Dawning Hope

The boy could not remember a time before he and Keffya were beggars. He was very young, but all Keffya required was that he be quiet and pathetic, a simple enough task even for a small child. They sat on the street near the temple doors and Keffya traded lies for meager coins.

"For his mother, kind lady! A cup of warm broth to soothe the cough, a rag to soothe her fever!" The boy had no mother. There was only Keffya, who denied being the boy's father, except when it made for a prettier lie.

"See how he shivers, noble sir! He'll not live out the week if we cannot afford a scrap to burn!" If they had a scrap, the boy did not know where they would burn it. Outside an unnamed alehouse was a stair that led to the whorehouse on the second floor. Keffya and the boy lived under that stair, in a pile of dirty straw.

"Most exalted one, I beg! Only a lowly orb, I ask, to buy bread for the boy!" Rare indeed was the day Keffya bought bread with the coins. The boy had cut his teeth on what the alehouse owner was amused to name "the stews" - a vat comprised of other drinkers' leavings, stale beer left unpurchased at the end of a barrel, wine on the verge of turning, and the gods only knew what else - a mug of which cost only a single brass orb. A copper dog purchased a stone jug of cheap, sour wine - and an empty jug returned undamaged was worth a mug of the stews. Most of their meager income found its way into the barkeeper's apron.

When the boy was a bit older, Keffya taught him to lie, too. He could summon tears in a matter of heartbeats. "Please, miss - my sister's just a baby! She needs milk!"

The boy had no name. When Keffya was pleased, he was "boy." When Keffya was in a foul mood, he was "brat," or worse. He learned to be small and quiet, and to divine from the twist of Keffya's mouth whether crying would save him pain, or turn mere slaps and cuffs into a true beating. He learned that if he was quick, he could sneak an orb or two from the begging bowl when Keffya wasn't looking, and which of the whores who lived over the alehouse would sometimes feed him, if he stayed out of the sight of their customers.

It was late one autumn afternoon that the fat man appeared. The boy did not know how long he had been watching them. But as soon as he saw the boy looking at him, the fat man straightened and came toward them. He had a black beard, and made the boy feel uneasy. But obedient to Keffya's teaching, he held out his hands. "Alms, kind sir? My mother's sick, and-"

The fat man put a hand under the boy's chin, examining his face. The man's hand was clammy. The boy wondered if he should cry. Tears usually worked best on women, but the men didn't usually touch him. He compromised on a slight tremble to his jaw, quickly stilled.

The fat man released him, and turned to Keffya. "Fine boy you have, here."

Keffya bobbed his head quickly. "Yes, sir, a fine boy."

The fat man let Keffya glimpse something inside his jacket. The boy could not see it, but Keffya's round eyes and the fat man's smirk meant something unusual was happening. "If you'd like to take a walk with me, I believe I have a proposition to make you," the fat man said.

Keffya all but leapt to his feet. The bowl's contents went into Keffya's boot, and he thrust the bowl and their ragged blanket at the boy. "Don't lose them," he warned.

The fat man eyed Keffya for a moment, as if waiting for something, then shrugged and held out a meaty hand to the boy. "Here. Get something to eat." He dropped an orb into the boy's palm.

The boy stared, then closed his fist tightly around the coin. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."

The fat man smiled, and once again the boy was uneasy, though he could not say why. The fat man took Keffya's elbow, then, and steered him down the street. The boy watched them go, wondering what to think, then wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and trudged back to the straw under the stair.

When Keffya returned, it was very late. No feet had tramped up the stairs to the whores for half a watch, and the alehouse had cleared of all but the most determined drinkers. The boy woke with a start when Keffya banged his head on the support, and cursed. The boy shrank into the straw - drunk and irritable, Keffya was certain to find fault with him.

But, miraculously, Keffya seemed to forget about his bruise almost instantly. He chuckled to himself, and even hummed a little as he burrowed in beside the boy. He snatched the blanket off the boy's shoulders, rolled into it, and fell to snoring. The boy was perplexed, but he fingered the orb the fat man had given him, and went back to sleep.

Keffya slept late the next day, but was still in his peculiar good humor when he woke. He took the boy down to the docks and despite the chill bite to the air, doused him with several buckets of water and made him wash his face. Then, because the boy was shivering, they went into a fryhouse and Keffya bought him a bowl of hot, if somewhat watery, fish broth.

The boy ate quickly, uncertain what had prompted Keffya's sudden generosity but unwilling to waste it.

When he was nearly done, Keffya said, "We're not begging no more."

"How come?"

"His lordship's put us onto another line."

The boy stared at Keffya. "He was a lordship?" There were nobility who lived in the city, but the boy had never seen any of them.

Keffya threw out a lazy backhand, which the boy ducked with little effort. "Watch your mouth, boy. Man with money enough to buy both of us can call himself whatever he wants."

The boy shrugged and finished his broth. Keffya was watching him through narrowed eyes. Finally, he gestured, and the boy followed him back into the streets. "Lot of changes," Keffya said. "You'll need a name."

"A name?" The boy was excited. "Can I pick it?"

"No." Keffya looked at him again, judging, then nodded decisively. "Dawn," he said, and chuckled.

Dawn didn't understand the joke, but it was a fine enough name. It meant a new day, a new start. Maybe even hope. He practiced it to himself, and almost didn't notice that Keffya was not leading him back to the stair by the alehouse.

Keffya took him to an unfamiliar building, down a dingy, unlit corridor, and through a curtain into a small room.

The room was furnished with a wide straw tick mattress, a table, and two chairs. An empty charcoal brazier stood against the wall. A candlestub stood on the table, and a patched blanket covered the mattress.

"Is this his lordship's room?" Dawn asked uncertainly. Some of the whores over the alehouse had finer things, and surely his lordship should have better things than a whore?

