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present you in your current state. Now—” he pointed to the barber’s. “Get inside.”
    I did as he said—he owned my bond, after all. The barber fussed over me, trimming my hair and oiling it until it shone, lathering my chin, and shaving me clean of what little stubble I had with a gleaming razor. Half an hour later, he was done, and he turned me about to face Maxen.
    I had not been given a mirror. What I thought of it would not matter; it was Maxen who pressed the coins into his hand.
    “Very nice,” Maxen said, and there was a gleam in his eyes I did not like. “Come along, now.”
    Gren was waiting for us, leaning against the rickshaw. In one hand he held a massive cigar, now and then taking a draw and blowing smoke-rings into the cold air.
    Maxen narrowed his eyes. “Not on duty, Gren. What have I told you?’
    “Sorry, sir.” He ground it out against the paving stones and took up the handles of the rickshaw. “Where to?”
    “To Nightwell Street, now.” He settled back against the seat, shifting from side to side as if he could not quite find his comfort. “To Roberd Tallisk’s house.”

Chapter Six
    After a few minutes, we came to a halt. The house by which we’d stopped was, at first glance, identical to the other houses on each side of the white, narrow lane: three stories, a hybrid of wood and stone, with a stone porch and a heavy wooden door. It was set apart from its neighbors, however, by an oriel window on the upper story, its glass clear and sparkling even in the clouded afternoon. I looked up at the window, searching for movement behind it, but saw nothing.
    Maxen shifted in his seat again; there was a sudden nervous air about him. He coughed and pulled at his suit. “Get out,” he told me, and I did. Gren took my hand to help me down.
    “Wait here, Gren,” Maxen told him, then seemed to change his mind. “No, come here.” He took some coins from his purse. “Go to Helene’s and buy some marzipan, and have yourself a drink, then return. This may take some time.”
    “Yes, sir,” Gren said, then nodded to me before turning away. Without our weight, the rickshaw bounded down the street easily; I watched him vanish around the corner.
    Maxen was still nervously adjusting his suit and looking at the door from the corner of his eye, as if it was a problem he had to approach at an angle. I watched him, not saying a word. At last, he sidled up to it and took the door-knocker in his hand. Even then, he hesitated. He looked back at me, frowning, considering me. Then he rapped the knocker hard against the door. He let the metal ring fall from his hand and stepped off the porch, hands clasped behind his back.
    “Straighten your shirt,” he said to me.
    I did, and I stood as upright as I could.
    A few moments passed in a kind of eerie silence. Then the door opened, and a lean, suspicious face peered out—a Northern woman of maybe thirty, with close-cropped hair and slate-colored eyes. “Maxen Udred,” she said, lips pursed. “What brings you here?”
    He bowed; there was something mocking to it. “Yana Keel,” he said. “It has been some time since I saw you last. How is free employment suiting you?”
    “Better than yours. Who is the boy?”
    “Never you mind that. Is Tallisk about?”
    “Master Tallisk is in his atelier.” She grinned, and her smile was slightly askew. “Shall I disturb him?”
    Maxen held his ground. “Tell him I’ve something—someone—for him to see. Tell him to remember my... good eye. ”
    She seemed to hesitate a moment, then opened the door further. “Come inside.”
    We shuffled into the entrance hall, and Yana ushered us into a well-appointed parlor. There was a white settee, and thick blue carpets covered the floor. Cases of books lined two of the walls; another held a huge, framed charcoal sketch of a seaside storm. “Please sit,” Yana said. “I’ll tell Master Tallisk you’re here. But I make no guarantees.”
    “Of course.”
    “Doiran