Kylun watched the messenger run away, permitting himself to appreciatively assess her retreating form. He sensed, though, that her form had been chosen to make clients just like him enjoy assessments just like that, and then he felt stupid and manipulated.

She was lovely. Was he a cur to notice that? Yes, he told himself, and forced the copper-headed figure out of his mind.

He turned the envelope over and ripped it open. Two items fell out into his hand: a fine, dark leather bag and a note in handwriting he did not recognize. He squinted at the writing in the burnt-orange light. It read: Keep this upon you.

Kylun’s unease at this situation had long ago curdled to outright distaste, but it would be suicide to refuse Citri’s orders now. The woman might lack the formal power of the Government, but she had the shadows on her side and everyone knew it.

He slipped the leather bag into his jerkin and hailed a passing rickshaw to take him to work. In the west, the clouds boiled up, darkening towards crimson.