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forget?”
    “It’s all there.” He wasn’t quite smiling, but there was a distinct upturn to the thread of his lips. “I swiped the pruning knife.”
    “Congratulations, you’re a pickpocket. It’s a real exclusive club.” I took an orange from the bag and started to peel it. “Who’d you get the fruit from, Sarah or Yephet the Islander?”
    “The Islander. Sarah’s are half rotten.”
    I ate a wedge. “Did the Islander have his son or daughter helping him today?”
    “His daughter. His son hasn’t been around for a few weeks.”
    “What color shirt was she wearing?”
    There was a pause. “She was wearing a gray smock.” His quarter grin returned. “But you wouldn’t know if I was right, ’cause you haven’t left the bar yet.”
    “I’d know if you tried to lie to me.” I finished off the orange and tossed the peel onto the bar, then set two fingers against his chest. “I’ll always know.”
    He nodded without taking his eyes off mine.
    I scooped the remaining coins into the purse he had bought and held it in front of me enticingly. “You got a name?”
    “The kids call me Wren.”
    “Consider this the rest of the week’s pay.” I tossed him the bag. “Spend some of it on getting a new shirt—you look like a bum. Then stop by later in the evening. I might have something for you to do.” He accepted this development without response or expression, as if it were of little importance one way or the other. “And quit thieving,” I continued. “If you work for me, you don’t siphon funds from the neighborhood.”
    “What does ‘siphon’ mean?”
    “In this context, ‘steal.’ ” I jerked my head toward the exit. “Off with you.” He headed out the front door, though not with any great hurry. I pulled the second orange from the bag. Adolphus’s frown had returned. “You have something to say?”
    He shook his head and began cleaning glasses left over from the night before.
    “You’re as subtle as a stone. Spit out whatever you’re choking on or quit shooting me daggers.”
    “You are not a carpenter,” he said.
    “Then what the hell am I doing with this pruning knife?” I asked, flourishing the tool. Adolphus’s brutish lips kept their curl. “All right, I’m not a carpenter.”
    “And you are not a blacksmith.”
    “Nor was there confusion on that account.”
    Adolphus set the tankard down with a start, and in his flash of anger I remembered a day at Apres when those massive arms had cracked a Dren skull as easily as you would an egg, blood and brain bubbling out from white bone. “If you ain’t a carpenter and you ain’t a blacksmith, then what the hell are you doing taking on an apprentice?” He spat this last sentence at me, along with a fair bit of, well, spit.
    The void where his left eye once sat gave him an unfair advantage, and I broke contact first. “I don’t judge you for your trade. But it isn’t one a child ought learn.”
    “What’s the harm in getting me breakfast?”
    Adolphus shrugged, unconvinced. I finished my second orange and started on the apricots in relative silence.
    It’s always unsettling when Adolphus is in an ill humor. Partly because it reminds me that if he ever lost his temper it would take half the hoax in the city to bring him down, but mostly because there’s something unpleasant about watching a fat man mope. “You’re in a hell of a mood today,” I began.
    The flesh on his face dragged downward, menaced more than usual by age. “The child,” he said.
    It was clear he wasn’t talking about the one who had just left. “It’s a sick world, but this isn’t the first we’ve had evidence of it.”
    “Who will do right for the child?”
    “The guard will look into it.” I could well appreciate what dubious comfort that was.
    “The guard couldn’t catch pus in a whorehouse.”
    “They called in the Crown. Two agents in their prettiest bits of finery. Even sent for scryers. They’ll find something.”
    “If that