“I don’t know what magic you perform, boy. But as long as you pay, I don’t care whether you were mothered by the Raven Queen herself.”

At that, they both smiled. Grasp Senior would have taken the Commander’s words as a compliment.

Petronio was no longer just a messenger boy. Flint offered him another drink and swept the ingots off the table and locked them carefully away in a chest.

The sergeant was summoned to give the boy a decent bed for what remained of the night. Somehow, this boy had wormed his way into the Commander’s goodwill. Instinct told the sergeant that whatever message the boy brought, no good would come of it. His foul mood was made worse when he’d been instructed to return the boy’s weapons.

And now, as Petronio sped south on the silver stallion, he was almost giddy with it all, secretly hoping that Fenestra would be impressed by his success.

It was evening when he arrived home, gaslight already compensating for the weakening twilight. Petronio was famished. But to business first.

As he handed the reins to the groom, he spotted Salix marching across the yard.

“Where’s my father?”

Salix glared at him. He might be beholden to the Councillor, but not his useless offspring. “Busy. Not to be disturbed.”

“You know, it might be in your favor to treat me better….”

Salix had a good idea what sort of treatment he’d like to mete out to the pompous toad. It was this boy’s fault in the first place that the plumber had got away. Now Salix was being blamed for yet another vanishing act. Better to keep his thoughts to himself. He strode off to find Alnus and round up the others. The search was not over yet.

The lack of greeting dampened Petronio’s mood, but he wasn’t going to be dismissed so easily. He ran up to his father’s study and burst in.

“Good news, Father!” Maybe, just this once, he might be praised. One look at his father’s face told him otherwise.

“Good news? I’m glad yours is.” Grasp sounded bitter, exhausted. “The boy is on the loose again and you were the one to let him go!”

Petronio was confused. “What boy?” He thought of Flinty and his gang — surely his father didn’t care about the fate of a northern squit?

“Malikum, you idiot! How your mother ever managed to produce such an imbecile!” Grasp sat at his desk, his pencil stabbing a sheet of paper as if it were a prisoner under questioning.

Petronio did a double take. “But he’s —?”

“Dead? Not when I last clapped eyes on him, slipping down a soil pipe like the rat that he is. And while he lives, our plans, and whatever good news you might have brought, lie in jeopardy.” The point of the pencil snapped.