Brennick was elbow-deep in requisition forms when the door swung open without a knock.

  "You're not on my schedule," Brennick said, not looking up.

  "I'm never on your schedule. That's what makes it special." Ciernan dropped into the chair across the desk, sprawling like he owned the office. "What are we doing? Paperwork? Exciting."

  "Supply requests for the east patrols. Lantern oil. Boot leather. Thrilling stuff."

  Ciernan plucked a form off the stack, scanning it with theatrical interest. "Does the city know you're out here protecting them with lantern oil? They should be throwing flowers."

  Brennick snatched the form back. "Some of us have actual responsibilities."

  "I have a meeting this afternoon about wall maintenance. Very important. Critical to the defense of the realm." Ciernan's grin was wide and easy. "A man came in last week with drawings. Detailed drawings. Of walls. He'd labeled them."

  "Labeled them what?"

  "'Wall.' 'Also wall.' 'Wall, but older.'" Ciernan tipped his head back, laughing at the ceiling. "I'm going to die in that room, Brennick. They're going to find my skeleton clutching a funding proposal for mortar."

  "Could be worse. Could be lantern oil."

  "See, you understand." Ciernan let his chair tip back on two legs, balancing there with the lazy confidence of a man who'd never fallen in his life. "How's the district? Anything interesting?"

  "Tavern fight last night. Delver thought a merchant was cheating at cards."

  "Was he?"

  "Definitely."

  "Good. Hate to see a man get his nose broken over honest play." Ciernan let the chair drop back to all fours. "Who won?"

  "The delver's friends pulled him off before it got too ugly. Merchant's going to have a black eye for a week, but he'll live."

  "Boring. I expected better from you. Where's the drama? The scandal?"

  Brennick set down his quill, finally giving Ciernan his full attention. The captain had the weathered look of a man who'd spent his career dealing with problems more immediate than committee meetings. Good face. Honest face. People trusted it, which was useful in his line of work.

  "You're in a mood," Brennick said.

  "I'm always in a mood. This is my personality. You've known me for years."

  "You're in a good mood. That's usually worse."

  Ciernan pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. "I'm hurt. I come here, to your lovely office, with its lovely smell of old paper and boot polish, to brighten your afternoon, and you accuse me of having ulterior motives."

  "Do you have ulterior motives?"

  "I wanted to see if you'd gotten fatter. You haven't. Disappointing."

  Brennick shook his head, but he was smiling. Ciernan stood, restless, moving to the window. The view was nothing special. A slice of street. Patrol officers moving past. The ordinary machinery of a district that ran well because the man at this desk made it run well.

  His attention shifted, landing on something half-hidden under a stack of forms. He crossed the room in two steps, plucking up a small wooden carving. "What's this?"

  Brennick's expression flickered. "Nothing. Put it down."

  "It's a horse. A tiny horse." Ciernan turned it over in his fingers, examining the careful detail work. The mane had been carved strand by strand. Someone had spent hours on this. "Did you make this?"

  "Put it down."

  "You did make this. Brennick. Captain of the city guard. Defender of the public peace. You carve tiny horses."

  "My daughter likes horses."

  "That's disgusting. That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard." Ciernan was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. "You're a good father. I'm going to be sick."

  "Give me that." Brennick reached across the desk, but Ciernan danced back, holding the carving up to the light.

  "The craftsmanship is actually decent. Look at these legs. These are proportional legs."

  "I will have you arrested."

  "On what charges?"

  "I'll make something up. I'm the captain."

  Ciernan set the horse down on the desk, gentle despite the teasing. His smile softened into something more real. "She's going to love it."

  Brennick picked up the carving, running his thumb over the mane. The roughness in his expression smoothed out. "She'd better. Took me weeks."

  "How old is she now?"

  "Old enough to know what she wants. Young enough to still think her father's interesting." Brennick tucked the carving into a drawer, out of sight. "How's your sister?"

  Ciernan leaned a hip against the desk.

  "Married. Happy. Living in the north provinces, far away from my terrible influence."

  "Smart woman."

  "The smartest. She got all the brains, I got all the charm."

  "You got all the trouble."

  "Same thing." Ciernan moved back to the window, leaning against the sill. The light caught his face, and for a moment he looked exactly like what he was. A lord, even a minor one. Someone trained from childhood to read rooms and remember names and know exactly which uncle knew which someone.

  "The meeting this afternoon," Brennick said. "The wall one. Is it as bad as you're making it sound?"

  "Worse. There's a man on the board who genuinely believes the eastern fortifications are our top priority. Says it with a straight face. Talks about strategic positioning like he's read a book once and remembered some of the longer words."

