“Do we invite ourselves up or wait for a welcoming party?” Amaranthe asked. “It’s already here.” A boy of nine or ten detached from a shady nook and planted himself in front of Akstyr, fists on his hips. “You’re s’pose to be dead, you magic-cursed cur.” “We here to see the boss, Pigeon,” Akstyr growled. “You can eat street.” “Tuskar don’t want to see some pretend wizard,” the boy said. “How about me?” Amaranthe lifted a finger. “Would he consent to seeing me?” “What you want, woman?” the boy
