they were not above kidnapping and ransom when the price or the information was right. Those who informed on the movement often disappeared, never to be seen again.
Seen in this light, the popular image of the Blue Horizon—that of starry-eyed idealists offering food with one hand and freedom with the other—is risible. In fact, William Tear’s disciples were highly-trained terrorists, led by one of the most violent criminals in the history of the Tear. Do not be misled by the fact that he often gave his ill-gotten gains away, for he was quite happy to murder to get them. . . .
—The Fetch: An Unpopular History, Martin Bannaker
This won’t do,” the Fetch remarked, looking over the sheet of figures in front of him. “We need fifty, not twenty-five.”
“This is the best I can do, sir,” Glover replied, lifting his hands. “I have two boys out sick and one lamed in a forging accident. It will take two weeks to fill the order as it is.”
The Fetch stared at the smith, unblinking, until Glover began to turn pale. Niya felt a brief pity for the man, for she knew the sting of that look. The Fetch’s mask was bad, but the eyes behind were worse: dark and cold, with no pity for interruptions or unexpected events.
“Ten days,” Glover amended. “And we will provide thirty.”
“Fine,” the Fetch replied, handing back the sheet of paper. “My associate here will collect, and don’t be surprised if she comes at the darkest hour of night.”
“No . . . no, sir, of course not,” Glover quavered. “We will be ready at any time.”
The Fetch nodded, signaling Niya. They left through the back door of the smith’s shop, and emerged into the wide expanse of the Harrowgate. Dusk had fallen while they were in the smithy, and as always, darkness seemed to confer a strange license on the Gut, an invitation to open its doors. Everywhere Niya looked, she saw pickpockets and pros, shifty men with even shiftier wares to sell. Behind the cheap brick facades of the pubs rang laughter and screams, the occasional clash of steel. Above their heads, half-clad pros leaned from the second stories of brothels, hawking for customers, their breasts bouncing like ripe moons, cheerful cries echoing along the street.
“This place,” the Fetch remarked, with a sour chuckle. “So much life . . . and so much waste.”
Niya nodded. The Fetch often said such things, and even if she could not always understand them, they seemed right in feeling. All around them, people drew back as the Fetch passed, as they caught sight of his dreadful mask. The expressions on their faces were identical, not pure fear but a sort of terrified awe, as though the Fetch were a pagan god.
“Are you sure Glover can be trusted to deliver on time?”
“Yes,” the Fetch replied, waving away her question. “He was lowballing, giving himself a cushion. He’s a good businessman. Will thirty swords be enough, do you think?”
“For certain. But the casualties will be dreadful.”
“Casualties always are.”
The Fetch fell silent then, and Niya watched him with some curiosity. He was a dark-haired man, neither large nor small, with a handsome precision in his features. It was a kind face, trusting and trustworthy . . . or so a thirteen-year-old Niya had thought, just before she slipped her hand into his pocket. She had managed to reach the coins, but not to take them out, and now, ten years after she had mistaken the Fetch for a soft mark, she trailed him through the Gut, her hand on her knife. A drunken lout stumbled into Niya, groping, and she shoved him out of her way. He landed in the mud, cursing as they left him behind, and the altercation seemed to shake the Fetch awake, pull him back from whatever dark void he had been traveling.
“What of the Princess?”
Niya jerked as though stung, for she had just been wondering the same thing, whether Elyssa had reached the Arvath yet. Niya got only two days of holiday per month, and they belonged to the Fetch, but yesterday was the first time she had been reluctant to leave the Keep, reluctant to leave Elyssa alone. She didn’t know why Elyssa had decided to go to the Holy Father’s party—Elyssa had never expressed any interest in visiting the Arvath before—but Niya didn’t like it, just as she didn’t like the white witch who had now taken up residence in the Keep. Barty had sent Carroll to find