The boy dropped his eyes and clasped his hands around his mug of gin. He said nothing. Mock raised his knife and pointed across the table. But then he cried out, because the rats were passing back and forth along the floor, and one had bitten him in the ankle through a rip in his plastic boot. It was a slow, trusting, unsuspicious beast, and it stood on its hind legs looking up at him, as if curious of his bad language. Before he could be restrained, Mock brought his heel down and crushed its head.

“Watch that,” cried the landlady, a middle-aged slattern with painted lips and cheeks, and teeth stained blue from kaya gum. “That’s all I need. That’s murder on the premises, even if it’s only tenth degree.”

She leaned over the stove to peer doubtfully at the furry, purselike body.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” said Mock. “What’s one more dead rat?”

“You can’t be too careful,” muttered the landlady.

Mock looked around the room. “Natural causes,” he observed. “Five witnesses. Six,” he said, frowning at Prince Abu, who sat in a corner with his cloak pulled around him. “Upped and died. Heart attack, I’d say. It’s common enough in these sad days.” He got to his feet and picked the rat up by its tail. Then he crossed the room, unbolted the door, and threw it out into the street. Rain blew in, and mud slopped over the sill into the room.

“Don’t just leave it on the doorstep,” called out the landlady. “Throw it across next door. I don’t want any questions tonight, not with you all dressed up. Not with that lot,” she said, motioning to the food on the table. “All those rats are numbered,” she muttered dubiously.

“Crap. That’s what they say. It’s a lie.” Mock bolted the door and turned back into the room, smiling.

He limped as he came back to the table.

“You’ll come to a bad end, Jason Mock,” said the woman, shaking her head.

“That’s what the parsons claimed when I was born,” said the thief. “You think so too?” And without a muscle moving, his expression changed from a smile to a dark scowl. “Will I? I tell you it’s a short road for all of us, and the only thing that’s never sure until you know, is whether it’ll lead you to the scaffold or the stake, whether it’ll be this month or next. That’s all. Other than that, you can rest easy.”

During this outburst, the boy started to cry, gently, hiding his face in his hands. He put his head down in the cradle of his arms on the dirty table. The thief stood above him and clenched his fist in the air.

“Nothing to cry about,” he said. “What’s there to cry about, Boy?”

“You leave him alone,” exclaimed another woman, younger and fresher than the landlady, but not much.

“Haven’t you done enough?”

“What’s the matter, Boy?” repeated Mock harshly.