Snier chuckled while handing up a goblet. “That story made it all the way to Pelliul.”

“You’re kidding? Yeah, I’d probably have enough money for tuition by now if it weren’t for that storm of torches and hymns. But, yeah, back when Mr. Belot hired me, it was simple: More bodies for him, more coin from him. I kept anything I found—which was usually nothing but worm shit—and he got first crack at the haul.”

Jumping out of the hole, “And for that there was a wage?”

“And a decent one,” jumping down to cut off noble ears. “Of course, there was more to it.”

“Not sure I want to know,” Snier said.

“It’s a shame Belot’s gone. Probably dead.”

“Seaz, I got to finally ask it. What the hell does taking apart a few stiffs over and over have anything to do with becoming a doctor? Why not—”

—We were on their bellies. Out from nowhere a clamor of mounted watchmen had appeared. One said “Opium smell,” thankfully riding right past us and then disappearing.

We slithered all the way back to the oak.

Once on the streets my heart pounded less erratically. I con-tinued, “For practice. So, yeah, I worked for him about a year, then he just vanished like he went up in smoke. Metaphorically apt too, I found signs there’d been a fire where he usually worked. Somyellia thinks Belot disappeared because this one vile man he had me take care of may have had even viler friends.”

“Fires. Vile friends. Somyellia hasn’t pieced it all together? She’s from folk not too far off from your Mr. Belot.”

“Only folk of hers I’ve ever met is that onion-headed cousin, Irion. Always tasking her out with brews and broths. I ask her what for and she just clams up and tells me family business.”

—

We made it home and divided the spoil, as we always did. No fuss. No squabble. The haul put food in the gullet, but greater things called. Not long after, Snier broke the news to me that he’d had his fill of grave dirt. I’d made a friend. I’d cared for the little thief from Pelliul, but as is my fate, like Belot, he too would vanish.

VI: The Pauper Morgue

I am Seasmil, and Death has followed me from an early age. Mother and Celly had left the world in different ways, but stalked my dreams equally. Death was as a part of life to me as was ink to a book. So when I found Somyellia dead on our floor I didn’t scream. Life owes us nothing.

She had died suddenly, without warning, at the hand of a ruthless venereal disease. Carried coolly by men but cursing the innards of females, I knew this from the blood that had let from all her orifices and pooled over the symbols she’d repainted. Although I had to be a carrier, she was most likely infected while working her trade.