"It's our room," Keffya said, smirking. "His lordship owns the rent."

Dawn felt nervous again. Begging would never have paid for this, even if Keffya had been able to resist drinking every day's take. "What's the new-"

"All settled in?" the fat man interrupted, pushing through the curtained doorway.

"Yes, your lordship," Keffya gushed. "Thank you, your lordship."

The fat man waved a hand negligently, then beckoned to Dawn. "Come here, sunshine." Dawn could not have explained the reluctance that made his feet drag, but the room was not large. All too soon, the fat man put his clammy fingers on Dawn's neck, drawing him even closer. "You like this room, boy?"

"Yessir." It would be a far cry more comfortable than the straw under the stairs, when winter howled through the city.

"Good, good. Of course, I can't give it to you for nothing, now can I?"

Dawn shook his head, mute. Of course not. Nothing for nothing was practically the first rule Dawn had ever learned. Even the people who had dropped their coins in the beggar's bowl had traded them for Keffya's lies.

Then the fat man told Dawn what the new line was to be, and showed him what he expected in exchange for his generosity. Dawn would have given anything to go back to being a homeless and nameless beggar.

Whoring was not the whole of the new line, of course. Prostitution was legal only for adults, and there was a great deal of grey area in the division between "child" and "adult." Still, not even the most corrupt Dragon could be bribed to pretend that Dawn seemed close enough to the legal age. The fat man's plan was to hide one illegal activity behind another, of lesser magnitude.

If you took a jug of wine and added a half-glass of ice-spirit, then double-distilled it all, the resulting liquid was a syrupy mess that was three times as potent as wine, but didn't cause a hangover. It also burned like naphtha, and since it had been used to devastating effect in a riot some twenty years earlier, it had been outlawed.

On the black market, it was called sunbeam. Coincidentally enough - or perhaps not - child prostitutes were referred to as sunshine by those who knew to ask for them.

Each new moon, the fat man brought Keffya three jars of sunbeam. It was fantastically expensive stuff - twelve copper dogs, or a silver minit per jar. But as long as no more than three jars were found, all the Dragons could do was confiscate it and levy a fine. And if any happened to hear that Keffya sold sunshine, well, they must have misheard. It was sunbeam he sold, and a clink of coin changing hands, and don't take me away, noble Dragon, or the boy would starve...

The fat man took thirty dogs a moon for his rent. He fucked Dawn a few times a year, but the act meant no more than Keffya's cuffs and slaps - an assertion of control, best endured with stoicism and a demeanor of submission. After a few such exchanges, Dawn gave the fat man little more thought.

His loathing was reserved for the more regular customers. Before a year was out, he had learned to tell, simply by the way they pushed through the curtained doorway, whether they were coming for the sunbeam or for him. They were invariably men, and most of them had damp, clammy skin. Their individual tastes varied, and some were kinder than others, but Dawn hated all of them with white-hot passion.

Keffya got angry when Dawn suggested leaving the fat man. "Ungrateful whelp!" he snapped. "You're warm, you eat every day, you have clothes. I don't let 'em hurt you too bad, neither. You think you're too good for it, brat?" Keffya's mouth twisted dangerously, and Dawn knew he was going to be beaten.

He ducked his head and tried to back away, but Keffya caught the front of his shirt. "No, Keffya, please-"

Keffya hit him, and hit him again, until Dawn could do nothing but cower at his feet and whimper. His dominance asserted, Keffya was solicitous. He patted Dawn's thin shoulders and helped him into the bed, tucking the blanket around him. "We've only got each other," Keffya said, gruffly kind. "Without me, you'd be even worse off than you are now."

Dawn was desperately afraid that Keffya was right.

They'd lived this way for more than two years when whatever hold the fat man had over Keffya broke, and Keffya finally gave in to the temptation of the sunbeam.

Without the income the sunbeam brought, Dawn had to work harder than ever, and there was even less money left for food. Beaten inside and out, body and soul, he began to rebel.

It started slow - an occasional sullen glare, first at Keffya, then at the customers. He dragged and delayed when ordered to do anything, and his eventual obedience was as perfunctory as he could get away with.

The customers who were kindest to him left, hurt and angered by this apparently sudden shift in attitude. The harder ones became harder still, which only added fuel to the fire of Dawn's hatred. When Keffya was sober enough to see what Dawn was doing, he beat him, but the beatings became less and less effective.

The first time Dawn refused outright, it was to the fat man himself.

"Brat!" Keffya roared. He swung, but Dawn dodged the blow. Keffya grabbed for him. Dawn ducked and ran - right into the fat man's bulk.

The fat man knocked Dawn's head against the wall so hard he saw double, then threw him onto the table to fuck him, one hand - for once hot instead of clammy - pressed heavily against the back of Dawn's neck. When he finished, Dawn tried to stand, but the world tilted and spun. He stumbled over his own feet and crashed to the floor, retching violently.

"Don't know what's got into him of late, your lordship," Keffya groveled.

The fat man grunted as he fastened his clothes. "I've a customer who likes the spirited ones. I'll send him around. Jakop'll break the boy - or kill him."

Jakop was a bull of a man, not much taller than Keffya but twice as wide, all muscle. He pushed through the curtain with a coil of coarse rope over his shoulder and an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. He threw three dogs on the table and told Keffya to get out. Keffya scurried to obey.

Dawn glared at him. Jakop only grinned and sat in Keffya's abandoned chair. It creaked under his weight. "Come and give Uncle Jakop a nice suck," he rumbled.

"Suck it yourself," Dawn said. He lifted his chin, daring Jakop to hit him.

Jakop didn't move. "I paid for it," he said reasonably.

"You paid Keffya. Go see if he'll suck you."

Dawn didn't see Jakop move. Suddenly a meaty fist had hold of his hair. "You should respect your elders," Jakop said, in that same infuriatingly reasonable tone. "Now, you say, 'I'm sorry, Uncle Jakop.'"

