“You listen to me, Byrne,” Gillen said. “Maybe you’re the son of the commander, and maybe you go to the academy. That don’t mean nothin’. You’re still just a boy. You don’t know these streets like we do. This ’un’s a cold-blooded killer and a thief. Just never been caught red-handed before.”

Byrne stood and faced Gillen. “Where’s your proof? He got beat up? That’s it?”

Good one, Han thought, silently rooting for the blueblood corporal, but knowing better than to say anything aloud.

Gillen nudged Han with a foot, none too gently. “They call him Cuffs,” Gillen said. “He’s the leader of a street gang named the Raggers. They been feuding with the Southies for years. Two days ago, the Southies caught Cuffs on his own in Brickmaker’s Alley. If the Guard hadn’t showed up, he’d be dead a’ready.”

Gillen grinned and ran his pale tongue over his cracked lips. “Would’ve been a service to the community if we’d let them finish the job. Them poor devils we found yesterday—you saw what was done to ’em. Had to be the Raggers. No one else would take the Southies on. It’s a revenge killing for sure, and this ’un’s responsible.”

Corporal Byrne looked down at Han, swallowing hard. “Fine. We take him in for questioning. He confesses or he doesn’t. No beatings. Any confession you beat out of a person doesn’t mean anything. They’ll say anything to make you stop.”

Gillen spat on the ground. “You’ll learn, Corporal. You can’t coddle a street rat. They’ll turn on you, and they have teeth, believe me.” He turned to the watching bluejackets. “Bring ’im along, then. We’ll see to him back at the guardhouse.” The way he said it gave Han the shivers. This do-gooder Corporal Byrne wouldn’t be there every hour of every day.

“One other thing, sir,” Byrne said. “Maybe you should give him back his purse.”

Gillen leveled a look of such vitriol at Byrne that, despite everything, Han had to stifle himself to keep from laughing. Gillen reached into his coat and pulled out Han’s purse, made a show of digging through it to make sure he didn’t have any weapons in there, then jammed it back into Han’s jacket pocket.

No telling how long it’d stay there.

Two bluejackets grabbed Han’s arms and hauled him upright, and the pain was blinding. His left forearm felt like it was packed with shards of glass. They draped his arms over their shoulders and began dragging him between them. Han hung, limp as a rag, trying not to pass out, his mind racing furiously, leaping from thought to thought.