Ori sat wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop of the old tower. Crane had ignored him as they moved around each other, two silent spirits of the night brought into the light of day. He saw her face as she looked on his bruises, then wrapped himself in the blanket as she traced down his body.

  He knew what men and women did together. The Yards had bulls stand in them from time to time, prized specimens who bred the healthier cows who were then taken into the lands beyond to bear calves. Besides, he had lived long enough in close quarters with his parents to know that they shared each other’s company often enough when Da wasn’t in the skin.

  Ori thought of his mother for the first time in a long while. Ma Tanner had been kind enough to him, taking Ori ot Tan off to the scraping sheds to help her with her work. It had been a happy family until a few months after Pidg was born.

  Pigeon Tanner. The babe always seemed to whine and get sick. Ma had bought remedies for the child, draughts and powders from the root women. The little sallow thing would suckle for hours and never seemed to grow, and Ma and Da would fight over him plenty of nights as the children tried to sleep.

  “He ent mine woman. We both know it. Look at the brat! He never smiles, never laughs, just moans and makes his noises. If the priests would let me pay it I’d cast you out for letting another plow my fields.”

  “He IS yours, you hardheaded bastard! He’ll grow up strong as you, take on the business. I haven’t let another man touch me again and you know it.”

  He heard the rustling, the slam of a body against the wall of their hut, the rustling of clothes and the quiet crying after. It was on nights like this that little Ori would sneak into the baby’s skins and cuddle up to his brother.

  Ori loved a story. Though Sparrow told bawdy ones of prisoners and pirates and men and women in love and lust, Ori’s favorites were of the Mighty Tyn.

  Tyn the Mighty, Tyn the Common. His ma was a great witch, who gave him gifts and sent him out into the word. The boy had a knife that could cut through anything, and a spidersilk coat that let him turn into a spider, a bird, or a fish. Every Barrow boy knew a dozen Tyn stories: Tyn and the Great Wolf, Tyn and the Tinker’s Promise, Tyn and the Mountain Bear. Ori would tell the stories and play with his baby brother, and it seemed to him that the baby never cried as he listened.

  “Copper for your thoughts,silver for a memory?” Old Heron had snuck up on the boy, putting his arm around Ori’s thin shoulders. “Know that one? It’s mighty clever.”

  “Copper for your thoughts, young sir, silver for your memory. Gold for secrets kept inside, and bone for all my enemies. The Witch and the Warder. Sparrow loves that one.”

  “Ay, the old boy loves a good tale. I liked the old stories of the Riverman. Creeping through the night, giving over gifts to the valley folk and taking from the Cruel King Stonewall. I wonder if they ever caught him?” Heron spat over the roof, making a sign of the Father.

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  “If no one tells the story, did it happen?” Ori asked, kicking his feet over the edge and slamming his heels against the wall below.

  “A philosopher in the Barrow? Not much time for folks who think here, young Oriole. I once taught young men, mostly in the ways of war but a fair bit of reading and cyphering.” Heron’s eyes seemed hazy, thinking back. “I always wonder if I hadn’t have beaten that lord’s face in where I’d be today.”

  “You attacked a lord?”

  “Lordling. Little swinging cocked manchild wanting to test his mettle in the street. He tried it on a child, kicked him in the coins then fell on him for not calling him Sir. Can you believe it? Some people will do plenty for propriety, young Ori. Foolish things, sure, but honor is a twisted mistress.”

  They sat in silence for awhile, Heron grabbing a few pebbles and tossing them at the wall. Ori smiled at a killer enjoying such simple things. Ori picked up the stones at his side and tossed with old Heron, trying to throw harder and further each time.

  They heard the shouts before they saw them. It was the Barrow Ghost, a shout that called all who heard it to attention. It was a call of the watch coming, and the cries kept coming closer. Heron felt for his arms, letting out a sigh as he found his hands on steel and leather.

  “I don’t know why, but my neck tells me they’re for you, Ori. Go down and get dressed, and I’ll handle them as well as I can.”

  Ori rushed down the ageworn steps carved into the tower, swinging into Crane’s room at speed. He dropped the blanket and had his breeches on before he saw the girl he had stayed the night with strapping on leathers and one of Heron’s short stubby blades.

  “The Guard is coming. We saw them from up top. Do you know a way to get out?” Ori begged, grabbing the strange shirt he had been given and pulling it down over his protesting torso.

  “Run? I’ll fight, thank you very much. Sir Heron gave me this place as mine, and if he takes on the Guard so do I.”

  Heron appeared at the window, putting himself into the opening and looking at the two children.

  “I owe Sparrow young master Oriole’s life. He slept beneath my roof, a prentice under roof of another master. If you want to swear yourself for me, then follow the boy. Get him across the wall, into the Crypts. Find Squab Hill and have her hide him.” the old fighter felt his pockets, producing a small bag the size of a child’s fist. “Hag has wanted this since I took it off of Creeping Drake when I was a young man. Should satisfy her desire well ‘nough.”

  His prentice tucked the bag into her armor, then rushed the old man to hug him. Ori looked away as she made peace with his savior, seeing them whisper to each other. A peck on the cheek from the old warrior and Crane was off, uncovering a gap in the wall behind a tapestry.

  “The walls are double enforced, got a gap between them for stores. These old towers could keep men fed and watered for a year if a siege broke out in a district. Now we’ll use the passage to get out, if…”

  Then they heard the horn. Two blasts from the brass, the traditional warning of entry into a hostile place.

  “By order of the King and His Council, we hereby request the presence of Oriole Tanner, prentice and grandson of Sparrow Tanner, and the girl known as Crane, to be put to the question for murder and arson…”

  Ori heard no more as they ducked into the gap. He saw Old Heron pile up the partition, a wooden bench, and a shelf from the room in front of the gap.

  “Keep her safe, Oriole.”

  The warrior pulled steel and walked towards the window as the footsteps echoed up the outer stairwell. Ori felt the hand of his guide, and she pulled him down into the darkness.