I sighed and moved to sit down on a closed muckbin, which squelched when my weight bore down on it. “Guess I’ll have to. Know anyone who might need”—I considered what skills I had that might be valuable to mortals. “Hmm. A thief, a juggler, or a killer?”
The girl stopped again, looking hard at me, and then folded her arms. “You a godling?”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes, actually. How did you know?”
“Only they ask those kinds of crazy questions.”
“Oh. Have you met many godlings?”
She shrugged. “A few. You going to eat me?”
I frowned, blinking. “Of course not.”
“Fight me? Steal something? Turn me into something else? Torture me to death?”
“Dear gods, why would I—” But then it occurred to me that some of my siblings were capable of all that and worse. We were not the gentlest of families. “None of those things are my nature, don’t worry.”
“All right.” She turned back to examine something she’d found, which I thought might be an old roof shingle. With an annoyed sigh, she tossed it aside. “You’re not going to get many worshippers, though, just sitting there like that. You should do something more interesting.”
I sighed and drew my legs up, wrapping arms around them. “I don’t have a lot of interesting left in me.”
“Hmm.” Straightening, the girl pulled off her stupid hat and mopped her brow. Without it, I saw that she was Amn, her white-blonde curls cropped short and held back with cheap-looking barrettes. She looked ten or eleven, though I saw more years than that in her eyes. Fourteen, maybe. She hadn’t eaten enough in those years, and it showed, but I could still feel the childhood in her.
“Hymn,” she said. A name. My skepticism must have shown, because she rolled her eyes. “Short for Hymnesamina.”
“I like the longer name, actually.”
“I don’t.” She looked me up and down perfunctorily. “You’re not bad-looking, you know. Skinny, but you can fix that.”
I blinked again, wondering if this was some sort of flirtation. “Yes, I know.”
“Then you’ve got another skill besides thieving, juggling, and killing.”
I sighed, feeling very tired. “No whoring.”
“You sure? You’d make a lot more money than with the rest, except killing, and you don’t look very tough.”
“Looks mean nothing for a god.”
“But they do mean something to mortals. You want to make money as a killer, you need to look like one.” She folded her arms. “I know a place where they’d let you pick your clients, you being what you are. If you can make yourself look Amn, you’d make even more.” She cocked her head, considering this. “Or maybe the foreign look is better. I don’t know. Not my thing.”
“I just need enough to buy food.” But I would need more mortal things as I grew older, wouldn’t I? There would come a time—soon, probably—when I would no longer be able to conjure clothing or necessities, and someday shelter would be more than just a pleasant accessory. Winters in central Senm could kill mortals. I sighed again, resting my cheek on my knees.
Hymn sighed, too. “Whatever. Well… see you.” She turned and headed toward the mouth of the alley—then froze, her gaze going sharp and alarmed. Her tension thickened the already-ripe air further when she stepped back, out of the alley’s entrance and into the shadows.
This was just enough to pull me out of my mood. I uncurled and watched her. “Muggers, bullies, or parents?”
“Muckrakers,” she said, so softly that no mortal would have heard her, but she knew I could.
By the way she said it, I realized she expected me to know what muckrakers were. I could guess, though. There was money to be made from any city’s refuse, from charging to get rid of it to selling its useful bits. Curious, I hopped up and came over to where she was standing, out of the slanting light from the torchlamps. When I peeked around her at the street beyond, I saw a group of men near an old mulecart, on the other side of the potholed street. Two of them were laughing and hefting muckbins, dumping them into the cart; two more stood idle, talking, while a fifth was in the cart with a pitchfork and a mask over his face, stirring something that steamed.
I glanced down at the junk in Hymn’s bag. “Would they really begrudge you a few small things?”
She glared at me. “The muckrakers don’t care if it’s just a little bit; it’s theirs. They pay the Order for the rights, and they don’t like it when anybody messes with what’s theirs. They warned me once already.” Despite her show of anger, I could smell the fear underneath. She looked past me, around the alley, but there was no way out. It stood at the intersection of three buildings, and the nearest window was twenty feet up. She could try to sneak out of the alley, and there was a chance the men wouldn’t see her. They were preoccupied with their work and chatter. But if they spotted her, she would not get far with her misshapen foot.
The men were a rough-smelling crew, even without the stench of refuse, and had the unmistakable look of people who have no qualms against harming a child. I bared my teeth at them, for I had always hated such mortals.
At this stirring of my old self, I began to grin.
“Hey!” I shouted. Beside me, Hymn jumped and gasped, whirling to try and escape. I caught her arm and held her in place so they would see her. Sure enough, when the muckrakers looked around, they spotted me—but it was the sight of Hymn that made them scowl.
“What the hells are you doing?” she cried, trying to jerk free.
“It’s all right,” I murmured. “I won’t let them hurt you.” The men near the wagon were turning now, heading toward us with purposeful strides and dire intent. Only three of them, though; the two who’d been working had stopped to watch. I grinned at them and raised my voice again. “Hey, you like shit, right? Have some!” And I turned and yanked my pants down to flash my backside. Hymn moaned.
The muckrakers shouted, and even the two who’d been watching ran around the wagons, the whole lot charging toward our little alley. Laughing, I pulled my pants up and grabbed Hymn’s arm again. “Come on!” I said, and hauled her toward the back of the alley.
“Where—” She couldn’t get out more than that, stumbling over a pile of fungus-covered firewood that someone had dumped between the muckbins. I helped her stay upright, then hauled her back until we were pressed against the alley’s rear wall. A moment later, the alley, already dim, went darker still as the men’s silhouettes blocked the torchlamps.
“What the hells is this?” one of the men asked Hymn. “We warn you not to steal our stuff, and you not only come back but also bring a friend? Huh?” He stepped over the funguswood, clenching his fists; the others closed in behind him.
“I didn’t mean…” Hymn’s voice trembled as she started to speak to the men.
“This girl is under my protection,” I said, stepping in front of her. I was grinning like a madman; I felt power around me like a wafting shroud. Mischief is a heady thing, sweeter than any wine. “Never touch her again.”
The lead man stopped, staring at me in disbelief. “And who in demons are you, brat?”
I closed my eyes and inhaled in pleasure. How long had it been since anyone had called me a brat? I laughed and let go of Hymn and spread my arms, and at the touch of my will, the lids blasted off every bin and crate in the alley. The men cried out, but it was too late; they were mine to toy with.
“I am the son of chaos and death,” I said. They all heard me, as intimately as if I’d spoken into their ears, despite the noise of their startled cries and the falling lids. A brisk wind had begun to blow through the alley, stirring the looser refuse and blowing dust into all our eyes. I squinted and grinned. “I know all the rules in the games of pain. But I will be merciful now, because it pleases me. Consider this a warning.”