The Killing Song

CHAPTER 2

From the surface of the Dagger River, among the wharves that lined the base of the cliffs on which it was built, Sharn was a sight to inspire awe. When the sun shone, the City of Towers was a shining monument, soaring into the heavens, the unthinkable height of its massive spires pointing like spears at the underbelly of the sky. As the ragged ship that carried the name White Bull came alongside one of the wharves and mooring lines were thrown to waiting dockworkers, however, the sun wasn’t shining. The sky was heavy with clouds the color and weight of lead, and Sharn was less a monument than a warning. It was a looming, titanic thug, waiting to crush anyone who came within reach of its bulk.

Singe stood on the deck of the White Bull, stared up at the dark stone of the cliffs and the city, and let out his breath slowly. “This is it,” he said. “We’re here.”

To his right, Natrac grumbled and dug the point of the long knife strapped over the stump of his right wrist into the sun-bleached wood of the rail. “I didn’t think I’d be coming back here.”

Singe turned to look at the half-orc. “You could have gone to the Shadow Marches with Geth-or home to Zarash’ak.”

“Too late for that.” He twisted his arm, and a shaving of wood curled up. “Sharn. Bah. The only city in the world where you can fall to your death getting out of bed.”

Singe would have smiled if he’d felt at all like smiling. Instead he turned to his other side. “What about you?” he asked. “How are you feeling?”

Dandra’s long, black hair whirled in the breeze, tangling around the shaft of the short spear she wore strapped across her back. Her eyes were fixed on the heights of the city. “Sharn’s a big place,” she said without shifting her gaze, “but whatever Dah’mir has planned, he’s not going to get away with it. We’re going to stop him.”

Her voice was determined, but it was seldom less than determined. Singe reached over and put his hand over hers where she gripped the rail. “That’s not what I meant.”

A flush stained the bronze-brown of her cheeks. “I know.”

Determination didn’t mean that Dandra wasn’t afraid. He lifted his hand and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her tight. “We can’t face Dah’mir alone again, Dandra. We’ve been lucky so far. If Dah’mir came to Sharn to turn kalashtar into servants of the Master of Silence, we need to warn them. And if we need allies-”

“-we should start with the kalashtar elders.” Dandra sighed and leaned into his embrace for a moment. “You can keep saying that, but it doesn’t make this easier. You can’t understand. The kalashtar here know … knew Tetkashtai. How are they going to react to me? I’m not Tetkashtai. I’m not even a kalashtar. I’m a psicrystal in a kalashtar’s body. I killed Medala and Virikhad. I absorbed Tetkashtai. That’s going to scare them.”

Her hand came up and clutched the yellow-green crystal around her neck that had once been her physical form and more recently a prison to Tetkashtai. Singe could feel the tension in her body. He held her tighter. “That’s all the more reason for them to listen to you,” he assured her. “Dah’mir exchanged your mind with Tetkashtai’s. Dah’mir drove Medala mad. Because of him, Tetkashtai would have destroyed you and turned on us if you hadn’t stopped her. You’re living proof of the danger Dah’mir represents. The elders have to see what will happen if we don’t stop him.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know which scares me more, Singe: that we might not find Dah’mir or that we almost certainly will.”

“You can do this,” he murmured in her ear. “I know you can.”

Footsteps came along the deck behind them, and Singe released her. The captain’s mate, a Brelish man, stopped a pace away from them. “See to your gear,” he said. “Captain wants you off and out of the way so we can unload our cargo.”

If Singe had any lingering doubts that not all of the goods in the White Bull’s hold were strictly legal, the mate’s warning eliminated them. The ship had been the least questionable to call on the squalid port of Vralkek while they’d been there. She was far from the swift elemental galleon Lightning on Water-now lost if Vennet d’Lyrandar could be believed-but they hadn’t had much choice. Singe didn’t doubt that the ship could put on a turn of speed if she were being pursued, but day-to-day she traveled at a snail’s pace that left him grinding his teeth in frustration. Lightning on Water could have made the passage to Sharn in days. The White Bull had taken nearly a month. “Tell the captain we’ll be off as soon as the gangplank touches the wharf.” He swept into a bow. “It’s been a pleasure sailing with you. I’ll recommend you to my friends.”

His sarcasm passed over the mate without even ruffling his matted hair, and the man turned back the way he had come. Singe took another look up at the looming city, then stepped away from the rail and picked up his pack. “Come on.”