"Fuck off!" If he could taunt Jakop into beating him senseless, he wouldn't be awake to endure the rest of it.

Jakop sighed, as if in regret. Dawn braced, but the blow he expected didn't fall. Instead, the hand in his hair released, and the big man started carefully uncoiling his rope, measuring it out by armlengths and eyeing the table.

Dawn tried to run, but Jakop caught his arm before he'd taken two steps. "Could've just been a nice suck," Jakop said sadly, "and I'd even kept out a dog for you as a tip, if you were good. But you'd rather have a lesson in manners."

Jakop took his time. Dawn could not incite him to anger, not even for an instant. He moved deliberately and decisively, and had reduced Dawn to helpless sobbing before the watch was a quarter gone. Nor did he stop there. Pleas for mercy did not move him. Desperate, Dawn begged to trade his torment for the suck Jakop had originally asked for.

Jakop smiled and patted his head. "There's a good lad," he said. "Perhaps next time." And the torment resumed.

When Keffya nervously returned at the end of the watch, Jakop was only just re-coiling his rope, and Dawn was a shivering, sobbing wreck on the floor. "A fine boy," Jakop told Keffya, and flipped him another dog. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"No, please," Dawn groaned.

Jakop grinned. "And here I thought you might've learned some manners, boy. We'll start there tomorrow."

By the end of the first week, Dawn had stopped trying to rouse Jakop to anger. By the end of the first moon, he had stopped resisting the big man's demands. But even when Dawn did his utmost to please him, Jakop always found something to fault, some excuse for a "lesson."

After two moons, the fat man returned. Fearing what Jakop might do if the fat man complained about him, Dawn submitted with an alacrity that might almost have been mistaken for eagerness.

The fat man smirked at Keffya. "There, you see? This one is too young for true rebellion. He just needed a firm hand."

After that, Jakop came less often, and though Dawn still hated being a whore, he was careful to be sure no word of complaint might make its way back to the fat man, and thence to Jakop. After another half year, it seemed the amusement had gone out of the game for Jakop, and he stopped coming entirely, though the fat man was careful to mention him when he saw Dawn, to reassure him that any poor behavior would be swiftly and mercilessly corrected.

It was a cool spring evening not long after this when a stranger pushed aside the dingy curtain on the door.

Dawn was startled - he had not heard steps in the hallway, and this was not one of his usual customers. Warily, from his crouch in the corner, he examined the intruder. The dagger in his belt was worth at least a minit, and he carried smaller knives in each boot. His clothes were well-worn, but whole. One eye was covered by a leather patch; the other was sunken and half-hidden by stringy, dark hair. That eye ticked from spot to spot like a clockwork Dawn had seen once in a pawnshop. Tick: the stale straw mattress with its stained, threadbare blanket. Tick: the sunbeam jars and wine jugs along the wall, all opened and empty. Tick: the rickety table, stained with wine and blood and worse.

Keffya was only now rousing from his drunken stupor. He whined like a kicked dog and wrung his hands. "Gracious sir, welcome..." The man ignored Keffya altogether. Tick. The eye settled on Dawn, and rested there, appraising.

Dawn returned the one-eyed gaze calmly, even curiously. The stranger seemed neither aroused nor nervous. He was not an especially large man, but he moved with confidence. The sort of customer, Dawn thought, who fucked him matter-of-factly, neither expecting nor desiring any particular display from him. He would pay, and likely be gone again before the watch was half done.

"Stand up, boy. How much?" The man still had not so much as looked at Keffya.

Dawn stood slowly, his back against the rough wall. Keffya twisted his hands again, his voice pathetically fawning as he recognized the man's relative wealth. "Two dogs the watch," he said, his tone begging more than bargaining, "or a minit the night." The eyebrow above the eyepatch rose incredulously. "He's a good boy," Keffya promised. "Whatever you want, he'll do it, and no complaint! Sweet little ray of sunshine, he is..."

The man licked his lips, his gaze still on Dawn. Finally, he reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew a single shining coin. Dawn's eyes ached, looking at it. He'd never seen gold before. The coin flickered in the man's fingers, disappearing, then reappearing. "One solda," he said. "I'll take him until midday tomorrow, and you've never seen me."

Keffya's eyes could not be torn from the coin, still dancing across the stranger's fingers. He nodded quickly. "Done."

The man didn't hesitate, and he moved faster than anyone Dawn had ever seen before, even Jakop. The coin spun in the air, describing an arc destined to end square in front of Keffya at the table. Before it landed, the man had grabbed Dawn's shirt and was propelling him toward the door. "Come on, sunshine."

Dawn struggled to keep up as the man half-dragged him through the streets by his collar. Despite his carefully-cultivated calm, he couldn't suppress a shiver. No customer had ever taken him for more than a night. What would happen to him?

Worse still, the one-eyed stranger was leading him out of the slums. Dawn had lived his whole life in these streets; leaving them, he was suddenly lost and frightened. "L-lordship?" he ventured timidly, already breathless from the pace he was being forced to match.

The man glanced down at him, but didn't slow. "Call me Patch. What do you want?"

"W-where are we going?"

Patch snorted and turned down an alley. "First, you need a bath. And then we'll get some food into you."

Dawn stumbled in confusion, and nearly wound up being dragged for half a block. There weren't many so finicky in the slums, but he'd had a few who wanted him to wash. But... food? Keffya's customers had put any number of things in Dawn's mouth, but food had never been on that list. Or was "food" some slang term that Dawn hadn't heard before? Before he could consider what it might mean, Patch stopped abruptly and pushed Dawn through a door.

Dawn had heard of bath houses which would rent rooms to whores and their customers, for a fee. He looked around curiously as Patch followed him.

