Hubert covered the purse with his hat and pulled it into his lap. "Not at all. The Hawks are very grateful for your generosity. It's donors such as yourself that fuel the engines of our progress."

Caim couldn't resist. "You've had progress?"

Hubert didn't notice the jibe. "Naturally. Our forces are marshalling. Plans are being laid. One day we will free the people from the Council's tyranny. One day very soon!"

He glanced around as if expecting a chorus to support his claim. A few tired drinkers nodded in his direction, but most simply stared into the depths of their cups.

"Well." Hubert turned back to Caim. "It will happen. And we'll have you to thank."

"So why did you feel the need to bring a gang of strong-arms to our meeting?"

"How-?" Hubert gave him a weak smile. "I should have known. They are merely waiting outside for my protection. The streets are dangerous these days. I would never dream of insulting a man of your talents."

"Good. I wouldn't want any misunderstandings, Hubert. I respect what you do, misguided though it may be at times. However, this will be my last donation for a time."

"But we need your support now more than ever. Things are heating up. We're staging demonstrations nearly every day."

"I understand, but I've got my own problems."

"But-"

"Look, Hubert. I'm taking some time away from the contract game."

"How long?"

"I'm not sure. A couple months, maybe more."

Hubert leaned across the table. "Then come join us. We could use a man like you."

Caim pushed his empty cup away. "No offense, but I'm not interested. Your little enterprise has been interesting, and anything that keeps the bigwigs off balance is good for business, but you don't need my help to burn down storefronts and break into warehouses. You've got plenty of supporters now, right?"

"Sure, I can assemble disgruntled clerks and teamsters by the hun dredhead, but I need fighters, Caim. Sooner or later we're going to have to face the Reds head-on. We'll need you."

Caim sat back deeper in the shadows. He knew what Hubert wanted: another pawn to push around in his game of politics. But Caim wasn't interested. He had his own battles to fight. Giving to the Hawks had seemed like a good idea, a way of giving back some of the blood money he earned to help a worthy cause. Now he could see it had been a mistake.

"No, Hubert. I agree things in Othir are getting worse, but I'm not a revolutionary. I work alone."

Hubert put his hat back on as he stood up. "The offer's always open if you change your mind."

"I won't."

Hubert started to say something when Kit phased through his body. He didn't notice, of course, but the look on Calm's face must have been unexpected, because he stopped talking in midsyllable.

"Caim!" Kit blurted. "You've got comp-"

The front door crashed open. Conversations stopped as a crowd of City Watchmen filed into the common room. Without preamble they pulled patrons out of their chairs and pushed them against the walls. A stout man with an oily beard made a break for it. He got to the threshold of the front door before a soldier cracked open the back of his head with a baton. Everyone jumped to their feet. Even the old codgers stood up and shook their bony fists, but by then the watchmen were circulating through the room, seizing anyone who made a commotion.

"Your men couldn't bother to give us a warning?" Caim hissed.

"Some of them are new." Hubert inched away from the table. "And others may have outstanding warrants on their heads."

"Wonderful."

Caim surveyed the room, measuring distances in his head. "Go for the back room. There's a delivery entrance that leads into the alley."

"Good idea."

Hubert headed in that direction, but not fast enough. Most of the soldiers were patting down patrons, but a pair and their commander moved to intercept Hubert. Their mail armor rattled as the tinmen ran to catch the young noble.

Caim rose from his seat and reached behind his back. If he drew his knives, men would die. That would draw unneeded attention to himself and the Vine, but he didn't want to see Hubert apprehended either. True, he was a rabble-rouser and a hypocritical demagogue, but his heart was in the right place. Most of the time.

Caim let his hands fall to his sides and closed his eyes.

He only meant to release a tiny bit of his powers, just enough to conceal Hubert's escape behind a curtain of darkness, but the taproom's shadows swarmed around him like moths to a flame. The Vine was drenched in an impenetrable gloom so thick Caim couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him, which was fine by him, but there was more. As he slid along the wall, a cool sensation prickled at the nape of his neck.

The hairs on his arms stood on end and his mouth went bone dry as something entered the taproom. He couldn't see it. Whatever it was, it blended perfectly into the darkness. But he felt it moving through the room like a monstrous beast.

Shouts and curses filled the wineshop. Glassware shattered. Shutters banged open as someone scrambled out a window, or was tossed out. Throaty mews whimpered from the direction of the bar.

Caim sidled over to the back door and found it ajar. With one hand on the hilt of a knife, he ducked out, and left the taproom cloaked in darkness like a covered grave.

CHAPTER FIVE

aim leaned into the Vine's dingy whitewashed siding as the sickness washed over him. Black lines wriggled before his vision. His stomach tried to squirm up into his throat, but he fought it back with firm determination.

Twilight's veil was drawing over the city. Angry shouts resounded from inside the wineshop. What had happened inside? His talent had never reacted like that before. It usually took every ounce of concentration he could muster to conjure a few flimsy shadows, but this time they had flocked to him like flies to a corpse, and whatever else had emerged from the dark…

He took a deep breath.

Stars filled the darkening sky. No light shone from the new moon, hidden as it crossed the heavens. A Shadow's moon, a night when the shades from the Other Side could cross over to walk in the mortal world. He shivered. The sweat under his shirt had turned cool. Gods-damned legends. Stories to spook little children. Then why are you shaking?

Caim pushed off from the wall and started walking. The alley was empty. Kit, as usual, was nowhere to be found. Neither was Hubert, which was a good thing. Maybe he's learning.

Kit appeared over his head. Her violet eyes shone in the twilight gloom. "Fun night, huh?"

"Sure. A little more fun like that and I could be enjoying the comforts of a pinewood box."

Caim glanced over his shoulder. An uneasy sensation had settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he was being watched. He tried to pass it off as his imagination, but it refused to leave. There was something in the air tonight. The city, never a safe haven for fools, seethed with barely restrained frustrations. Like a boiling kettle, the steam needed to vent before it exploded.

"Oh, Caim. I'd never let that happen to you."

"I'm serious. Something happened in there."

"Yeah. You finally let loose. Felt good, didn't it?"

He shook his head. It had been terrifying to feel that much power flowing through him, out of his control. "That's never happened before, Kit. Why this time?"

Her dainty shoulders lifted in a shrug. "How should I know?"

"You're supposed to know about this kind of stuff, but you never tell me anything useful."

"Well then, since I'm not useful…" With a mighty huff, she disappeared in a shower of silver and green sparkles.

Caim sighed and continued on his trek.

Three streets later, he turned a corner and stopped before a monolithic structure. The dark mass of the city workhouse eclipsed the skyline like a colossal black glacier. The building had been closed years ago, but the specter of its presence hung over Low Town like a bad dream. Among the Church's first creations in the chaotic years following its rise to power, the workhouse had been heralded as an opportunity for the unlawful to repay their crimes against society. Thousands of convicts had entered its iron doors. Most of them died before their sentences were complete, killed by either sadistic guards or the miserable conditions. A mournful wail rose from behind the weather-stripped walls. It was the wind, no doubt, blowing through a broken window, but it was unnerving nonetheless.