My fingers tightened around the handle of the Hearth Knife under the table. It wasn’t a master-crafted blade, but at this range, a blunt edge does just as much damage to a windpipe as a surgeon’s scalpel. I kept my grip firm but let my face go slack, shifting into that "innocent traveler" mask I’d perfected years ago.

  "How did you know I’m from the undercity?" I asked, my voice as steady as a dead man’s heart. "And who are you exactly?"

  The kid didn't even flinch. He just leaned back, looking entirely too comfortable for someone whose life was currently hanging by a greasy tavern knife.

  "Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Aren," he said, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And as for how I knew? Well, you people have that specific shade of pale skin that only comes from years of not seeing the sun. You look like a newly escapee, honestly. Plus, your behavior is... weird. You look around a crowd like you’re waiting for the walls to grow teeth and eat you. It’s a bit insulting to the rest of us, really."

  I felt a surge of relief that I had to work hard to hide. He didn’t me. He hadn't seen my face on a Golden Order wanted posts , and he wasn't one of Don Cinder’s enforcers. He was just an observant brat who thought he was smarter than he probably was.

  I let go of the knife handle, but I didn’t take my hand out from under the table. "Look, Aren—or whatever your real name is. There are millions of residents in the undercity. It’s a big, messy ribcage. There isn't any way for me to know all of them. If you’re looking for someone, I’m going to need more info than 'they’re from the Warrens.'"

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  Aren watched me for a long second, his green eyes scanning my face like he was trying to find a crack in a wall. "How long have you been up here?" he asked.

  "More than a month," I lied. It had actually been about six hours, and I still felt the phantom itch of the undercity’s soot in my lungs, but honesty is a luxury I couldn't afford during a magic blackout.

  Aren’t shoulders slumped. The spark of interest in his eyes went out like a snuffed candle. "Then you can’t help me," he said flatly. He stood up, adjusted his tunic, and walked away into the thick crowd of the Gilded Cup without a backwards glance.

  I sat there for a moment, staring at the empty chair. "The fuck is wrong with these people?" I muttered to my Honey Water.

  I finished the last of the drink, the sweetness coating my throat. The tavern was still roaring, but the exhaustion was finally catching up to me. The adrenaline of the escape, the theft, and the sun-blisters was fading, leaving nothing but a heavy ache in my bones.

  I stood up and brushed the crumbs from my stolen noble clothes. I had six gold Aureus tow Silver Crests and one copper mark and a stomach full of sausage. I didn't need to be a "master of the begging business" tonight. I needed a place to sleep—a real place with a decent bed. Somewhere I could close my eyes without dreaming of bleeding pipes or golden armor.

  I headed for the door, the Gilded Cup’s warmth at my back and the cold Springtide rain waiting for me outside. One way or another, I was going to find a mattress that didn't feel like a sack of wet coal