Dawn's imagination was grossly disappointed. He seemed to be in a kitchen - albeit a kitchen nearly the size of the entire room he shared with Keffya. Did bath-houses have kitchens? But aside from the two of them, this kitchen was deserted.

Dawn recalled that Patch had paid a whole solda for him, and shivered. What could he have in mind?

Patch released him and disappeared through a curtain. Dawn wondered if he should follow, but just as quickly, Patch returned, rolling before him a wooden tub half as wide as Dawn was tall. He dropped it to the center of the floor, then pointed at the pump in the corner, a bucket hanging from its handle. "Can you work the pump? Have you a name?"

Dawn didn't bother answering the first question. He took the bucket off the pump handle and set it under the spout. "Keffya calls me Dawn, your lordship."

Patch had turned his back to Dawn, and was busy at the counter. He snorted at Dawn's answer. "Just Patch. Only a two-dog pimp would think of a name like that... 'Ray of sunshine', indeed! I shudder to think what he'd name a girl. What was he going to call you when you'd grown another few years?"

Dawn dumped the first bucket of water into the tub. "I dunno." He glanced up, but Patch still wasn't looking at him. Dawn went back to the pump.

"What about your real name?"

Once primed, the pump worked smoothly. Dawn poured another bucket of water into the tub. "Don't have one," Dawn said. "Or at least, Keffya's never said if I do, your lor- um. Sir."

Patch grunted. "Who's he, then? Your da?"

Dawn shook his head. "I don't think so. He's just..." He shrugged. "He's always taken care of me."

"Pretty poor care, if you ask me."

Was this a test of some sort? If he agreed with Patch, would Jakop appear the next evening for a refresher "lesson" on respecting his elders? If he disagreed, would it be unacceptable talkback? Best to keep quiet, unless Patch pressed for an answer. Dawn hung the bucket back on the pump handle, then looked at Patch again. The one-eyed man was trimming moldy spots from a quarter-wheel of yellow cheese with a knife that was neither his belt-knife nor a boot-knife. Maybe he really did intend to feed Dawn.

Dawn glanced at the tub. A gold solda was worth almost three months' rent. If Patch didn't think he'd gotten his money's worth, for sure it would mean trouble for Dawn. He quickly shucked his clothes and climbed into the tub. The cold water raised gooseflesh on his arms and legs, but the oven's fire was warming the room.

Without looking, Patch tossed him a bar of soap. "Don't forget your hair," he said. "You can eat while you're drying." He laid several generous slabs of cheese on a thick slice of bread and set it on the counter by the stove, and only then turned to eye Dawn's slight, thin frame. "Don't try to move the tub by yourself. I don't want you spilling water all over my kitchen."

Dawn nodded quickly. "Yessir. Thank you, sir."

"Just Patch," he said again, and left the room. Dawn stared after him. His kitchen? Patch could afford this enormous kitchen, and other rooms besides? "Quickly!" Patch called through the door, and Dawn jumped guiltily. He scrubbed hard at his skin and hair, then ran shivering to bask in the warmth of the stove. He picked up the bread and cheese and nibbled. He should make himself eat quickly, he thought - Patch hadn't paid Keffya an entire solda just to see him clean and fed, that was certain. But the bread was only a day or two old, and the cheese such a luxury he couldn't help nibbling, trying to make the moment last.

All too quickly, it was gone, and Patch had yet to return. Dawn ran his fingers through his hair to dry it faster, wincing as they snagged on tangles, and looked around slowly. Patch still didn't return, and Dawn wandered slowly around the room, amazed at the things he found. He was looking at his own reflection in the curved, bubbly surface of a glazed honey crock when Patch came back, a bundle of cloth under his arm.

He looked at Dawn and grunted. "That was fast. Come here."

Dawn steeled himself and crossed the room obediently. Patch put a hand under Dawn's chin and tilted his face up to the light, examining him carefully. "Blonde, under all that dirt, eh? Thought so." He nodded in satisfaction. "Pretty little thing, aren't you? Keffya's not charging half what he could." Patch held the cloth bundle out to him. "Here. Can't have you wearing those rags after all the trouble of getting you clean."

Dawn took the bundle, bewildered. It unrolled to reveal a pair of pants and a tunic, only a little too big for him and in excellent condition. Patch looked at the tub and snorted. "I could plant flowers in this." He started dragging the tub toward the door, then paused to fix his eye on Dawn. "Well? Put them on!"

Dawn jumped, and pulled the clothes on awkwardly. Patch dumped the bathwater into the street, then took the tub back behind the curtain. When he came back into the kitchen, Patch looked at Dawn thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally, he nodded. "You'll do. Come on."

He led Dawn out of the kitchen. The new room was dim, lit only by the fire burning in the hearth. A single chair with a tatty cushion faced the hearth, and a few scattered pillows dotted the floor. A door stood on the outer wall, and a dark hallway led even deeper into the house. Patch gestured Dawn toward the pillows, then sank into the chair, wearily massaging his temples.

Dawn hesitated, looking at the pillows. He didn't understand what was going on. Had Patch changed his mind? Would he demand the return of his coin? What would happen to Dawn if the fat man found out he'd let a whole solda slip through his fingers? Dawn swallowed, then stepped over the pillows. "Sir- I mean, Patch?" He gingerly laid his hand on the man's knee.

Patch looked up with a start. "What is it, Dawn?"

"Did I do something wrong?"

The eyebrow over the patch twitched. "No. Why?"

"Don't you want... what you paid for?" Patch stared at him, unblinking, and Dawn hitched a breath, feeling panic begin to tighten around his innards. "Keffya took your coin. If you take it back, he'll-" Dawn's voice shivered away, and he had to pant after it.

