Lym had never once risked himself for anything or anyone.

That was why now, as he raced through damp, dripping side streets and skidded through dark tunnels, he ditched the treasures he’d pilfered and found a precarious cove beside the Drop to wait out his pursuers.

“Hey, kid! Get back here!”

The shout echoed with the wet slapping of soles on concrete. Lym remained sitting, catching his breath.

The voice rang out again, alarmed: “Wait! You’re gonna fall!”

Half a breath later, a slight figure sailed into view, screaming at the top of her tiny lungs as she hurtled into the Drop, arms and legs flailing, hair flying out behind her in a ratty tangle.

Lym’s hand shot out.

It was sheer luck that his other hand caught the ledge above his head, and that he was able to haul the girl into the cove before the guards could clamber to a halt at the Drop’s edge. Or sheer misfortune, depending on your viewpoint.

Lym’s right arm tore clear of its sockets—wrist, elbow, and shoulder—and there was now a puddle of piss spreading around his boots. He’d clamped his hand to the girl’s mouth to stifle her cry, but she still whimpered against his palm, tears in her eyes.

Lym waited, tense, expecting an arrow or bullet or knife to fly through his neck and sever the thread of his life in one lethal second. He registered conversation—the horrified murmurs of the cops who’d chased them—and then, after a short time, receding footsteps.

Lym sagged, plopped on his can with a shivering sigh. All at once pain ripped up his arm and split a seam down his side. His eyes pricked with tears he swallowed.

Trembling, the girl clasped her hands. “Oh, thank you, miss! You saved—”

“Mister,” Lym said, annoyance flaring up as suddenly as the sun reappears from behind clouds. A scolding came out before he realized it’d been lurking in his head: “Do you have a death wish? What the fuck were you thinking just barreling off into the Drop like that? If I hadn’t been here, you would have died!”

They were crude words for a girl who was likely no older than seven, and his voice was far too shrill as he spoke them. The kid flinched, wrung her hands with a grimace. Shame poured nakedly into her features.

Lym chewed back the rest of the words that crowded against his lips. With another sigh, he asked, “Are you alright?”

The girl nodded and wiped the wetness from her lashes. Another sear of pain clawed down Lym’s side, hitching the breath in his throat.

When he could breathe again, he asked, “Why were they after you anyway? Where’re your parents?”

She had opened her mouth to answer the first question, but at the second closed it again, her teeth—the front two of which were adult and too large for the little mouth they lived in—cinched down on her bottom lip. Lym recognized that. That was the lock on the great gate that held back oceans of sorrow. Break that, and it would all flow right out.

Getting to his feet with some struggle, only now aware that the kid’s urine had soaked the seat of his pants, Lym said, “Climb up on my back. I’ve got to hit the market. Maybe someone there can help you.”

Anything to get the runt off his hands.

At least the girl climbed well. She scuttled up Lym’s back and settled between the thin sharp blades of his shoulders as though molded to fit there.

Lym began the perilous climb back to the street, stars popping in his eyes whenever weight pulled his right arm.

“What’s your name, mister?” the girl asked. When she wasn’t screaming, she had a faint lisp.

“Lymera,” Lym answered through gritted teeth. He swore they’d be ground to powder before they reached the street. “Like the disease.”

“Sticky lung?”

“Sticky lung,” he confirmed.

“Doc says I got sticky lung,” the girl said, solemnly. Her lisp was thick on sticky—it came out thticky instead.

Lym contemplated the horror of that, and with this he realized he’d probably caught it off her by now. “How old are you, anyway? What’s your name?”

“Lilith,” the girl said, then with some pride, “I’m six!”

Six years old and already condemned to death.

“Nice knowin’ ya, kid.”

Lym only realized this was untrue when the words were already out. Whatever. They were mean enough without that clarification.

The little whelp did not burst into tears, as would have been an understandable reaction. “I’m not gonna die. I promised.”

