Rogue's Home by Hilari Bell

was accustomed to, and theroofs were topped with wooden shingles instead of thatch. ’Twas only five days before Calling Night, and folk were setting out greenery and affixing torch brackets to their homes and shops.
    I was interested to see lampstands, which even in the daylight glowed with magica’s eerie gleam, along the main streets. Those who live near swamps have always used phosphor moss as a temporary light source, though it fades in a few hours. Breeding that much of the magica form of the species, and keeping it alive in streetlamps, bespoke a plentiful supply and great care on the part of the lamp tenders.
    With the holiday coming the townsfolk were merry, and the road was full of the amusing pageant humanity makes of itself. I passed a coach stopped dead between two inns, both of whose landlords had run out to entice the passenger to stay with them. A brisk quarrel broke out between a housewife holding a broken bowl and a potter—though they broke off arguing to watch the best show of all, which was picking its dainty way through the slush.
    He wore a doublet of delicate blue silk, slashed in so many places it couldn’t possibly provide any warmth, and a stylish short cape slung across one shoulder. The lace that trimmed his collar dripped halfway down his thin chest, and the feathers in hishatband (the hat was blue, too) fell halfway down his back. The real sport came from his tall walking stick, from which blue ribbons, ending in white tassels, dangled almost to the ground. The tassels had attracted a tiny, scruffy dog, which charged at them, yipping, and then scurried away when the dandy struck at it with the staff. But the staff’s movement made the tassels dance, and the mutt leapt in for another assault.
    The dandy cursed, swung at the dog, minced a step or two, and repeated the process—evidently never thinking to wrap the ribbons round the stick until the dog lost interest. Or mayhap he was too proud to do so. I pulled Chant to a stop to watch and so had a perfect seat for the next act of the farce, which began with the cries of a carriage driver to make way as he tried to maneuver his coach through the crowded street.
    The dandy obviously recognized the carriage, for he turned to the street and struck a noble pose, one hand on his hip, one foot lifted to the base of a convenient lampstand. His long-nosed face lifted to gaze into the distance—which fixed his eyes on the window of a butcher’s shop where several fat, plucked geese hung by their necks.
    He’d quite forgotten the dog, which seized a tasseland began to worry it, growling fiercely. Color rose in the dandy’s cheeks, but he held his pose, smiling grimly for the passing lady. I couldn’t see inside the coach, but surely only a lady could inspire such a performance.
    And all for naught. Just before the coach reached him, the traffic cleared. The coachman snapped the reins, the horses broke into a trot, and the coach rolled by so briskly that the wheels sent a wave of slush over the fellow’s boots up to the knees of his blue silk britches.
    The dog yelped at the drenching and scampered off, and the street erupted with smothered guffaws. It seemed I wasn’t the only one watching the show. I tried not to laugh, for ’tis never pleasant to look a fool, but I couldn’t restrain my grin.
    The dandy, who’d been brushing at his knees and cursing, raised a face red with ill temper. His gaze passed over a pair of sturdy, laughing carters and passed me before it settled on a snickering apprentice, mayhap twelve or thirteen, with thick steel-rimmed spectacles and an apron full of wrapped packages.
    The dandy strode forward, splashing in the slush, and grabbed the boy’s jacket. “How dare you laugh at me, you snotty whelp.”
    Merriment vanished from the boy’s face. “I’m sorrySir. It was only—Here! I said I’m sorry!”
    The dandy had yanked him around and