Patch grimaced. He put a hand on Dawn's shoulder, but pushed him gently away. "Keffya keeps the coin. Sit down and relax, Dawn. I don't lust after little boys. Maybe in a few years... How old are you, anyway?"

Dawn felt as if he'd had his head knocked into the wall again. "I- I don't know. Ten? Why'd you pay him, then, if you were never going to fuck me anyway?"

Patch looked smug. "I need a boy to complete a deception."

"I don't understand."

"I know." Patch leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. "It's best if you don't. Before the watch is out, someone I know will come for you. He might be a little rough, but he won't hurt you. You walk the circuit with him, and then he'll bring you back here. You can sleep the rest of the night here by the fire, and eat again in the morning before you go back."

Dawn chewed on his lip. "Walk the circuit? I don't... What's that mean?"

"It means you'll walk. He'll tell you where to go. You're meant to look like a prisoner to... those who will be watching. That's all you need to know. Just go where you're told to go."

"Just... walk around? That's all?"

Patch smiled briefly. "That's all. If it goes the way it should, it'll be plenty. In exchange: Keffya gets his coin, and you get a bath, a meal, and a night's rest by a warm fire. Good enough?"

Dawn swallowed and nodded, wondering if it could be true. But Patch had paid in gold. "Whatever you say," he agreed.

It wasn't long before Patch's acquaintance appeared. He gave Dawn a long, appraising look, then shook his head in what seemed admiration. "Damn close match," he said to Patch. "Where'd you find him?"

"My secret," Patch said. His voice was cold, and Dawn thought that perhaps he didn't like the other man much. "Your crew is set?"

"Yeah. Screamer's at the bridge, and-"

"I don't want to know the details. Boy comes back here when you're done with him."

"What if we're followed?"

Patch was staring into the fire, looking at neither Dawn nor the other man. "Don't be."

The strange man drew a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt. "Come on, boy." Nervously, Dawn stood. Patch did not look at him as he edged past, or say anything when the other man roughly snatched Dawn's arm and put the knife next to his throat. "Move!" he barked, and Dawn moved.

The man with the knife walked even faster than Patch had. Dawn was nearly running to keep up, and his concentration was devoured by the knife. If he stumbled on a loose cobblestone and lurched too far to the side, he might be dead.

When the pace finally slowed enough for him to look around, he was entirely lost. He had no idea what part of the city he was in, or how to get back to anything he knew. He shivered, and the man pushing him along chuckled evilly. "Just keep marching."

How far had they come? How much further did they have to go before they went back to Patch's warm, comfortable house? Would this man even take him back? Dawn was just beginning to worry when they neared a bridge, and the man with the knife jerked him to a halt. "Slow, now," he murmured, his mouth close to Dawn's ear, the knife pressed even more closely to his throat.

There was a lantern post at the center of the bridge. At the edge of its light, the man stopped and looked around suspiciously. He waited so long that Dawn almost asked what was wrong - but then he pushed Dawn into motion again, rushing him through the lit area as fast as Dawn could go.

He paused again when they reached the shadows on the far side of the bridge, and looked back, his head cocked slightly as if listening for some subtle signal.

Dawn heard nothing but the usual nighttime city noises, but after a short time, the man grinned viciously. "Perfect. Time to march again, boy." He kept the knife at Dawn's throat, but didn't make him walk quite so fast after that. It was well into third watch before they returned to Patch's home.

Patch looked up sharply as they came through the door. "Well?" he demanded.

"I got the signal. What of this one? You think he knows enough to be dangerous?" The man's grip on Dawn's arm tightened, and the knife pressed into his throat.

"Leave him."

"You're going soft."

Patch's lip curled contemptuously. A knife appeared in his hand. "Do you want to test me?"

The room froze for a heartbeat as the two men glared at each other like strange dogs. Then Dawn was propelled forward by a sharp shove, free finally from the sensation of steel on his skin. By the time he recovered his balance and turned, the other man was gone.

Patch put his own knife away, and sank back into his chair. "Did he hurt you?"

Dawn's arm was bruised, and his feet and legs ached. He rubbed at his neck and shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Good. You've done well, Dawn." Something sparkled in the air, and Dawn caught it on reflex.

It was a copper dog. Dawn rubbed its stamp with his thumb, then looked at Patch. "For me?"

"For you." Patch stood. "You can go if you want, or you can sleep here. If you stay, you can eat again before you go back."

"I'll stay." It was an easy decision. Content, Dawn tried to walk his coin across his knuckles, as Patch had done earlier with the solda. Patch had made it look easy, but Dawn only got the dog halfway across his hand before it fumbled and fell to the floor. He picked it up and tried again, but it took two more attempts before he could get it all the way across.

Belatedly, he realized Patch had not moved and was staring at him intently. Dawn jumped, guiltily hiding the coin. "I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Patch shook his head and crouched beside Dawn on the floor. "You tell me the truth, now, Dawn. Do you like the sunshine trade?"

Dawn was startled. Had he been tricked? He looked at Patch, then quickly down at the coin in his hand. In his memory, a gold solda sparkled as Patch tossed it casually to Keffya. "I don't complain," he said, trying not to let his voice shake. "I've been good, even his lordship said-"

"I told you, I don't lust after little boys," Patch interrupted impatiently. "I'm talking about you. Give me a straight answer. Do you like being a whore?"

Dawn closed his eyes. It had been months since he had allowed himself to even dream of escape. "No," he whispered. "I hate it."

"Good." Dawn looked up, startled, and saw that Patch was holding up a silver minit. "Walk this across your fingers without dropping it, and it's yours."

Dawn took the minit and weighed it in his hand. It was heavier than the dog, and bigger. Chewing fiercely on his lip as he concentrated, he slowly rolled it over his fingers, laughing triumphantly as it fell neatly over the last knuckle and into his waiting palm. It was his first true laugh in over a year.

