half snarled. Since Mags had been standing away from the window looking at the things hung up on the wall when the man came in, he gave no indication that he had heard anything until Nikolas reached over and shook his shoulder, roughly.

He turned, hunching over in the same servile posture he used to take at the mine when one of the owner’s sons accosted him. Nikolas pushed him toward the counter and opened the box, spilling out the rough-cut gemstones inside onto a tray. There was already a magnifying lens on the tray, waiting. Mags nodded, and Nikolas brought over a cobbler’s lamp and lit it so that the clear light fell on the tray. Mags picked up the lens and the first of the stones, doing his best to ignore the man’s beer-laden, foul breath, as he leaned forward to watch Mags sort.