Going to the forge, she hesitated, then wrapped her hands around the red tip of the iron bar she had caught. It felt warm, but pleasantly so.

“Now,” Frostpine said, coming back inside. She looked at his hands—he’d taken the hot iron from her. He wore no gloves; now that she thought of it, he hadn’t worn them all afternoon. “Where were we?”

Supper was a quiet meal: only Niko, Lark, and Rosethorn talked. The four children were exhausted after their day, half-asleep before sunset.

“We’ll visit the baths now. Lark and I will clean up after we return,” Rosethorn said when they had finished. “You children go to bed early—you look done up.”

“Why the change?” asked Sandry, yawning.

“Once a month we go to the Summersea market,” explained Lark. “We sell goods from Winding Circle’s booth.”

Sandry clapped her hands, Tris sat up straight, and Daja smiled. Summersea was one of the Pebbled Sea’s great ports: the market would have all sorts of interesting things.

“It’s too soon for me to leave my shakkan,” protested Briar. “I should stay with it. What if that Dedicate Crane steals it back?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Rosethorn replied. “And it’s no good hovering over a shakkan. They take their time.”

Lark stood. “Everyone, collect your bathing gear. From the look of things, we’ll have to make sure you don’t fall asleep and drown.”

The children raced to obey.

10

Up an hour before dawn the next day, they slept through most of the ride, cushioned in the cart by cloth, yarn, and bottles and crocks of liquids and ointments. By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, they were rolling through the Mire, the city’s slum, part of a line of wagons, people, horses, and flocks on their way to market. When they passed through the city wall between the Mire and Summersea proper, Briar sighed with relief. He was not sure how he felt, looking at a slum that was so much like the one where he grew up.

The immense market square was jammed with merchants and shoppers. When they reached their booth, Rosethorn wasted no time in putting everyone to work setting their wares on the shelves and table. Once the cart was empty but for a canvas-wrapped bolt of cloth, Lark drove off. Niko, who had accompanied them on horseback, followed her.

Briar and Daja—who had brought her staff—guarded the booth. Sandry and Tris showed goods, looked up prices, and wrapped the items that were sold. Rosethorn talked to favored customers while handling the cash box. It was a busy morning, with hardly a moment of quiet. All of them ate their midday standing up.

Soon after that, Lark returned. “We can let the children go, can’t we, Rosie? You and I will mind things.”

Rosethorn eyed the youngsters. “Promise to stay together? And out of trouble?” They nodded.

She pointed to the Guildhall clock. “Return by three.” Taking coins from her belt-purse, she handed them out. “Here’s five copper crescents each. Don’t buy anything illegal. Now, scat!”

“Come on,” said Briar when Sandry hesitated.

“Before she changes her mind,” Daja added. She grabbed one of Sandry’s arms, Briar the other, and they dragged her away. Tris brought up the rear.

Their first stop was a sweetshop, where they spent a crescent apiece; their second was at the market fountain, to wash their sticky hands. After that they wandered among the stalls. Sandry found a wooden drop spindle painted dark green and bought it. Tris located a seller of used books and dived into his crates, examining each volume. The others drifted away. Finding a copper-monger’s stall on the outer rim of the square, Daja stopped to admire his finely worked serving dishes. Briar struck up a conversation with two ragged boys.

Finding a spot where people wouldn’t bump her, Sandry eyed the buildings around the square nearby: Summersea Guildhall, Provost’s Hall, Traders’ Hall. The Guildhall in particular was very fine, with statues of craftsmen tucked in niches around the first story. She was about to go have a closer look when a dog’s yelp, followed by human laughter, got her attention. Looking around, she saw an alley where six boys, fairly well dressed, were bent over something.

“Stop that!” she cried. Running over, she seized a boy. “How dare you!”

Her captive—a big youth in a green tunic—slammed her, knocking her onto a pile of refuse. Scrambling to her feet, Sandry hit another lad. He tried to kick her, but managed somehow to tangle his foot in her skirt. Grabbing his ankle, she twisted, dumping him onto his back. She seized his neighbor, trying to drag him away from the others. That boy caught one of her braids and yanked hard. With a scream that was as much rage as pain, Sandry bit his arm. He yelled and punched her in the stomach.

Hearing a commotion, Daja looked around. Briar was still talking to the ragged boys; Tris was bargaining for a book. Where was Sandry?

“Bullies!” she heard a familiar voice cry. “Oafs! Torturing an animal—”

“Get out of here!” yelled someone at the square’s edge. A small figure went flying away from a group of boys, to hit a wall.

Daja gripped her staff tightly and ran to Sandry’s aid.

The boy who had thrown Sandry against the wall wasn’t done. As he raised a fist to her, something hard walloped him across the shoulders. He spun around to face a black girl nearly his own height, equipped with a Trader’s staff.

He swung at her. From the ground, Sandry kicked at the backs of his knees, while Daja rammed the head of the staff into his midriff. He went down hard, rolling into a clump of horse manure.