"Well done!" Patch said. "There's a change of plan. You're not going back after breakfast. I'm going to take you to meet some of my friends, instead."

Dawn looked up, wide-eyed. Patch was grinning. "But- What about Keffya? And his lordship?"

"Depends on what my friends think of you. If they don't think you'll do, then I'll take you back. If Keffya has the balls to complain, I'll pay him for the extra time." Patch's tone suggested strongly that he did not anticipate Keffya's equipment being up to the challenge.

"What if they like me?"

Patch ruffled Dawn's hair, a gesture the boy had seen before, but never experienced. "Then you won't have to sell your ass anymore, Keffya will be someone else's problem, and I'll take a nice bonus for the find." He frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe more than one bonus. Tell me about this 'lordship' of yours."

Patch didn't go to bed until nearly last watch. Despite his exhaustion, Dawn didn't think he would be able to sleep, but he laid on the pillows and stared into the embers of the fire. Did he dare hope that Patch's friends would find him acceptable? And for what? Dawn tried to think of a vocation that could be worse than whoring. Patch had been kind to him... His thoughts ran in circles, and his eyelids grew heavy. He fell asleep wondering whether he would one day look back on this day with regret or with joy.

Patch's friends seemed to occupy an entire apartment building of their own. They had no names that they told him, and they did not ask for his. They called him "boy" and did not seem to care what he had been, though they questioned him intensely about Keffya and the fat man. Then they made him perform a bewildering variety of tests and tasks.

He tied and untied knots in assorted weights of rope and string and thread. They placed him in peculiar positions and watched to see how long he could hold them. They had him repeat phrases whispered through varying distances and obstacles. They put a knife in his hand and told him to attack a target. On and on it went. None of them so much as leered at him. When they touched him, it was impersonal - to test his strength or measure his grip. They neither praised his successes nor punished his failures.

He almost panicked when they blindfolded him, but they only placed him before a table scattered with coins and other small objects and asked him to sort and identify them. They cleared the table again before removing the blindfold, so he did not know how well he had done.

By evening, Dawn was dizzy and swaying on his feet from the constant effort. Whoring had never been so exhausting - but Dawn had enjoyed the tests, even the ones he had failed. It had become a challenge to suppress his hopes, even before they showed him the book.

Dawn had never seen a real book before, though he had several times been with Keffya to the Cleric's Habit tavern, which had on its wall a picture of a debauched monk with a book and a frothing mug of ale. He'd asked Keffya about the book, and been cuffed for his trouble. Books were for hightowners, Keffya had said, and other fools with coin to waste. Even a single book could cost as much as a hundred solda.

Dawn's eyes grew huge, and he quickly shoved his hands behind his back so he wouldn't touch it by accident.

The man holding the book raised his eyebrows at Dawn. "You know what this is, I take it?"

"Yessir."

"Would you like to look at it?"

Dawn wanted to look at the book almost more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He clasped his hands together tightly to keep them from reaching for it. "I don't dare," he said. "I'd ruin it."

"What if I hold it and turn the pages, and you can just look?"

Dawn warmed suddenly, as if a fire had been lit within him. "Oh, please..."

"You don't read?"

"No, sir."

"Very well." He opened the book, and leafed carefully through it until he came across an illustration. "We'll start here, then. Tell me what you think is happening in this picture. Take your time."

Dawn went through three such illustrations, breathless with wonder the whole time, spinning stories from nothingness. Then the man switched to a different test. "Look at this picture. I'm going to count to thirty, and then I'll close the book, and I want you to tell me everything you can remember about it."

Dawn tried his best. When he could recall no more, the man simply nodded, giving no hint of his appraisal. He took the book and went to the door, where several others had been watching in silence. "Whistle should see this one. Give him a bowl while he waits."

The last light of day had long since faded. Dawn slumped in his chair, then snapped upright again when a hard-faced woman came in with a wooden bowl. Dawn watched her curiously, but she did not seem to be a whore or a serving wench. The men at the door deferred to her, in fact, and she moved with the same easy confidence as Patch and the others who had tested him. Dawn thanked her in a whisper as she set the bowl in his hands, and she granted him a faint smile before she left.

The bowl held a thick stew and a hunk of dense brown bread. Dawn nearly inhaled it. He was amazed at the extravagance - two meals in a single day, and the stew actually had chunks of meat in it! He scoured the last gravy from the bowl with the bread, certain he had never tasted anything so fine.

Even if they found him wanting and sent him back to Keffya, Dawn thought his memories of the day would sustain him for a long time. But he hoped desperately that they would not send him back. He clutched the empty bowl in his hands and tried to remember the last full day in which he had been neither molested nor beaten.

This exercise was interrupted by the opening door. Dawn stood, his heart tripping. The man who came alone into the room was tall and thin. He closed the door behind him and simply stood for a long moment, stroking his close-cropped brown beard as he looked at Dawn.

His eyes were cold and hazel-green, and held Dawn's like a snake's might hold a mouse's. Dawn felt fear grow in him, stronger than he'd allowed for years, worse than he'd ever felt at hearing Jakop's heavy tread in the hall. He fought to breathe, to contain his panic, to understand. What was he afraid of? The man held no weapon, was not threatening him. It would only be another test, like all the others, surely...

The fear faded somewhat, enough for Dawn to take a breath and swallow the lump that had risen in his throat.

The man dropped his gaze to fish in the pouch at his belt, and the fear dissipated inexplicably into mere wariness. "Very promising," he said mildly. "Now, let's see what you're made of." He crossed the space between them with three long strides and dropped into a crouch, putting his face on a level with Dawn's. He took Dawn's wrist in a grip like iron, taking no apparent note of the flinch Dawn could not repress. He turned Dawn's hand palm-up and measured into it a pinch of oddly-colored sand.

