A painter once told Sed that shadow is blackest at the very border of light. How precisely that phrase described Seltrivelle.

  Along the left bank of the Sel, like an ugly reflection of the wealthy quarters, an altogether different life began: the district of Sharto, the quarter of Anzi, and others like them.

  A century ago, it was the poor who first settled here; since then, only the number of souls had changed. There were so many of them, and so little space, that the districts began to grow not outward, but upward. Houses were raised one atop another, crusting over with endless stairs, lean-tos, and blind alleys.

  The widest street could barely hold a single person. In rainy seasons the roads drowned in mud so deep that Sed preferred not to go down at all, but to move by the roofs. From the direction of the workshops came the stink of tanned leather. Below, despite the late hour, the rabble swarmed like insects: beggars, labourers, whores. Just as dull, just as obedient to their lot. Most had never once stepped beyond the nearest districts.

  The Church teaches that each is born beneath his own star, and that the gods have traced a path in advance—follow it, and you will find peace in both lives. That is, some are fated to live in luxury, wear warm furs, and give orders, while others must toil to survive, go in rags, and rot in misery. Once, this enraged Sed. How can the gods be so unjust? he would think. But years of living here had changed his view: the idea was flawless, for it matched human nature itself. Sheep sit in pens under the guard of dogs, oxen plough the earth, and beetles fuss in the filth and die. Everyone is content, and otherwise they simply do not know how to live. And in the end, it is no longer clear—whether the gods decreed it so, or men did.

  Be that as it may, Sedrik had long since found his own road. If the gods and the nobles were pleased by his poverty, then he must go against them. If under their light he was a slave, then he would go into shadow. In darkness there are no estates; only what you are, and what you want. He did not count himself some wretched workhand.

  Reaching the quarter of Anzi, the thief made several circles above the alleyways; then, once he was sure no one was tailing him, he dropped to the right building and gave a tug on a rope threaded between boards. Inside, there was movement.

  The door was opened by a dwerg with hair combed back. Unlike his kin, he wore no beard, following the local fashion. The man smirked and beckoned him in.

  For the first time that night, Sed found himself in a lit place. Lamps with candles burned on the table and shelves. Along the walls stood chests of drawers, and at the far end of the room—a massive table with scales.

  — Show it! — the dwerg rasped.

  Unhurriedly, Sedrik set the box on the table. Dwain flung the lid open, and a broad smile lit his face.

  — Good! The client will be delighted. — He drank in the little figures with relish, until he heard a dry cough across from him.

  — Of course, of course, — rummaging in the table, he handed Sed a hefty pouch. Thief untied it at once and, bracing his shoulder to the wall, began to count.

  — Do you have games like that underground? — the doer asked.

  — Stones. We paint pebbles white and black, then try to drive each other into a trap. But I’ve never played.

  — You don’t wear a beard, you don’t dig earth, you don’t play stones—what kind of dwerg are you?

  — Richer than those who dig, that’s for certain. And you, “wrong sort of man,” how did it go?

  — The twins brought a surprise. The little lamb took the set out of the house and buried it in the yard.

  — Truly!? — Dwain grinned. — A baron digging a hole—that must be a sight.

  — Sadly, I didn’t catch it. By the way, what was that business with Jafye? Seems it was the news about him that set Patye into such a panic.

  — Brought trophies back from Far’Zira. Rumours leaked through the servants and reached the Guild. They climbed in by the downspout, carried everything off—even the carpet.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  — Sounds like good times are coming.

  — Aye. Knights are returning from the eastern campaign with treasures. The Guild will have plenty of work soon.

  — So, will I.

  Finishing the count, Sed stepped up to the table.

  — What can you offer? I need something big, so those bastards in the Guild understand who rules the city now.

  Dwain raised an eyebrow.

  — How modest you are! — He looked at his companion as though weighing how serious those intentions were.

  — There’s something. Heard of Ettiere?

  — The whole city has.

  — Our hero-lover arrived a couple of days ago—seems to gladden us once more with his escapades. While he was in Ferrara, they gifted him an overseas treasure.

  — I’m listening.

  — In seven days, he’ll throw a feast, and every important rank will come, including his little sister the queen and his father. Officially—honouring military victories. In truth—a reshuffling of power. After the king’s death, and part of the nobility with him, the balance shifted; the Louazier family seems to have decided to secure their support by handing out gifts, the most precious of which, by rumour, is the “Black Sapphire.”

  — Sounds not ill.

  — I don’t know much more. They say Ferraran sailors found it when they explored the southern lands. Ettiere brought a heap of valuables to the Louazier estate in the capital—jewels, beasts, and the like. By rumour the stone hasn’t arrived yet and will be on the road a few more days. The Guild already knows of it.

  — Do you know when they’re planning the theft?

  Dwain shook his head.

  Sedrik turned and went for the exit.

  — Keep your ear keen. When the stone is in the city, I want to know at once.

  Left alone, Dwain shrugged, carried the box down to the cellar, and hid it in a wall recess behind barrels. Extinguishing all the candles and taking up a heavy wooden mug, he left the shop in high spirits. For the first time in a long while the weather had cleared, and the dwerg watched the starry sky with quiet happiness. More majestic and more beautiful than any gold or diamonds—a sight unseen by any of his forebears, and by most of his kin.

  How do men, beneath such beauty, manage to be so unhappy?

  With a brisk step he headed for the noisiest, brightest place in the area—the tavern “Spicy Boar.” As always, a crowd was packed inside. Everyone sang, cursed, laughed; judging by the sound of the lute, Gyuste was still sober.

  Entering, Dwain went straight to the serving table. On the other side stood a woman with dark curly hair; scraping foam from ale mugs, she muttered something under her breath.

  — Hello, beauty, — the dwerg said, hopping up onto a stool.

  The hostess gave a strained smile.

  — Dwain, how good that you’re here, I need—

  — Colette, don’t fret. I’ll pay. But first I want a drink.

  — You’ll have to wait.

  — I’m in no hurry tonight.

  — Any word from Sed? Is he even alive?

  The dwerg waved it off.

  — Don’t know. Haven’t seen him in a while. Better tell me—what’s the business with Jess?

  Now Colette waved it off in her turn.

  — Never came back. Likely left with that merchant. Haven’t found a new one yet.

  — Pity. She was something, that one… — Meeting Colette’s embittered glare, Dwain fell silent.

  As usual, Colette boiled over, launching into curses, while he only smiled and cracked jokes back.

  Meanwhile, far from the lights, the songs, and the dancing, Sedrik continued his way along the roofs, forcing his thoughts away—thinking in the street is suicide for a thief, especially when you’re at war with the Guild.

  His path lay to the district of Sharto, remote both from the market and from the craftsmen’s quarter.

  The return to the hideout was never the same. This time it was through the roof, then a climb several levels higher, then out onto the other side of the building, from where you could reach the ladder by beams.

  While the guild thieves hid like rats in tunnels, one of Sedrik’s hideouts sat on high ground. At first glance it was an empty wooden room. The main thing was behind boards and other secret places: tools, maps, draughts, ingredients—everything spread out in different spots and well concealed.

  It was also one of those rare places where you could sleep or meditate with a smaller chance of taking a knife in the back. From the single small window, you could see the separated right bank. Brushing an empty saucer once used for milk off the sill, Sed looked out at the mighty distant silhouettes: the estates of Mirchelle, the Cathedral of Saint Veron, and the mansion of Duke Louazier.