Rain ran from the ends of Alison's red hair as she crouched above the alley, watching the guard beneath her. People called what she did fighting. A thought that always amused her. Fighting implied the other person got a turn. Alison preferred appearing from nowhere, putting a poisoned needle somewhere inconvenient, and being halfway across the rooftops before anyone understood what had happened.

Tonight hadn't been quite that clean. One guard had turned around too early, another had been wearing considerably more armor than advertised, and now her shoulder hurt like hell. A knee to the right nerve, two fingers beneath a jaw, and a very undignified leap through an open window had accomplished what trading sword blows wouldn't have.

As sunrise approached, Alison sat alone beneath an outdoor shower, washing somebody else's blood from the black ink covering her arms. The stolen ledger rested safely inside her bag. Tomorrow, whoever hired her would hear that the job had gone smoothly.