He looked into Dawn's eyes again. "I'm going to say a thing, and when I do, I want you to repeat it exactly, and then spill the sand onto the floor. Do you understand me?" With his free hand, the man mimed the motion he wanted Dawn to make. Dawn nodded, though the instructions made little sense to him.

"Good." He released Dawn's wrist. "Listen carefully, now: Ish fa tsi eseroth..." The words sounded like nothing Dawn had ever heard. They slithered through his mind, and then disappeared before he could make sense of them.

Dawn tried to remember the words. His hand, cupped around the sand, began to tremble. The man was waiting. "Well?"

Dawn swallowed. He was going to fail the test. Would they send him back to Keffya? "I- I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "I can't-" He couldn't have come so far, and fail now. "Please, will you repeat it?"

The man's expression did not change, but Dawn thought he detected a hint of... satisfaction? He nodded once, and repeated the phrase slowly.

This time, Dawn thought he had it. "Ish fa t-tsi eseroth..." The man gave no indication that Dawn had made a mistake. Dawn turned his hand over the way he had been shown, resisting the urge to shake the sand off like a fly. His skin suddenly tingled all over, uncomfortable but not unpleasant. The sand never reached the floor: it turned into a puff of pink smoke and wafted away. Dawn gasped.

The man was smiling, and his eyes seemed to have shifted from cold green to warm brown. "Very good." He held out his hand to Dawn, offering. "There's more magic in your future if you come with me. Or you can stay with that lot downstairs. Or, if you really want, you can go back to wherever you were before you were brought here."

Dawn blinked, and his eyes did not want to re-open. He felt drained and exhausted. A choice? What did he know about choices? But he knew what he wanted. "I want to see more magic," he said. He looked at the man's hand hesitantly, then timidly laid his own across it.

The man pressed his hand briefly, then released him. "Welcome to the Shadowguild, boy. What name do you want?"

Dawn was too tired to give the question any real consideration, and answered with the only name he'd ever had. "Dawn."

Patch had sneered at Keffya's unsubtle advertisement. This man smiled, but it didn't seem to be mockingly. He didn't explain his amusement, however. He only said, "You can call me Master Whistle," and gestured for Dawn to follow him.

Dawn felt a cold ball in the pit of his stomach, and stumbled a little as Whistle led him out of the building. Had the magic been merely a trick? A lure? Had he only traded one pimp for another? But he had heard of the Shadowguild, whispered in dark alleys, and Dawn had never heard that it had anything to do with whores, except to hire them like anyone else.

Whistle was leading him even further uptown. The buildings here were bigger and grander, with glass in the windows and tiny gardens separating them. Even if he was whoring again, Dawn thought sleepily, at least he might be kept warm and fed. It was not much comfort, but it was better than the thought of returning to Keffya and the fat man.

Whistle took him through a gate and then a door, and it took Dawn a long moment to understand that he was not in an apartment's hallway, but a whole single house that was three stories high, and must hold at least a dozen rooms. What possible use could one person - even one whole family - make of that much space?

Whistle did not seem inclined to linger and let Dawn gape, and Dawn's eyes were so lead-lidded that he did not really want to. But only the few things he half-glimpsed as they mounted the stairs to the top floor were treasures enough to have purchased the whole shabby block where he'd lived with Keffya - was it only yesterday? It didn't seem possible.

Whistle opened a door onto a long, dark room, and led him to a narrow, empty bed - a real bed, not just a straw mattress, with a thick quilt folded across the foot. "You'll sleep in here, with my other apprentice." Whistle's voice was low and held a hint of sympathy. "You've had a long day, I'm sure. Get some sleep. Time enough for everything else in the morning."

Dawn nodded gratefully, allowing himself finally to droop from the exhaustion. "Yes, Master," he whispered. Whistle nodded, satisfied, and left.

Dawn blinked after him, then looked around cautiously as he pulled off his clothes. The room was dark, thick curtains over the windows blocking all but a sliver of moonlight, but he could make out another narrow bed a few steps from his. It seemed to be occupied, but the only detail Dawn could make out was a dark scrawl of hair across the pillow.

Too tired to wonder any more, Dawn crawled into the bed and went immediately to sleep.

Dawn choked and gagged, and was rewarded with a cuff that had him tasting blood. Ungentle hands flipped him onto his stomach and began to pull at his clothes. "Please, no, please," he begged. He tried to free himself, but his clothes were already half-off, binding his arms and legs, and already there were hands on his hips, roughly pushing him into position-

Flesh on flesh, and the warm hand on his side was real, and Dawn gasped awake. The blanket was tangled around his legs, and he had broken into a cold sweat. Dawn scrabbled away from the dark shape bending over him, frantically kicking free of the blankets. "N- no! Get away!"

Suddenly, there was only air under his hands and he teetered on the edge of the bed, flailing for balance. The intruder caught him and heaved him back onto the mattress, then let go of him and sat back. Dawn was panting, but finally awake enough to recall the change in his situation. He peered cautiously at the shape beside him, and it resolved into another boy, his own age or a little older.

Dawn glanced toward the other bed. It was unoccupied, and understanding bloomed. "You're... Master Whistle's apprentice."

The dark-haired boy nodded, looking at Dawn curiously.

"I'm- I guess I'm the new apprentice. I'm Dawn." Dawn hoped the other boy would not see him as an intruder. Keffya had never allowed him to talk to other children, but Dawn had watched them from afar. This boy did not seem resentful, only faintly worried. "What's your name?"

The boy made a wry face, and raised one finger to sign a cross over his lips. Dawn glanced toward the door and lowered his voice even further. "We're not allowed to talk?"

The boy shook his head quickly, then made the same signal. Dawn struggled with it. "You... can't talk?" This time the boy nodded. "Why not?" This was answered with a philosophical shrug. "You couldn't tell me, even if you knew, I guess."

