Soraya tested the air herself, and found only the aroma of cooking meats, which made her stomach do a bad kind of flip. She’d been warned in advance, of course, but it didn’t make it any easier to comprehend that people could kill other living creatures, burn them with fire, and then eat them.

Thankfully, Shim drew her thoughts in another direction. “We should get to work before we attract too much attention.”

He was right. Already heads were turning in their direction. Once more, she felt naked and had that sudden urge to turn and run, not stopping until she was hidden safely in the forest. Instead, she swallowed the feeling and said, “Where do we start?”

Shim gestured to a slight, old woman sitting with her back to a wall, wrinkled hand extended in the hopes that some kindly passerby would drop a coin or two into her palm. Thus far, her hand was empty. “We start with her,” he said.

“This is my spot,” the woman said when Shim crouched down next to her. She said it without looking at him, milky-eyed stare focused toward the crowded marketplace. As a boy passed by, he dropped a coin in her hand. “Gods bless, Saman,” he said, and then he was gone, as though swallowed by the hordes of people.

There was the briefest flash of bronze and then the woman’s hand moved with the speed of a striking snake into the folds of her filthy clothes. When it emerged again, extending outwards and opening, it was empty. The whole thing had taken less than three seconds.

Nice racket, Soraya thought, wondering how much coin the woman took in on a typical day by pretending to be destitute.

“Saman, is that your name?” Shim asked.

“Means ‘Grandmother’ to Wastelanders. If ye don’t know that, then ye’re not from the borderlands, are ye? Also, yer still in my spot.”

Shim reached into a pocket and slid something free—a silver coin, which he pinched between thumb and forefinger. “This,” he said, “is to sit in your spot. And this…” Another silver coin appeared, as if by magic. “…is for the things you’re going to tell us.”

As he placed the coins onto the woman’s palm, she tried to snap her hand shut like a flytrap, but he withdrew them too quickly. “Not so fast. I need assurances.”

The woman glared at him. “I am but a poor, hungry, old woman, and if yer rich enough to draw leaves with golden paint on yer faces, then the pair of ye are rich indeed.”

“And you’re more like a rich, full-bellied scoundrel, but I’ll give you the ‘old’ part.”

“How dare ye?”

Shim said nothing, waiting patiently.

“Fine. I’ll answer ye questions. That’s a promise, and Old Saman Ji always keeps her promises.”