Sheldon paused, hid behind the pillar of stone, and peered down the moonlight-sprayed street. The stone walls and paved road glistened, looking wet, like the city had been oiled. He checked the dark doorways and the eaves beneath shop canopies. Nothing moved. He listened for the telltale sound of a slapping sword. Old Damansa, with its dung-carpeted paths and matching smell, might not have plumbing, but it also didn’t have sentinels. While there was no curfew in Percepliquis, no proper person had a legit excuse to be out so late. If discovered, the city guards would surely stop him.

“Whatcha name, boy, and whatcha doin’ out here so late?” he imagined them asking, and what could he say? Sheldon was awful at lying and couldn’t tell the truth. For the good of the empire, he had to keep his secrets. What really scorched his giblets, though, was that he hadn’t done nothing—at least not nothing worth getting beat or locked up over. Didn’t steal a thing, never hurt no one, and didn’t owe so much as a pin or a pith to a single living soul. But in Percepliquis, he was The Ragman, condemned just for believing the truth.

Sometimes the truth was confusing, complex, and often took years of study and research to understand. That’s how it had been with woodworking. Back in Damansa, Sheldon had worked under a couple of carpenters for over a decade to become a skilled joiner. Early on, he’d been terrible. Then one day, something clicked. All that previously jumbled, confusing stuff fell into place in his head, and his hands knew exactly what to do. Since then, he could build a cabinet with nothing but the natural expanding swell of the wood to hold it together. He’d learned the truth of joinery, the subtle differences between woods, grains, and shapes. That’s how some truths were.