“Sir, please sir, my sister, she’s gone mad with fever, and she’s locked me out of our house. Sir, please, I need your help, I need your axe, milord, please, I need you to chop down our door.” It was the ribbon girl, though Malden barely recognized her. She had tucked her hair up inside a snood and turned her ragged kirtle inside out to show a different color. Such talent—Malden hoped Cutbill knew what a marvel he had in his employ, and what she was worth. “Sir, please, your help is most needed!”

Hazoth’s retainer snarled and kicked at the girl but she was fast enough to avoid being struck. The tale she spun was obviously something she’d come up with on the spot, but the details didn’t matter. The retainer shouted for her to leave off, and suddenly every eye in the market was turned in his direction.

It wasn’t so much that the marketers were astounded that a grown man would shout at a girl like that, or threaten her with a naked blade. It was hardly likely they’d been moved by her impromptu tale of woe. But entertainment was where you found it in the Free City of Ness—and this looked like it could be diverting indeed.

Not for the first time Malden gave thanks for the prurience of his fellow citizens. Now that they were all distracted, he could move where he liked through the crowd, and no one would see him go. Better yet, they wouldn’t see Croy. The big knight was simply impossible to make inconspicuous—unless people had something else to look at.

Most importantly of all, no one was looking at Cythera. She slipped between the shoulders of two burly men who were laughing at the sight of a toughened bravo beset by a street urchin. Instantly Cythera was swallowed up by the crowd.

“There,” Malden said, and pointed to a dark alley closest to where Cythera had disappeared. “Go. Now,” he said, and clouted Croy on the arm. The knight headed straight for the alley, and Malden worked his way through the crowd in the same direction, though not by such a direct route.

At the mouth of the alley he stopped and looked into its shadows. Cythera and Croy were already there, deep in conversation. Malden took one last look out at the market. The ribbon girl had managed to pull a length of poplin from a bolt and was weaving it through the bravo’s legs. She did it so deftly it looked like she’d pulled the cloth by accident, caught it with her flailing hands. Anyone lacking Malden’s trained eye would have no idea what she was doing or what fruit it was about to bear.