“Well, I could try, but he has a lot of long-standing customers, you know…” Han shrugged his shoulders. He’d spotted a plate of meat buns on the sideboard. His sister, Mari, loved meat buns. “Uh…Matieu. Got any plans for those buns?”

Han left The Keg and Crown whistling, a girlie richer, with four pork buns wrapped in a napkin. It was shaping up to be a good day after all.

He turned down Brickmaker’s Alley, heading for the bridge over the Dyrnnewater that would take him into Ragmarket. He was nearly through when the light died in the passageway, as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

He looked ahead to see that the exit from the alley was now corked with two bodies.

A familiar voice reverberated off the stone buildings to either side. “Well, now, what have we here? A Ragger on our turf?”

Bones. It was Shiv Connor and his Southies.

Han spun around, meaning to beat it back the way he came, and found two more grinning Southies blocking his escape. This meeting wasn’t random, then. They’d been laying for him, had chosen this place on purpose.

There were six Southies altogether, four boys and two girlies, ranging in age from a year or two younger than Han to a year older. He’d have no room to maneuver in the narrow alleyway, no way to protect his back. It was a mark of respect, recognition of his name in Southbridge.

That was one way to look at it.

In the old days, he’d have had his seconds with him. He’d never have allowed himself to get in a fix like this.

He thought of saying he wasn’t with the Raggers anymore, but that would just mark him as an easy victim, someone without protection or turf of his own.

Han’s hand found the hilt of his knife and he pulled it free, palming it, though he knew it would do him no good. If he was stripped of his purse and badly beaten, that’d be a lucky outcome.

Han put his back to the alley wall. “Just passing through,” he said, lifting his chin, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “Meaning no disrespect.”

“Yeah? Well, I mark it different, Cuffs.” Shiv and his gang formed a loose semicircle around Han. The streetlord was redheaded and blue-eyed, his face pale and beardless as a fancy girl’s, marked only by the purple gang symbol on his right cheek and an old knife scar that dragged his left eye down at the corner.

Shiv wasn’t big, and he was no older than Han. He ruled by virtue of his skill with a blade and his willingness to cut your heart out while you slept. Or any other time. A complete lack of a conscience made him powerful.