“Half a dozen Southies went down last night,” Matieu said, pulling out his knife again. “And that’s a lot, even for this neighborhood. The bodies was scattered all around the waterfront, left for show. So people are jumpy, thinking the gang war is starting up again.”

“Went down how?” Han asked, staring at him.

“Now isn’t that the odd part,” Matieu said. “Wasn’t your typical knifing or clubbing. They looked like they’d been tortured, then garroted.”

“Maybe somebody looking for their stash,” Han said, trying for casual, though it wasn’t easy with his mouth gone dry.

“Mayhap.” Matieu waggled his knife at Han, curiosity wrestling with caution all over his face. “Thought as you might know something about it.”

“Me?” Han fastened down the flap on his bag. “What would I know about it?”

“Ever’body knows you’re streetlord of the Raggers. And ever’body knows the Southies roughed you up th’other day. Looks like payback to me.”

“Well, ever—everybody’s wrong,” Han said. “I’m out of that.”

“Ri-ight,” Matieu said. “Just remember—I don’t want no trouble.”

Han hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “Believe me, I don’t want trouble either.”

But trouble had a way of finding him. As he walked out of The Keg and Crown, he just had time to notice it had begun to rain again, before someone grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the stone wall of the tavern.

Bloody Southies! he thought. He kicked and struggled, trying to make himself a moving target, expecting at any moment to feel a knife slide between his ribs. But his captor kept him pinned to the wall with one hand while ripping his bag free with the other. The bottles clanked as the bag hit the ground. Then he was crudely patted down one-handed, and relieved of his several knives. And his purse.

Finally his attacker slung him around and smashed him against the wall, face out this time. Han found himself staring into a familiar face, sallow and unhealthy-looking, with thin cruel lips drawn back from yellow rotten teeth. His breath was staggeringly bad.

It was his old nemesis, Mac Gillen, sergeant in the Queen’s Guard. And behind him, another half dozen bluejackets.

“Hey! Give me back my purse,” Han said loudly, figuring it was best to raise the topic early and often.

Gillen punched him hard in the stomach, and the breath exploded from Han’s lungs.

“Well now, Cuffs, you’ve done it this time,” Gillen said, taking advantage of Han’s inability to speak. “I knowed just who was responsible, and I knowed just where to find you. Had to wait a bit is all.”

“I…don’t know…what you’re talking about,” Han gasped, doubled over, arms wrapped protectively over his midsection.