thieves.
He looked out for himself; let them.
Hanse did not follow. He moved to intersect, and could anyone have done it as
swiftly and surefootedly, it must have been a child who lived hereabouts and had
no supervision.
He ran past Slippery – fading into a fig-pedlar’s doorway while a pair of City
Watchmen passed – then ran through two vacant lots, a common back yard full of
dog droppings and the white patches of older ones, over an outhouse, around a
fat tree and then two meathouses and through two hedges – one spiny, which took
no note of being cursed by a shadow on silent feet – across a porch and around a
rain barrel, over the top of a sleeping black cat that objected with more noise
than the two dogs he had aroused – one was still importantly barking, puffed up
and hating to leave off- across another porch (‘Is that you, Dadisha? Where have
you been?’), through someone’s scraps and – long jump! – over a mulchpile, and
around two lovers (‘What was that, Wrenny?’), an overturned outhouse, a rain
barrel, a cow tethered to a wagon he went under without even slowing down, and
three more buildings.
One of the lovers and one of the dogs actually caught sight of the swift
fleeting shadow. No one else. The cow might have wondered.
On one knee beside a fat beanberry bush at the far end of Market Run, he looked
out upon the long straight stretch of well-kept street that ran past the market
on the other side. He was not winded.
The hooded cloak- with the walking stick was just reaching this end of the long,