Shambles Cross, on the Sanctuary-ward side of the bridge. “Look, I’ve got a man
in sight; it just takes a little to get him here. Meanwhile even Downwind takes
money-leading a man anywhere takes money.”
“Maybe more than you’re worth,” the man said, a man who frightened him, even in
the open alley, alone. “You know there’s a string on you. You know how easy it
is to draw it in. Maybe I should just say-produce the man. Bring him here. Or
maybe we ought to invite you in for a talk. Would you like that,-hawkmask?”
“You’ve got it wrong.” Mor-am’s teeth chattered. The night wind felt cold even
for the season; or it was Becho’s stuff working at his stomach. He locked his
arms the tighter. “I take chances for what I get. I’ve got connections. It
doesn’t mean I’m-“
“If we hauled you in,” the man said, ever so softly with the animals grunting
softly in the distance, doomed to the axe in the morning, “if we did that they’d
just change all the drops and meeting places, wouldn’t they? So we dribble coin
into your hand and you supply us names and places and times, and they do work
don’t they? But if they should be wrong-maybe I’ve got someone supplying me
yours. Ever wonder that, Wriggly? Maybe you’re not the only hawk-mask who wants
to turn coat. So let’s not make up tales. Where? Who? When?”
“Name’s Vis. At Mama Becho’s.”
“That’s a tight place. Not easy to get at.”
“That’s my point. I get him to you.” There was a silence. The man
brought out silver pieces and dropped them into Mor-am’s hand, then clenched
fingers on his as they closed. “You know,” the Rankan said, “the last one