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’
Well
.
.
.
carpentry
is
a
good
one
,
’
Lezek
hazarded
.
’
Or
thievery
.
Someone
’
s
got
to
do
it
.
’
Mort
looked
at
his
feet
.
He
was
a
dutiful
son
,
when
he
remembered
,
and
if
being
an
apprentice
was
what
was
expected
of
him
then
he
was
determined
to
be
a
good
one
.
Carpentry
didn
’
t
sound
very
promising
,
though
–
wood
had
a
stubborn
life
of
its
own
,
and
a
tendency
to
split
.
And
official
thieves
were
rare
in
the
Ramtops
,
where
people
weren
’
t
rich
enough
to
afford
them
.
’
All
right
,
’
he
said
eventually
,
’
I
’
ll
go
and
give
it
a
try
.
But
what
happens
if
I
don
’
t
get
prenticed
?
’
Lezek
scratched
his
head
.
’
I
don
’
t
know
,
’
he
said
.
’
I
expect
you
just
wait
until
the
end
of
the
fair
.
At
midnight
.
I
suppose
.
’
*
*
*
And
now
midnight
approached
.
A
light
frost
began
to
crisp
the
cobblestones
.
In
the
ornamental
clock
tower
that
overlooked
the
square
a
couple
of
delicately
-
carved
little
automatons
whirred
out
of
trapdoors
in
the
clockface
and
struck
the
quarter
hour
.
Fifteen
minutes
to
midnight
.
Mort
shivered
,
but
the
crimson
fires
of
shame
and
stubbornness
flared
up
inside
him
,
hotter
than
the
slopes
of
Hell
.
He
blew
on
his
fingers
for
something
to
do
and
stared
up
at
the
freezing
sky
,
trying
to
avoid
the
stares
of
the
few
stragglers
among
what
remained
of
the
fair
.
