The craftsmen’s side of town was not nearly so bedraggled as the side Relick had rescued the kitten on, but simple and practical where the noble’s houses weren’t. At the very least, both Relick and Venna were still comfortable here, comfortable like they wouldn’t have been around pomp. The grey tabby kitten found a perch on Relick’s shoulder and the two tagged behind Venna as she ran her eyes down the house numbers, looking for the sculpture their son was apprenticed to.

Alrick’s master, a brawny sculpture called Ferind, met them at the door. “Been awhile, hasn’t it?” he asked, obviously fighting to keep his voice mild. “I haven’t heard your names on criers lists recently.”

“We’ve been farther in the country,” Venna answered. “Can we talk to Alrick?”

Ferind stepped back, brushing his yellow hair out of his face. “Come on in— you are his family, after all, I can’t see why he couldn’t find time for you.”

Once the four of them— Relick counted the kitten— were inside, the sculpture turned towards his workroom. “Alrick, you might want to clean yourself up a bit and come out!” he called. “Your folks’re here!”

There was a moment of silence, then a crash as if the sixteen-year-old had dropped a tool. “What the— okay, who died?”

“Suspicious, i’n’t he?” Venna asked softly.

Alrick appeared in a moment. He had Venna’s dark hair and blue eyes, but his frame was more like Alrick’s— built on stockier lines than Venna’s elegant ones. His Roman nose had been broken, and some kind of dust, likely chipped from a stone, colored his hair grey instead of black in places. The same dust had settled on his shoulders and clothing. He was still removing a work apron as he walked in.

“Hullo, Mom.” He glanced over at his father and grinned, apparently in spite of himself. “Another tag-along, Dad?” He walked over to Relick and picked the kitten up off his father’s shoulder. The little bundle of fluff had been too startled from Relick’s brisk handling and its fight with the dogs to give Venna much trouble, but it lashed out at Alrick, hissing. “Easy now,” Alrick told him, handling him in the same brisk way his father had until he calmed down. “Has he got himself a name?”

Relick shrugged. “No’ yet. I on’y jus’ rescued him from a pack o’ dogs.”

At the sound of the word “dogs”, which the kitten seemed to somehow recognize, the little animal started hissing and spitting again, more in fear than anything else. He leapt out of Alrick’s arms and hid in the arms of the man that had protected him before, trembling and still hissing. “Smart li’l thing,” Relick commented.

“Quite the though little fighter, too,” Alrick added.

“Aw, c’mon, Al, d’you really I think I’d waste time on somethin’ that won’t earn his keep?” Relick asked his son teasingly.

Alrick shook his head and offered his hand to the kitten again, with the manner of a priest bringing a sacrifice to the altar. The kitten, however, sniffed him, regarding him with a look of murder, and at length allowed Alrick to stroke his fur. “What d’you think you’re going to name him?”

Relick was not a particularly religious man, and as most of the gods condemned his profession, he didn’t see a reason to be. He did, however, have some idea of a name for the kitten from the old legends because of his fighting spirit. “Wha’re those thin’s called, the pack o’ animals that tear up the Warrior’s enemies?” he asked his son absently.

To both of their surprise, it was Venna that answered. “The Fireanii,” she answered shortly. “And they’re in the legends nuff I would’ve ’spected you to remember. You gonna name tha’ li’l thin’ Ferani?”

“Wha’s wrong wi’ tha’?” Relick demanded.

“Pretty li’l warrior,” Venna answered. Like Alrick had, she offered Ferani her hand. He sniffed it, regarded her, hissed, and buried himself in the crook of Relick’s arm. “I don’ think he likes me very much,” she commented.

“Or maybe he’s just afraid of you,” Alrick answered. “I can see anything being afraid of Mom.”

“You ought to treat yer mother wi’ some more respect,” Relick mumbled, half-joking.

“Yeah, Dad,” the teenager answered carelessly, shrugging. Ferind had wandered back into the workroom, leaving Alrick alone with his parents. “Really, though, who died? You almost never show up, the most I expected in months was a letter.”

Venna looked affronted. Alrick shrugged, grinning slightly. “The capital makes Dad nervous, doesn’t it?” he asked. “You write often enough, but I barely ever see the two of you. You make Ferind nervous, too,” he added as an afterthought, though all three of them knew he would never had taken Alrick on if he hadn’t come to terms with the fact that a pair of thieves would come in and out if he did.

“Honestly?” Relick admitted. “Redrif died.”

Alrick looked a little confused, but after a minute he nodded. “He was the king of thieves, wasn’t he? Did Mom drag you down here to pay your respects to the new one?”

“Yer father’s more likely to challenge ’im to a duel ’an e’en pretend to respect ’im,” Venna answered. “Kellson Dawsom got the job.”

Alrick lifted an eyebrow.

“Kellson was almost yer dad insteada me,” Relick explained. “We’ve been ready to slit each others’ throats e’er since— an’ I don’ wanna do it, bu’ I better not put it off I’m gonna have to.”

“What does that mean? Mom?” he added, as if he figured Venna would make slightly more sense. Meanwhile, Ferani leapt gracefully from Relick’s arms to examine Alrick.

“Yer granddad wanted me to marry Kellson— he’s another assassin, fer one. Fer another he was a lot better ranked in thieves’ society than Rel— he’s made his way up from then, e’en wi’out getting the grace we claimed he’d hang wi’out. An’ they didn’t get along well wi’out me messin’ thin’s up further. Rel just don’t have his politics.”

“Most o’ us don’— those o’ us who aren’t zactly high class don’,” Relick corrected disgustedly. “You don’ either, Ven, or I didn’t marry you.”

“Of course I don’— bu’ its deeper wi’ you ’an it is wi’ most o’ us,” Venna answered shortly.

Alrick nodded, stroking the kitten that had finally settled in his arms. “I hear you, but . . . what d’you mean to do about it, if Dad doesn’t really mean to cut his throat?”

“Watch somebody else do it?” Relick suggested with a nasty twinge to his smile.

Venna slapped him, leaving him looking at her affrontedly. “You think somebody else’s gonna figh’ yer battle fer you?” she demanded.

“Um . . . well, Venna, it’s not jus’ my battle,” Relick snapped back at her. “Wha’ in hell’s name made you think it was? Kellson’s gonna cause a lot o’ damage, an’ it’ll take ferever to get it back if we let ’im do it! You know ’im like I do, Ven!”

She sighed, running her slim fingers through her dark hair. “I really, really wish it were easy like that, Relick,” she answered softly. “We’re gonna have to convince a lot o’ people yer righ’ about tha’, an’ bein’ old enemies doesn’t help matters any.”

“I’m starting to get a picture, Dad,” Alrick answered, “but your not past the sketchings yourself— when are you going to actually start the project?”

Relick had to pause a moment, fighting down an ironic laugh and muttering about an artist’s jargon. “I dunno, Al.”

“Maybe you’d best do something about starting,” his son suggested. “Oh, and Dad— if you need help and its legal, you know where to find me. If the thieves’ politics are really turned and headed for something as bad as you seem to be making out, than I don’t really want it to be going that way. Next thing you know the guard’ll decide your politics are too much trouble to put up with and clean your end of town out.” He handed Ferani back to his father, shaking his head.

“Keep in mind I’ll call you’re word up,” Relick reminded his son.

“I understand that, Dad— I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it, I promise,” he told him. “Be careful, though, and good luck.”

Author’s Note: And another chapter! And more hints to the past! I’ll explain everything eventually, I promise. Thanks for the reviews! (Anyone want to follow their example?) Cheers! — Loki