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“Hawkers, Patty.”

“I heard you,” he said, seething, striding back toward the market. “Keep the lady away.”

Patrick could hear the staccato of Nina’s boots following close behind. Otto dropped back to intercept her.

“Touch me, and I’ll rip a hole in the earth beneath your feet,” Nina told him, her voice deceptively sweet.

Patrick groaned, then held a hand up for Otto. “Let her be,” he growled.

If she wanted to see who Colson & Sons were, then let her.

Hawkers were a growing thorn in the side of Kenton Hill. Lately they seemed to lurk in every dark corner, every dripping alley, but never were they so bold as to trade in the open market.

They were getting brave. An example would need to be made.

Hawkers traded bluff, or at least, they claimed to. It was once intentionally rationed out to miners before they entered the tunnels, which suited the wives. Where there was less liquor, there was less gambling, less holes in their walls, less piss in the bed. It seemed a welcome compensation until the men stopped waking up. The wives would find their husbands wide-eyed and staring in the morning, lips still stained the color of ink.

The Artisans had long ago stemmed the influx of bluff to the miningtowns, but it leaked through the gaps between their fingers. It found its way down the canals and into the veins of those who still craved a quiet head. Those like Gunner, who still saw walls collapsing all around them.

With terranium stores now as scarce as idium, the hawkers’ bluff was even more diluted, more toxic, cut with a cocktail of opium and arsenic and whatever else could be found.

Patrick stalked back through the barn doors into the market and spied them immediately.

Two hawkers, both men. They stood in long coats by oil barrels with chalk on their boots. A single chalk line across one’s boot signaled to those who knew—it was a silent message between dealer and buyer. One of them was Ferris Manley. The last time he’d been caught dealing, he’d lost one of his remaining teeth for his efforts. Evidently, it had not been warning enough, since he now stood in broad daylight, chalking his boots.

The other hawker saw Patrick coming and had the good sense to bolt. He had slipped out of reach before Otto could give chase.

“Leave him,” Patrick barked to Otto. “We’ll catch up with him later.” He needed Otto to stand by Nina.

Ferris looked like he’d swallowed a hornet. His mouth fell open, revealing the few teeth that remained.

“Good God, man,” Patrick said, stopping a foot away. “You smell like a pig.”

Ferris had the decency to quail. His fists clenched at his sides. He looked around for help that wouldn’t arrive. “Pat,” he said, nodding warily. “I’ve just come from the stables.”

“Aye,” Patrick said. “Shovelin’ shit today, were you? You haven’t thanked me yet, for getting you that job.”

Ferris swallowed. “Thank you.” There was anger in those watery eyes, far more than there should be for a man in his current position. Fear and dumb rage wrestled within him.

“Now, Ferris,” Patrick warned, heat rising in him by the second. Soon, the world would go red. “The last time I caught you sellin’, I was very generous. I swapped your bad bluff for the horse shit and gave you another means to make a living, didn’t I?”

Ferris turned puce. “He took me fuckin’ tooth,” he seethed, pointing a shaking finger at Otto. “With a pair o’ pliers.”

“Only one,” Patrick agreed. “A fair trade, I’d say, for all the shit you’d strewn through Main Street. Now I come and find you spreadin’ it round the market as well?”

Fear won. Ferris held up his hands. “Please, Pat,” he uttered. “I owe some money to…”

“To who?” Patrick asked, though he knew the answer. The fake bluff came from the coppers, and the police weren’t dumb enough to sell it themselves.

Ferris’s lips pressed tightly together. “That job you got me pays next to nothin’.”

“And yet it’s the only one you’re worthy of in this town.”

Anger took the stage. It rose up Ferris’s neck and spilled out his mouth. “FuckingColsons,” he spat, though the words quivered. “You think you’re better than any of—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Patrick’s fist landed squarely in Ferris’s mouth and sent him reeling, falling backward over barrels and onto the ground.

Vaguely, Patrick heard the collective gasps of the people nearby, the crack of his knuckles against Ferris’s nose, cheeks, jaw, but he only saw red. He only felt heat and aching adrenaline in his shoulders, in his fists. He felt the wet pulp of flesh beneath his knuckles, and nothing else.