She should have noticed the cessation of street noise, followed by the ominous slap of feet. A pack of armed men strode down the street, breaking off in groups of two and three to climb onto the porches of shops and dive through the entrances without even the courtesy of taking off their sandals.

The girl reached over the counter to tug on Marit’s sleeve. “We have to hide!” she whispered, but her thoughts screamed: They’ll take me like they took Brother. Father won’t protect me this time. “Quick, duck down over behind the chest there, they won’t look. Papa!” She opened the door to the back and vanished as she slid the door hard shut behind her.

Shelves lined the shop front, but pickings were scarce: a pair of used brushes polished to look new; a single piece of stiff new harness, and several neatly looped lead lines recently oiled. A few other refurbished items also catered to travelers whose gear might have broken along the road. The chest had the bulky look of a piece left behind by a prosperous merchant fallen on hard times; not many people could afford the weight of such an oversized container.

The door to the back snapped open.

“Cursed beggar!” A sweat-stained man slammed the door shut behind him. Marit realized she had let her cloak open, which revealed her ragged clothing still damp from the dawn’s shower. “Get out of the shop, or duck down behind that chest. I don’t want trouble from you! Beyond what I’ve already got!”

She dropped down into the narrow gap between the chest and a set of lower shelves. The space was so small she had to turn her head to breathe, facing into the open shelving. A pile of brushes and combs had been shoved back here, pieces missing teeth or with wood cracking.

A heavy stride hammered along the porch. A man’s voice raised in the shop next door.

“You promised me eight new halters, but here are only four. I’ll need coin to make up for the ones I’ll have to purchase elsewhere.”

A murmured reply answered him. Marit could not hear the exact words, but terror drifted like a miasma. Beside her face, dust smeared the lowest shelf and its discarded goods, and dust stirred in an unsettled swirl of air as the man stomped into the shop where she hid.

“Heya! What about it!” he shouted, although there was something insincere about the way he bellowed. “Where are those lead lines you promised us?” In a lower, more natural voice, he added, “What news, you cursed worm?”

The shopkeeper replied in a rapid whisper. “There’s little to tell, Captain. The leatherworker is hiding the rest of his stock in the grain house in his courtyard. The woman who makes banners is hiding stock down by the mulberry orchard, in the old tomb of the Mothers, plenty of good cloth for tents and other such things. This is the third week the farmers have refused to come to market.”