Four months. Winter's grip strangled Ashenmoor. Seven degrees below freezing, Garrett the coal seller claimed, reading his special thermometer.
Kael pressed against warehouse wall. Thirty-two copper coins saved. Hidden in five different spots. Still sixty-eight short of information broker's fee. At this rate, spring would come before truth.
"Stop shivering." Tom's wet cough punctuated the order. "Making me cold just watching."
Tom's cough had started three weeks ago. Wet. Deep. Getting worse. Same cough that took Beth from River gang. Same that killed dozens every winter.
Should they find medicine? With what money? Medicine meant gold. Gold meant impossible.
This... Patches shared his blanket with Tom. Helped some. Not enough. Nothing ever enough in winter.
"Food run." Mya stood. "Market day means good pickings."
Nobody moved. Too cold. Too tired. Too aware that Tom might not see spring.
"Now." Her voice brooked no argument. "Kael with me. Rest stay warm."
Outside, wind cut through stolen coat like angry knives. Ice made rooftops deadly. They took ground level, riskier but necessary.
"Tom's dying." Mya stated it flat. No emotion.
"Medicine could—"
"Could nothing. We got copper. Medicine needs gold." She stopped at alley mouth, scanning. "Unless..."
Unless? Hope hurt worse than cold. But he waited.
"Been thinking about your curiosity. These black coats. Maybe connected to other things."
His birthmark tingled. "What things?"
"Missing people. Sealed houses. Stories about camps north." She met his eyes. "Information broker might know. But you're sixty-eight short."
"I know." The numbers haunted him. Thirty-two saved. One hundred needed. Impossible math.
"What if I said there's another way?"
Another way? Nothing free in Ashenmoor. Especially not information.
"Rich merchant. Bald. Three children." She pointed across market. "Drops his purse sometimes. Clumsy. Would be shame if someone found it. Kept it."
There. The merchant. Counting coins at spice stall. Purse hanging loose from belt. Three silver inside, minimum. Maybe more.
But... three children. Girl about Mira's age. Twin boys younger. They stayed close to father, laughing at his jokes.
"He can afford the loss," Mya pressed.
Could he? Maybe. Probably. Rich merchants always could. But those children...
"Or Tom dies. Sara next. Winter takes its tax." Mya shrugged. "Your choice."
Choice? What choice? Save friends or keep conscience? Easy math for street children. Conscience didn't cough blood. Conscience didn't need food.
He crossed the market. Natural pace. Don't look at target. Crowd flowed around stalls. Perfect cover. The merchant haggled over saffron prices. Children distracted by puppet show.
Now? Now.
His hand reached out...
"Papa, I'm cold." The little girl tugged her father's coat.
Kael froze. Papa. Same word Mira used. Same tone. Same trust that Papa would fix everything.
"Just moment, sweetling." The merchant patted her head. "Then hot cider for everyone."
"With honey?" Boy twin asked.
"Extra honey." The merchant smiled. "But only if you're good while Papa finishes."
This... he couldn't. These weren't faceless marks. This was family. Father who loved. Children who trusted. Take their money, maybe take their cider. Their honey. Their moment of warmth.
He let the crowd carry him past. Empty-handed. Empty-hearted.
"Well?" Mya waited at meeting spot.
"Too many guards." The lie tasted bitter. "Maybe tomorrow."
She studied him. Knew he lied? Probably. But said nothing. They returned with legitimate takings. Two bread loaves. Handful of winter vegetables. Enough for soup. Not enough for medicine.
That night, Tom's cough worsened. Wet became bloody. Patches held his head while he spasmed. Sara brought water he couldn't keep down.
"Should've taken purse," Tom wheezed between fits. "Would've. For you idiots."
Would he? Maybe. Tom talked mean but acted different. Shared blanket when Kael first arrived. Taught him dice games. Pretended to hate but stayed.
"Rest." Patches wiped blood from Tom's chin. "Save strength."
"For what?" Tom laughed. Coughed. Laughed again. "Spring cleaning?"
Dark humor. Street children's defense against darker reality. Laugh or scream. No between.
"I'll get medicine." Kael heard himself say. "Tomorrow. Promise."
"How?" Mya's voice held curiosity. "Growing money tree?"
"I'll find way."
But what way? Steal from families? Hurt innocents? Become the monster streets demanded?
"Don't." Tom grabbed his sleeve. Weak grip. "Don't become like... like..."
Like who? But Tom's eyes rolled back. Seizure took him. Patches and Sara held him down. Foam. Blood. Terrible sounds.
Then stillness.
"Tom?" Patches shook him. "Tom!"
Gone. Between one breath and none. That fast. That simple. That cruel.
They sat in silence. What words existed for this? Another friend gone. Another empty space. Another reminder that winter took what it wanted.
"Potter's field tomorrow." Mya's voice stayed steady. "Unless someone wants to say words?"
Nobody did. Words cost energy. Energy meant warmth. Warmth meant survival.
This... Kael stared at Tom's still form. Yesterday complaining. Today nothing. Tomorrow forgotten except by four street children.
No. Not forgotten. He'd remember Tom's cough. Tom's mean jokes. Tom's secret kindness. Someone should remember.
"I'll help carry him."
"Dawn. Before crowds." Mya pulled Tom's blanket off. Practical. Cruel. Necessary. "Patches needs it now."
They divided Tom's possessions. Three copper. Bent knife. Deck of marked cards. Pathetic legacy of sixteen years.
Sleep wouldn't come. Kael counted and recounted his savings. Thirty-two copper. Still sixty-eight short. Always short. Always too late.
But maybe... information broker wasn't only option. Maybe other sources existed. Cheaper sources. Dangerous sources.
The birthmark burned constant now. Since Tom stopped breathing. Like it sensed something. Or mourned something. Could birthmarks mourn?
"You're thinking loud." Mya lay on her pile of rags. "Share?"
"Tom said something. About camps. You mentioned them too."
"Everyone mentions camps. Bogeymen stories. 'Be good or black coats take you to camps.'"
"But what if real?"
"Then we're all dead eventually." She rolled over. "Go to sleep. Tom needs carrying tomorrow."
But he couldn't sleep. Tom's last breath echoed. The merchant's children laughed in memory. Thirty-two copper clinked in imagination.
What price for truth? How many Toms? How many stolen purses? How many compromises before he became another Ashenmoor shadow?
Questions. Always questions. But Tom was past questions now. Past coughing. Past everything.
Lucky Tom? Or cursed rest of them?
Dawn would come. Potter's field waited. Then back to surviving. Back to saving copper. Back to pretending answers mattered more than bread.
But did they? With Tom cooling beside them, with winter killing degrees at a time, did abstract truth matter?
Yes. Had to. Otherwise, what separated them from rats in walls? Just two legs and bigger brains? No. Questions mattered. Answers mattered.
Even if the price kept rising. Even if Tom paid part of it tonight.
Even if they all paid before winter ended.