The boy grinned and nodded, then looked worried again. He reached out to touch Dawn's hair, then pulled back quickly when Dawn flinched. The boy hesitated, then put his hands to the side of his face, miming sleep. After a moment he opened his eyes wide in mock-horror.

Dawn got the message. He shivered and shook his head. "It was just a... a dream. I'm sorry I woke you up. Sometimes I just remember-" The boy's eyes grew wide, and he started flickering his fingers - it was mesmerizing, but meaningless. "I don't understand."

The boy made a brief grimace of exasperation, then put his arms around Dawn in a light, sympathetic hug. Dawn froze. "No, you don't- I just-" To his horror, a lump formed in his throat and tears rose in his eyes. He fought them, trying to speak normally. "It's just a m-memory..." A tide of anger and fear and pain washed over him, and he found himself sobbing hysterically into the other boy's shoulder.

Dawn woke with a start. Something was wrong. The room was too light, the floor too far away. The arms wrapped around him were too thin, too light.

Memory returned. Dawn turned to look. His fellow apprentice was slender, though obviously better-fed than Dawn. He had smooth, dark skin and an unruly thatch of dark brown hair. As Dawn shifted, he woke. Black eyes opened and regarded him calmly.

"You didn't have to stay all night," Dawn said sheepishly. "I don't-" The boy shook his head and smiled. Dawn returned the smile, shyly. It felt strange, but good. "Okay. Thanks, I guess." This was answered with a wider grin.

There was a thump outside the room, then another, and Dawn recognized a heavy tread coming up the stairs toward them. Panic gripped his heart and squeezed. "Is he going to be mad?" he whispered.

The dark apprentice's grin did not diminish. He shook his head and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stretching. The door opened, and Whistle appeared, looking them over with a single raised eyebrow. "Well. I see you've met. In case names somehow escaped you: Dawn, meet Dusk."

Dawn looked around to find the other boy's eyes sparkling with laughter, and he now understood Master Whistle's amusement the previous evening. "Dusk?"

Dusk nodded and shrugged.

"Dusk can't talk," Whistle said briskly. "There's nothing wrong with his hearing, however. One of the first things you'll learn - and quickly, I hope - is how to read his finger-speech. In the meantime..." He turned his attention on Dusk, one eyebrow raised sardonically. "Dawn had a rough day and a late night, but I don't know why you're not up and about yet."

Dusk jumped up as if he'd been stung. He threw open a chest that stood against the wall, and began rummaging in it. Whistle eyed Dawn appraisingly. "Dusk's things should fit you well enough until we can get you some of your own. Get dressed, both of you, and come down to the kitchen."

He disappeared abruptly, leaving Dawn staring at the open, empty door. Beyond it, on the landing of the stair, was a carved wooden cabinet, with real glass doors. Inside were a dozen peculiar and fascinating items - and three thick books. Dawn was breathless. The things he'd seen as Whistle led him through the house had been neither fantasy nor dream.

A touch on his arm made him jump, but it was only Dusk, offering him a pair of pants and a shirt. Dawn could barely bring himself to touch the shirt. It was dyed bright red and edged with yellow, and finest weave Dawn had ever seen. He fingered it gingerly. "T-to wear?" he asked hesitantly, wondering if Dusk was merely showing off a prize possession.

Dusk gave him a peculiar look, then nodded. He pulled another fine shirt - dark green with sky-blue designs - from the chest, and tugged it carelessly over his head as if he wore such finery every day.

Dawn dressed slowly, his mind whirling with confusion.

His sense of bemusement did not lessen when the boys reached the kitchen to find a breakfast waiting that would have kept Dawn and Keffya fed for at least week. He ate at first in tiny, timid bites, then with more gusto as he watched Dusk pile his plate with bread and jam and eggs.

"The Shadowguild," Whistle said, looking at Dawn over a mug of strong tea, "will give you shelter, food, and clothing. You will be trained..." He glanced briefly at Dusk, then looked back at Dawn. "...in several arts, not the least of which is magic."

He picked up a slice of bread and spread jam on it thickly. "The expenses for all of this will be tracked carefully. Once each month, we will go over the account, and you will sign it. When you are ready - which may or may not be before you are fully trained - you will work for the Shadowguild, in whatever capacity your instructors and superiors believe you capable. A percentage - eighty percent, to be precise - of your earnings will go to the Guild, toward the balance of your account, plus interest garnered-"

He paused to shoot Dawn a piercing look. Even with jam on his face, Whistle was intimidating. "Do you understand what that means?"

Dawn swallowed a mouthful of eggs. "I think so, most of it... What's interest?"

Inexplicably, Whistle looked pleased. "Well, there are complications which we'll get into as part of your training, but the rough outline of it is this: for every ten soldas the Guild pays to train and keep you, you will owe them sixteen."

Dawn felt dizzy. Did Whistle even understand that he was talking casually about more money than Dawn had ever seen at one time in his life? It seemed not. The lecture continued: "When your account has been settled, the tithe you owe to the Guild drops to thirty percent and you will be granted the rights and privileges of full membership, which we'll get into later." He looked stern again. "Unreported earnings will be punished severely when - not if - they are discovered."

Dawn nodded quickly, and Whistle sipped his tea. "I know it sounds like a lot of money - and it will sound like even more when you begin to understand what's involved in mage training. Try not to worry about it too much. Mages earn... well." He glanced up and around, taking in the spacious, lushly furnished house with a grin. "Very well."

Dawn looked around as well, his mind reeling. That he might never repay his debt to the Guild didn't disturb him much. There were worse masters. And the Shadowguild, the saying went, cared for its own.

Dusk caught his eye, and grinned, and suddenly Dawn felt warm and comfortable - safe, as he had not felt for years, if ever. Cautiously, he smiled again, and dared to hope that the expression would feel less strange with time, and practice.