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"Run, lowlife scum!" exulted one of their sword-waving rescuers, a red-bearded young giant in a green gemcloak with, oddly enough, a Moonshar accent. "Bested with barely a slash of my steel!"

"They weren't all that good at standing, let alone fighting," observed a dark-haired youth whose cultured tones were heavily laced with sarcasm. "No, Beldar, let them go. I believe we can trust the Watch to find crawling men."

Nobles. These must be nobles. Who else would speak of Watchmen with such weary disdain? Plenty of crafters and dockers hated the Watch, but Naoni had never heard them dismissed with amusement before.

A sword slid back into its sheath, and firm but gentle fingers were under Naoni's elbows, lifting her. She looked up into a handsome face framed by fair, short-shorn hair. The man's eyes were blue and kind, full of concern… and something more.

It took Naoni a moment to recognize that "something more" as the sort of look commonly directed at pretty Faendra.

"Are you hurt, my lady?"

She considered this, and the man's lips twitched.

"Had I asked how your companions fared, you'd have a ready answer," he said quietly. "In the midst of danger, you spared no thought for yourself."

"Well, there wasn't time, you see," she said lamely.

He smiled, not in mockery, but with genuine warmth, and beyond him, Naoni caught sight of a rising cobblestone, clenched in familiar work-reddened fingers.

"Lark, no!" she cried.

The man whirled, blue cloak swirling. Lark stepped deftly back and tossed her weapon down.

"My… yon goodwoman means no harm," Naoni said urgently, putting a staying hand on the man's sword arm.

"Oho!" the red-bearded man grinned knowingly, as the nobles gathered around.

She snatched her hand away. Her pouch might be heavy enough to tempt even these young blades-and didn't such highnoses come to Dock Ward to sport with lowborn lasses? Would the refusal of a damsel they'd just rescued be heeded?

Her younger sister was wandering back, pretty face cat-curious. Fear choked Naoni. Not Faendra! Never that!

"Lark meant no harm," she repeated hastily. "Can you say as much?"

"Aye," the fair-haired man told her firmly. "Korvaun's my name-Lord Korvaun Helmfast-and despite what some say about the habits of the nobility, I'm not in the habit of attacking women in the street."

"He speaks for himself," the red-bearded man said cheerfully, giving Faendra a good-natured wink.

Naoni's heart sank at the delight in her sister's face. Faen might have their mother's beauty, but that didn't mean she had to repeat Mother's mistakes!

The sardonic man sighed. "Malark, not now! Save the jests for ladies not so unsettled. Ah, forgive me: I am Lord Taeros Hawkwinter, this buffoon is Lord Malark Kothont, and our foremost battle-blade yonder is Lord Beldar Roaringhorn. Usually his tongue is as swift as his sword, but just now he seems at a most uncharacteristic lack for words. Collectively we're the Gemcloaks for, hem, obvious reasons. Are you unhurt?"

Naoni nodded, alarm fading. "Bruised, perhaps. They took nothing." She managed a smile. "I'm Naoni Dyre. This is my sister Faendra, and our servant Lark."

Faendra pointed at Naoni, her eyes bright. "She spun the gems that went into the cloaks you're wearing."

The one called Beldar frowned. "Crafters?"

"Lord Roaringhorn," Lark said, her voice like acid, "you seem surprised to learn we're respectable women."

The leader of the Gemcloaks reddened at her rebuke. "Forgive me, mistresses, but what do you hereabouts? These streets are no place for-"

"Folk who must go where their work takes them?" Lark's voice and gaze were now positively glacial. "What would you know of work?"

Beldar and Lark locked gazes. What passed between them only they knew, but it looked profoundly unpleasant. Naoni winced.

Gods above, we should be thanking these men, not insulting them! They seem pleasant enough, but they're nobles-and who knows what such grand folk might do if they take offense?

"We just came from one of my father's