It was such innocent foolishness Lym wanted to weep (though that also could have been his arm, which now sang an agony unlike any he’d ever known). “Sure, kiddo. Whatever you say.”

At last he climbed up over the lip onto the street, where Lilith slid to her feet. Lym rested there a moment, letting the pain in his arm mute back to a dull roar. Then he got walking.

Lilith hastened after him, her small hand sliding into his. No hesitation, no shyness, nor shame. What a simple creature.

Lym returned the grip half-heartedly.

Really, he needed to learn to just mind his own business. People who played hero only ended up dead.

***

The market, per ordinary, was chock full of scum—both the sort which leaked from sewer pipes and the sort which wore flesh. Merchants hawked everything from spices to slaves, all of their wares stolen (including the people). The scents mixing in the air ranged from the sweet and savory fragrances of street food to the reek of stale piss and sweat.

Lilith’s hold tightened but nevertheless began to slip. With a sigh, Lym redoubled his grip and hoisted her up against his chest, where she clung on like a koala.

First he got her new clothes, trading off a jade pendant for a few frilly dresses. The kid was so excited about this that Lym was barely able to tie the strings for all her squirming. The result was a lopsided excuse for a bow that somehow seemed fitting.

He tossed the soiled sack she’d been wearing, and in the two seconds he had his eyes off her, Lilith ran off to watch a grizzled old woman cook crepe rolls filled with beef, cheese, sour cream, and salsa.

Five minutes later, they each held a roll in oiled paper and Lym was no longer in possession of a fine pair of tanzanite earrings.

Lilith ate like a starving child despite her ample weight. Between bites, she said, “Mister, do you need a doctor for your arm?”

Lym adjusted his hold on her. “Ideally, but a wall would probably work.”

“I know a doctor!” Lilith said with no small excitement. Her weight shifted on his arm, and for a second he was in danger of dropping his crepe roll, not to mention Lilith’s person.

“Oh yeah?” he asked once the peril passed. “What’s his name?”

“Doc,” Lilith said, as if this explained everything.

Oh, to be a child.

“He’s the one who says you’ve got sticky lung?”

Lilith nodded, cheeks stuffed—and smeared with salsa and sour cream. Lym had a strong urge to wipe it away. Alas, his free hand was incapacitated. “E abem ebsen hor ih.”

“What?” When she made to repeat herself, Lym cut in. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

She swallowed, a great gulp that miraculously failed to choke her. “He gave me medicine for it.”

Lym frowned. “I didn’t think there was medicine for sticky lung.”

“Doc says it helps you breathe easier so your moon system has more energy to fight the stuff that makes sticky lung.”

“Immune system.” The correction was absent. “So where’s this doc of yours, kid?”

“Kalmegi District.”

“Kalmegi? That’s a bit of a walk. . .”

They were in Hautanawha now. Kalmegi was two districts and a river away. The shortest route was still six hours on foot. It’d be midnight by the time they got there.

Well. . .Kota might be able to help them out, if Lym’s luck wasn’t used up yet.

Lym shuffled Lilith onto his back and bit into his roll. It was half-cold now, but he’d been eating much less savory meals lately. This was like a sliver of mana next to those.

He walked while he ate, tried to avoid bumping anyone with his right side, and answered Lilith’s questions—the ones he knew answers to, anyway.

The market faded to quieter slums. Someone spat a mouthful of tobacco on Lym’s boots when he passed. Another watched him, quiescent, unblinking until he was gone.

Lym tossed aside the oiled wrapper and started up a rickety set of stairs that sagged like cloth under every step, and creaked and groaned like a man with a backache. Up half a dozen floors. No further, because here a neighboring building leaned drunken against this one, and it had crushed the passage leading higher.

Also because he’d already reached Kota’s door—not that he expected its owner to be behind it. He lifted a hand to knock. In fact, he’d be rather surprised if—

The door cleaved from the frame and Lym’s fist collided with Kota’s nose.