It was almost ridiculous. Azoth practically flew from the force of the blow. He sprawled in the dirt and got up slowly, his hands and knees bleeding. He’s so small!

How did I ever fear this? Azoth’s eyes bled fear. He was crying, making little whimpers in the darkness. Rat said, “I’m going to have to hurt you, Azoth. You’ve made me. I didn’t want it to be this way. I wanted you with me.”

It was all too easy. Azoth had come back to the guild already destroyed. Rat didn’t like it. He wanted to do something to seal Azoth’s humiliation.

He stepped forward and grabbed Azoth’s hair. He pulled him up to his knees, enjoying the little cries of pain the boy gave.

He owed what would come next to Neph. Rat didn’t particularly like boys more than girls. He didn’t see much difference. But Rat never would have thought of this as a weapon if Neph hadn’t told him how much it broke a person’s spirit to be forced.

It had become one of Rat’s favorites. Anyone could make a girl scared, but the boys in the guild feared him more than they had ever feared anyone. They looked at Bim or Weese or Pod or Jarl and they melted. And the more he had done it, the more it stirred him. Just looking at Azoth now, on his knees, eyes round with fear, made Rat’s loins stir. There was nothing like watching the fire of defiance roar high and then, quickly or over many nights, die, flare up again, and die forever.

“A wetboy has to lose himself,” Durzo said. “No, abandon himself. To be a perfect killer, he has to wear the perfect skin for each kill. Gwinvere, you understand, don’t you?”

She recrossed her long legs. “Understanding is what sets courtesans apart from whores. I get under the skin of every man to walk through my doors. If I know a man, I know how to please him. I know how to manipulate him so that he’ll try to buy my love and become competitive with the others trying to do the same thing, but not become jealous of them.”

“A wetboy has to know his deaders like that,” Durzo said.

“And you don’t think Azoth can do that?”

“Oh no. I think he can,” Durzo said. “But after you know a man or a woman like that—after you wear their skin and walk a few miles in it, you can’t help but love them—”

“But it’s not real love,” Gwinvere said quietly.

“—and when you love them, that’s the moment a wetboy has to kill.”

“And that’s what Azoth can’t do.”

“He’s too soft.”

“Even now, even after what happened to his little friend?”

“Even now.”

“You were right,” Azoth said through his tears. He looked up at Rat standing over him, moonlight throwing his shadow over Azoth. “I knew what you wanted, and I wanted it, too. I just . . . I just couldn’t. But I’m ready now.”

Rat looked down at him, a faint light of suspicion blooming in his eyes.

“I found a special place for us . . .” Azoth stopped. “But it doesn’t matter, we can do it here. We should do it here.” Rat’s eyes were hard, but unreadable. Azoth stood slowly, holding on to Rat’s hips. “Let’s just do it here. Let the whole guild hear us. Let everyone know.”

His whole body was shaking and there was no way to hide it. Revulsion was arcing through him like lightning, but he kept his face hopeful, pretended his trembling was pure naive uncertainty. I can’t. I can’t. Let him kill me. Anything but . . . If he thought, if he considered anything for another second, he was lost.

Azoth reached a trembling hand up to Rat’s cheek, and stood, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

“No,” Rat said, slapping him. “We do this my way.”

“To ply this trade, a man has to value nothing, has to sacrifice . . .” Durzo trailed off.

“Everything?” Gwinvere asked. “Like you’ve done so well? My sister might have words about that.”

“Vonda’s dead because I didn’t,” Durzo said. He wouldn’t meet Gwinvere’s gaze. Out the window, night was just beginning to lose its hold on the city.

Looking at Durzo there, his hard, pockmarked face glowing yellow sorrow in the lamplight, Gwinvere softened. “So you fell in love, Durzo. Not even wetboys are immune. Love is a madness.”

“Love is failure. I lost everything because I failed.”

“And what do you do if Azoth fails?” Gwinvere asked.

“I let him die. Or I kill him.”

“You need him,” she said gently. “You told me yourself that he’ll call a ka’kari to you.”

Before Durzo could say anything, there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Momma K said.

One of Gwinvere’s maids, obviously a former courtesan herself, now too old for the brothels, poked her head in the door. “There’s a boy to see you, milady. His name is Azoth.”

“Show him in,” Gwinvere said.

Durzo looked at her. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Gwinvere was amused. “I suppose that if he’s the kind of boy you can mold into a wetboy, he can’t be without certain resources.”

“Damn, I left him not three hours ago,” Durzo said.

“So?”

“So I told him I’d kill him if I saw him without proof. You know I can’t make idle threats.” Durzo sighed. “You might have been right, but it’s out of my hands.”

“He’s not here for you, Durzo. He’s here to see me. So why don’t you do your little shadow thing and disappear?”

“My little shadow thing?”

“Now, Durzo.”

The door opened and a bleeding, wretched boy was shown in. But even beat up as he was, Gwinvere would have picked him out from a thousand guild rats. This guild rat had fire in his eyes. He stood straight even though his face was abraded, his mouth and nose dribbling blood. He looked at her unabashedly, but was either young enough or smart enough that he looked at her eyes rather than at her cleavage.

“You see more than most, don’t you,” Momma K said. It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t even nod. He was too young to be mocking her tendency to state questions, so there was something else in that flat stare he was giving her.

Of course. “And you’ve seen something terrible, haven’t you?”

Azoth just looked at her with big eyes, trembling. He was a picture of the naked innocence that died every day in the Warrens. It stirred something in her that she’d thought long dead. Without so much as a word, she knew she could offer the boy a mother’s arms, a mother’s embrace, a safe place. She could give a refuge, even to this child of the Warrens, who’d probably never been held in his life. A soft look, a touch on his cheek, and a word, and he would collapse into her arms and cry.

And what will Durzo do? Vonda had barely been dead three months. He’d lost more than lover when she’d died, and Gwinvere didn’t know if he’d ever recover. Will he understand that Azoth’s tears don’t make him weak?

To be honest with herself, Gwinvere knew that holding Azoth wouldn’t be just for Azoth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d held someone who hadn’t paid for the privilege.