“What’s next?” she asked Becca Almspend.

“Paper-makers,” Becca responded, looking at her tablet. “Master Elena Diodora. Or should I say, Mistress.”

The two left the yard and trudged north along the street.

Harndon—Lessa

Lessa moved quickly through the darkening streets. Above her head, a great, dark column like distant smoke climbed out of the north and west, a reaching hand of darkness that scared her more than the scarred killer she’d chosen to follow. She had her reasons, just as no doubt he had his own.

She was dressed like a beggar or a prostitute, in ragged wool kirtle several sizes too large and a shapeless overdress whose lower hem was almost black with old mud. She was barefoot, and the filthy streets oozed a cold mud that stank like nothing she’d ever encountered before she’d undertaken this adventure.

She didn’t like the looming darkness in the north, and she didn’t like that men watched her as if she was prey. She was careful, moving from cover to cover, aware that Tyler should have sent Tom or Sam on this mission except that they were both as stupid as the oxen they’d followed all their lives.

Yet for all her care, she didn’t see the man until he stepped out from a narrow alley. His open palm slammed into her shoulder and with the same arm he spilled her into the muddy street.

He put a booted foot on her stomach. “Whose little whore are you?” he asked. “Mine now, sweetie. Someone’s a fool for letting you walk alone where big bad men like me can find you.”

He was tall, strongly built, with a handsome face and a sword at his hip and fine gold earrings. He might have been a courtier in foppish Galle clothes, but everything about him shouted pimp. The clothes were too tight, the shoes too worn.

He leaned down. “Oh, sweeting, fear not. We will be such friends.” His smile was as false as the jewel in his dagger hilt.

Lessa glanced at the mouth of the alley to make sure he didn’t have a bravo at his back and then plunged a little dagger into the back of his calf. He shrieked and fell; she rolled over, fouling her whole gown, and ran.

Her limbs felt weak and she hated her weakness; her hands trembled even as she ran, and she had to lean against a building and master herself, so great was her fear and revulsion. But there was no pursuit and in a minute she had her head together. Then she went more carefully, passing along the north of Cheapside and glancing briefly at the crowds outside the grand priory. The word was that the knights were curing the plague. Tyler said the knights were their enemies as much as the king and queen, and Lessa wasn’t sure she agreed.