Chert sank to the floor in despair. It was hopeless. Even if he could somehow sneak out of the residence and through the Raven Gate, running as fast as he could, Okros and the soldiers would still get there before him. All this because of Chaven and his damned, blasted mirror! Ruined by his cursed secrets…!

Then he remembered the passage underneath Chaven’s observatory. That would get him to the outskirts of Funderling Town in only moments, perhaps while Okros and the soldiers were still trying to find their way through the confusing stone warren of dark streets to locate his house—he doubted any Funderling would give the big folk much help. Nothing made Chert’s neighbors more resentful than people from aboveground throwing their weight around, especially in the little folk’s own domain.

It’s barely a chance, but it’s better than naught, he told himself. He jumped to his feet and put his head close to the Rooftopper.

“Thank you, and tell Beetledown I thank him, too,” Chert whispered. “I will ask the Earth Elders to lead him to great blessings—but now I must go save my family.”

Chert ran off down the passage, leaving his tiny savior spinning on his thread like a startled spider.

The last two days had brought Matt Tinwright attention that at any other time would have delighted him, but just now was wretchedly inconvenient. Because he had been invited to read a poem by Hendon Tolly himself, and in front of Hendon’s brother Duke Caradon, many of those at court had decided Tinwright was becoming a pet of the Tollys and therefore someone whose acquaintance was worth cultivating. People who had never bothered to speak to him before now seemed to sidle up to him wherever he went, desiring a love poem written for them or a good word spoken about them to the new masters of Southmarch.

Today he had finally found a chance to slip off on his own. Most of the castle’s inhabitants and refugees were in Market Square at the festival celebrating the third day of Kerneia, so the corridors, courtyards, and wintry gardens of the inner keep were largely empty as Tinwright made his way out of the residence and into the warren of cramped streets that lay in the shadow of the old walls behind the residence.

When he reached the two-story cottage at the end of a row of flimsy, weatherbeaten houses not far from the massive base of the Summer Tower, he went up the stairs quietly—not because he thought anyone would hear him (the street’s inhabitants were no doubt all drinking free ale in Market Square) but more because the magnitude of his crime seemed to demand a certain respect best shown by silence and slow movements. Brigid opened the door. The barmaid was dressed for the tavern, her bodice pushing up her breasts like biscuits overflowing a pan, but that was the only thing welcoming about her.

“Tinwright, you miserable lizard, you were supposed to be here an hour gone! I’ll lose my position—or worse, I’ll have to turn my tail to Conary again to keep it. I should go right to your Hendon Tolly and tell him all about you.”