  "And you can't just... tell him he's wrong?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "I could." Ciernan's smile didn't change, but something in his posture did. A stillness, brief. "Wouldn't go well. Men like that don't hear things from men like me. Wrong sort of lord. Wrong sort of ideas. Wrong sort of everything, really."

  "Sounds frustrating."

  "It's hilarious. You'd love it. All these serious faces talking about absolutely nothing. Hours of it. Days. I could write a play." The warmth was back, full force, like it had never left. "Actually, maybe I will. A comedy. I'll base the villain on the treasury liaison. He's got this way of clearing his throat before he says something stupid. Very theatrical."

  Brennick shook his head, but he was smiling.

  The afternoon light slanted through the window. Dust motes drifted. Somewhere in the building, a door closed.

  Brennick's smile faded.

  "So." He picked up his quill, set it down again. "You want to tell me about last night?"

  Ciernan paused. "Last night?"

  "Mm."

  "I had dinner. Read a book. Went to bed early. Very boring. You'd have been proud."

  Brennick's face had gone flat. The casual part was over.

  "Ciernan."

  "Brennick."

  "Sit down."

  Ciernan sat. The sprawl was gone. He was still loose, still easy, but there was attention behind his eyes now. Waiting.

  "Heard an interesting rumor this morning," Brennick said. "From a friend who heard it from a friend. A rumor without names attached. Without locations. Without anything useful at all, really. Just a lot of people suddenly very curious about a whole lot of nothing."

  "People are curious about all sorts of things. It's human nature."

  "This particular curiosity involves some property damage. Some... cleanup. A location that doesn't officially exist, owned by people who don't officially own it."

  Ciernan's smile didn't waver. "Sounds complicated."

  Brennick leaned forward, forearms on the desk.

  "The complicated part is that someone walked into that location. Someone who mattered. And he hasn't walked out. And now that someone's family is tearing the city apart trying to find out what happened to him—and who made it happen."

  Ciernan was quiet.

  "They know you two have history," Brennick said. "They're looking for you. Looking hard. And they've got ways of asking questions you don't want to be on the receiving end of."

  "Fascinating. You should write reports. You have a gift for narrative tension."

  Ciernan crossed one leg over the other. Still smiling.

  "Ciernan."

  "I don't know what you want me to say."

  "I want you to tell me you weren't stupid enough to—" Brennick stopped. Closed his eyes. When he opened them again, something had shifted. The captain was gone. This was just a man, tired and worried and looking at his friend like he was trying to memorize the shape of him.

  "You need to leave," Brennick said. "Tonight."

  "I have a meeting about walls."

  "You need to leave the city. Tonight. Before whoever's looking for you figures out where to look."

  Ciernan was quiet for a moment. The afternoon light had shifted, going golden and long. The dust motes had settled.

  "That bad?" he said finally.

  "I don't know. I don't know what you did or who you did it to. I don't want to know. But I know what it looks like when certain kinds of people start asking certain kinds of questions, and I know what happens to the people those questions are about." Brennick's hands were flat on the desk, pressing down like he was trying to hold something in place. "You need to disappear. Properly. Not hide-in-your-townhouse disappear. Not lie-low-for-a-few-weeks disappear. Gone."

  "And go where?"

  "Anywhere. Somewhere nobody knows your name. Somewhere your—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Somewhere your particular skills are appreciated by people who aren't trying to find you."

  "My particular skills." Ciernan's voice was light, but his eyes weren't. "That's a nice way to put it."

  "I've had practice."

  The silence stretched. Outside the window, the ordinary sounds of the district continued. Boots on cobblestones. A cart rattling past. Someone calling out a greeting to someone else.

  "There are options," Ciernan said slowly. "Outside the kingdom. Places where certain kinds of work are valued. I've been... exploring possibilities."

  "Then stop exploring and start moving."

  "It's not that simple. There are things in motion. Arrangements that require—"

  "Ciernan." Brennick's voice cracked on the name. "Listen to me. Whatever arrangements you think you have, whatever plans you think are going to come together—none of it matters if you're dead. And you will be dead, very soon, if you don't leave tonight."

  "I like the city."

  "The city's going to get you killed."

  Ciernan's hand found the arm of the chair. Gripped it.

  "Lots of things might get me killed. The committee might bore me to death. The food at the Brass Bell might finally finish what it started. Life is full of dangers."

  Brennick didn't laugh. Didn't smile. Just sat there, looking at him, patient and exhausted. He'd had this conversation before and knew exactly how it was going to end.

