CH462 · Rewrite
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Chapter 462: The Determination

Joe fell ill.

He’d been the second weakest before Paper was taken; since then, he’d been the weakest. He was fine the night they came back from the square. By morning, Snaketooth found him motionless on the hay, cheeks flushed dark as coals, breathing in shallow pulls.

“Cold-plague,” Sunflower said, her hand resting on Joe’s forehead. “He’s burning.”

“Will I… die?” The words came out in a thread.

No one answered.

The cold-plague was an honest killer—it didn’t favor the unlucky, it simply finished what hunger and cold had already started. The strong rarely caught it. Everyone who did was already compromised. Among Rats, it was essentially a sentence: you didn’t survive it because you didn’t have the body to survive it.

“I’m going to Kanas,” Snaketooth said.

“For what?”

“To beg him for more food.” He stood up. “If Joe is kept warm and fed, his chances are better.”

Tigerclaw shook his head. “Kanas won’t give you food. You know what he’s like.”

“You might get beaten instead,” Sunflower said quietly, gathering hay around Joe’s feet. “Rats don’t feed dead weight.”

“Joe isn’t dead weight.” The heat in Snaketooth’s voice surprised him. “He can read.”

“A few words. Kanas wants people who can steal, not read.”

He clenched his teeth and turned for the manager’s room. He would try even if he came back limping.

Kanas wasn’t there.

When he returned empty-handed, Tigerclaw grinned. “Lucky for you. Or we might’ve been taking care of another one.”

Sunflower exhaled. “We’ll each give Joe a portion of our bread at distribution. He’ll eat more than usual.”

But Snaketooth couldn’t shake the wrongness of it. Kanas had gone to deliver Snaketooth’s message to Bloody hand the night before—half an hour at most. It was now past noon. Even a long council of war should have finished hours ago. And when one of Kanas’s men opened the door to the manager’s room, Snaketooth had caught a glimpse: no Kanas. No Kanas’s lover either.

When the food distribution came, it was handled by Kanas’s confidant.

Snaketooth received half a slice of brown bread.


Four days later, Joe was losing.

Yesterday he’d been shivering, calling out that he was cold. Today he couldn’t speak at all. The flush had drained from his cheeks and left them the wrong shade of pale. His breathing had gone shallow and slow.

“We’ve done everything we could,” Sunflower said. She was leaning against the wall with her hand pressed to her empty stomach. They had given Joe half their food for four days. Even Tigerclaw, who had always seemed to run on something other than food, was beginning to look hollow.

Kanas had not shown up. The Endless Lane was loud with speculation.

Then the announcement’s deadline arrived: this was the day of the free oatmeal.

“I’m going to the square.” Snaketooth had been sitting with it for a long time. “We need more than bread. If I can get Joe a bowl of hot oatmeal—”

“Are you insane?” Sunflower turned on him. “Kanas made it very clear what would happen. Do you want your lips sewn shut?”

“Kanas isn’t here. We don’t even know if he’s coming back. What if the prince’s campaign has already begun and taken him?”

“His men are still here. They’ll tell him.”

She looked at Tigerclaw, pulling him into it. “Help me talk him out of this.”

“I’ll go with him,” Tigerclaw said.

Sunflower stared.

“The food distribution might have been disrupted by now,” Tigerclaw said. “Or it might be a noble’s trick with nothing behind it. In either case, we’re not technically violating Kanas’s order—we’d just be confirming what’s happening.” He shrugged, the gesture only slightly undermined by the fact that he looked like he might blow away in the wind. “And I’m strong. I can carry Joe and still run. We go, we check, we come back. Kanas’s men are inside by the fire. No one will notice.”

You stay,” Snaketooth told Sunflower. “If anyone asks, we have diarrhea and needed somewhere private. We won’t be long.”

She hesitated, looked around the room, looked at Joe.

“Go,” she said. “Hurry.”


They ran.

The snow had packed into ridges underfoot, soaking through their trousers at every step. The cold came at their faces like something with an edge to it. Tigerclaw carried Joe on his back without complaint, settling into a steady rhythm that Snaketooth matched beside him.

The square held close to a thousand people.

The oatmeal was real.

They broke into a run—and were stopped by two guards in brown uniforms before they reached the fence. “Walk. No pushing. No cutting. Anyone who breaks the rules loses their ration.”

Snaketooth noticed the layout: a wooden fence encircling the distribution area, the crowd moving through it in a folded line like a slow river finding its way to the sea. Guards at regular intervals. Order enforced by the quiet authority of men who clearly weren’t there to be bribed.

“Please—” Snaketooth dropped to his knees in the snow. “My friend is sick. He needs food urgently.”

Tigerclaw knelt beside him without being asked.

“What illness?”

“Cold-plague.”

One of the guards reached out and lifted Joe from Tigerclaw’s back without ceremony, settling the boy against his shoulder. “Get in line. Both of you.”

“Where are you—”

“He’ll know the way back,” the second guard said. “And if he doesn’t, you can find him here.”

The guard carried Joe away through the crowd. They watched him go.

“What do we do?” Tigerclaw asked.

Snaketooth considered it. Getting through the line would take at least half an hour—long enough for Kanas’s men to notice them gone, long enough for something to go wrong. Joe was already with the guards. No oatmeal was going to help him more in the next thirty minutes than professional care might.

“We go back.”

Without oatmeal?” Tigerclaw’s voice cracked on the last word, his eyes fixed on the steaming barrel at the wooden table.

“We come back tonight and get Joe. We can queue then.” Snaketooth turned away before he could talk himself out of it.

There was something he didn’t say: the grain announcement had been real. The oatmeal announcement had been real. That left one more announcement unaccounted for.

He did not let himself think too hard about what that meant. Not yet.

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