“He’s an old friend, a noble who has to work for a living. He’s a solicitor.” When Azoth looked puzzled, Master Blint said, “A solicitor is a man who does worse things within the law than most crooks do outside it. But he’s a good man. He’s going to help me make you useful.”

“Master?” Azoth asked. “How’s Doll Girl?”

“She’s not your problem anymore. You’re not to ask about her again.” A minute passed as the streets rolled by. Durzo finally said, “She’s in bad shape, but she’ll live.”

He said nothing more until they were shown into the count’s tiny estate.

Count Drake was a kindly-looking man of perhaps forty. He had a pince nez tucked in a pocket of his vest and he limped as he closed the door behind them and took a seat behind a desk piled high with stacks of papers.

“I never thought you’d take an apprentice, Durzo. In fact, I seem to remember you swearing it—and swearing at great length,” the count said.

“And I still believe every word I said,” Durzo said gruffly.

“Ah, you’re either being terrifically subtle or making no sense at all, my friend.” Count Drake smiled, though, and Azoth could tell it was a real smile, without malice or calculation.

Despite himself, Durzo smiled, too. “They’ve been missing you, Rimbold.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware of anyone shooting at me for some time.” Durzo laughed, and Azoth almost fell out of his chair. He hadn’t thought the wetboy was capable of laughter.

“I need your help,” Durzo said.

“All I have is yours, Durzo.”

“I want to make this boy new.”

“What are you thinking?” Count Drake asked, looking at Azoth quizzically.

“A noble of some sort, relatively poor. The kind who gets invited to social events but doesn’t attract attention.”

“Hmm,” Count Drake said. “The third son of a baron, then. He’ll be upper nobility, but nobody important. Or wait. An eastern baron. My second cousins live two days’ ride beyond Havermere, and most of their lands have been seized by the Lae’knaught, so if you want an ironclad identity, we could make him a Stern.”

“That will do.”

“First name?” Count Drake asked Azoth.

“Azoth,” Azoth said.

“Not your real name, son,” the count said. “Your new name.”

“Kylar,” Durzo said.

The count produced a piece of blank paper and put on the pince nez. “How do you want to spell that? K-Y-L-E-R? K-I-L-E-R?”

Durzo spelled it and the solicitor wrote it down. Count Drake grinned. “Old Jaeran punning?”

“You know me,” Durzo said.

“No, Durzo, I don’t think anyone does. Still, kind of ominous, don’t you think?”

“It fits the life.”