  "You're not hearing me," Brennick said. "This isn't a problem you can charm your way out of. This isn't leverage and favors and knowing which uncle knows which someone. These are people who get paid to find answers. And right now, someone is paying them to find you."

  Ciernan was quiet.

  "How long do I have?" The lightness was gone now.

  Brennick rubbed his face with both hands.

  "I don't know. Days. Maybe less. Depends on how fast they work. Depends on whether you keep showing up places where people can see you."

  "Places like your office."

  Brennick didn't answer. He didn't need to.

  Ciernan stood. The motion was smooth, controlled. He moved to the window again, but this time he didn't lean against it. He stood to the side, out of sightline from the street. Old habit. Automatic, once you'd learned to think about such things.

  "I have resources," he said. "Options. There are places I can go where—"

  "Then go to them. Tonight. Don't pack. Don't say goodbye to anyone. Don't tell me where you're going."

  "You don't want to know?"

  "I want to be able to look someone in the eye and tell them honestly that I have no idea where you are." Brennick picked up his quill, staring at it like it had personally offended him. "Assuming anyone asks. Which they probably will."

  Ciernan watched his friend for a long moment. The captain. The good man. The person who carved tiny horses for his daughter and ran a district that worked because he made it work.

  "Thank you," Ciernan said. "For telling me."

  "Don't thank me. Just don't die." Brennick's jaw tightened. "I don't have time to break in a new friend. Too much paperwork."

  The smile came back. Thinner than before, but real.

  "Dinner's going to have to wait," Ciernan said.

  "Yeah." Brennick finally looked up. "Yeah, it is."

  Ciernan moved to the door. Paused. His hand rested on the frame.

  "When this is over," he said. "When things are different. I'm going to buy you the most expensive meal in whatever city I end up in. And you're going to sit there and let me, and you're not going to complain about it."

  Brennick looked at him. The silence held for a long moment.

  "Go," he said. Quiet. "Just go."

  Ciernan went.

  The door closed behind him, and Brennick sat there for a long time, staring at the requisition forms he wasn't going to finish today.

  ***

  The coat was too warm for the season. Ciernan pulled it on anyway and stood there a moment, looking at the room. Bare walls. Cold hearth. The landlord's furniture, same as it had been when he moved in. He'd never added anything. Never saw the point.

  He had coin in his pocket and the ring on his finger. That was enough.

  The key went into his coat after he locked up. He'd mail it back eventually. Or not. The landlord would find a new tenant either way. Low lords came and went in this city. Nobody kept track.

  Outside, the street had gone quiet. Shuttered market stalls. A lamplighter making his rounds, pole over his shoulder. Somewhere nearby, the smell of someone's dinner drifting out an open window.

  Ciernan walked at an easy pace. Hands in his pockets. Not hurrying.

  He took the back way toward the north gate, through the part of the Craftsmen's District where people minded their own business. Narrow streets, worn cobblestones, the day's heat fading out of the walls. A woman was pulling washing off a line strung between buildings, working fast against the coming damp. She didn't look up as he passed.

  The tavern on the corner was just opening for the evening. Warm light through the doorway, the sound of chairs scraping, someone tuning an instrument. His stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since morning. He thought about it for a step or two, then kept walking. Food could happen later. The city couldn't wait.

  The north gate was quiet this time of evening. That was why he'd picked it. The guard on duty was young, leaning against the guardhouse, working at something under his thumbnail. He looked up when Ciernan approached, looked at the ring, looked away. Noble enough to let through. Not noble enough to remember.

  Ciernan nodded to him on the way past. The guard didn't nod back. Fair enough.

  Beyond the walls, the road stretched north through farmland. Pale dirt, ruts from cart wheels, fields on either side already harvested down to stubble. The light was going. The air had that edge to it that said the night would be cold.

  Ciernan turned his collar up and kept walking.

  The city shrank behind him. Chimney smoke, window-light, the faint sound of a bell marking the hour. He didn't look back. Nothing to see. Nothing he needed to carry with him.

  The treeline came up and the road narrowed, branches closing overhead. Darker here. Quieter. Just his footsteps and the wind moving through leaves that hadn't finished falling yet.

  He had hours of walking ahead of him before he'd reach the place where he could buy a horse. Hours of dark road through woods he knew well enough to navigate without light. That was fine. He'd done it before.

  His boots found the packed earth between the ruts and settled into an easy rhythm. The night settled in around him, cold and familiar.

  He'd made his move. Now it was just a matter of seeing where the pieces landed.