The final member of their little party waited for them by the gangplank, her lean body as tense and coiled as a hunting cat’s. Ashi was the only one of them who had never been to Sharn before. Singe wasn’t sure that she’d even believed their stories about the city until the White Bull had passed the headlands of the coast and Sharn had come into view that morning. Now she paced back and forth near the gangplank, looking out at the docks. When she turned at their approach, there was a strange mix of emotions in her eyes: the fear and wariness of a predator entering new territory, and the curiosity of an explorer on the edge of uncharted terrain.

In fact, her eyes were all that could be seen of her face. A scarf hid everything below Ashi’s eyes and a wide headband covered her from eyebrows to hairline. Virtually every other bit of her skin was covered with clothing scrounged in Vralkek. Her shirt had long sleeves and a high collar, and she wore close-fitting leggings. Her palms and the backs of her hands were covered by fingerless gloves. Singe had even covered the pommel of the sword, a bright honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals, that had first led him to suspect that the hunter might carry the blood of House Deneith.

There wasn’t a hint of the powerful Siberys dragonmark that had manifested during their confrontation with Dah’mir in the ruins of Taruuzh Kraat, tracing her body in bold and complex patterns. The mark had the power to shield Dandra from the terrible fascination that Dah’mir wielded over kalashtar. Unfortunately, Siberys marks manifested so rarely that the dragonmarked houses watched for them with proprietary avarice. Once House Deneith learned of Ashi’s mark, they were certain to seek her out and claim her for their own. Singe had served Deneith for nearly fifteen years as a mercenary in the Blademarks Guild. He knew what the house was capable of-and that his years of service wouldn’t mean a thing to Deneith.

Ashi saw him inspecting her and gave him a glower. He raised his eyebrows. “People are going to stare at you,” he said. “It can either be because of the way you dress or because of your dragonmark. And we can’t let Deneith take you.”

The glower deepened for a moment, but eased. “Betch,” Ashi cursed. “I know.” She regarded her shrouded arms with disgust, then flexed them. “At least I can still fight in this.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to-at least, not for a while.” Singe looked from the hunter to Natrac to Dandra, then drew a long breath and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Stepping onto the wharf was like walking into battle. Big, muscular men and women moved back and forth with deliberation, wielding their loads like weapons against anyone not quick enough to get out of their way. Carts and wagons rumbled like siege engines. Warforged-artificial creatures given life and intelligence by the artificers of House Cannith-trod heavily across the planks and stones as well. The sight of them only reinforced in Singe the sense that he was back on a battlefield.

Warforged had been created for only one purpose, and even two years after the end of the Last War, it still seemed unnatural to see them engaged in something as routine as manual labor. Singe’s fingers itched with old instincts, ready to draw his sword or fling a fiery spell should one of the constructs turn on him.

None of them did, of course. Still, it was a relief to make a strategic retreat from the wharf into the crowded streets that hugged the waterfront and were cut into the steep base of the cliffs. Ashi’s eyes were wide, and it seemed that every few steps, she stopped to stare in wonder at some new sight. At the warforged. At a wagon, driven by a hobgoblin and hitched to a pair of heavy tribex, their long horns blunted but still impressive. At the famous skydocks, cranes high on the cliffs lifting massive loads up to the city along lines of glowing light. At a group of five human men with faces identical down to the blotch of a birthmark.

“Changelings,” Natrac spat in explanation. One of the men must have felt Ashi’s gaze or overheard the comment, because he turned and grinned at the hunter as his features melted briefly into a duplicate of Natrac’s face. The half-orc scowled and tugged Ashi onward.

Natrac wore a tunic with a cowl, and Singe saw him pull the cowl up with a sharp motion to hide his face. Curiosity stirred in Singe. Natrac had always been close-mouthed about his past, and the only reason Singe and the others knew that he’d spent time in Sharn at all was because Bava, the half-orc’s old friend in Zarash’ak, had let a fragment of the tale slip. Singe eased closer to Natrac. “Expecting trouble?” he asked.

“Only a dead man doesn’t,” Natrac growled. “Let’s get to the upper city.”

If Ashi had been awed by the sight of the skydocks, she nearly cried out when they stepped onto one of the passenger lifts that carried people instead of cargo from the waterfront up into the lowest levels of the city. The particular lift that they boarded was a ramshackle affair, an old skydock long since retired from heavy work. The glowing line of force that connected lift and crane pulsed visibly as they rose, making the passenger platform shudder and jolt. Heedless of any danger, Ashi leaned out over the rail, staring at the ships and street as they shrank below. Between the hunter’s masking scarf and Natrac’s shrouding cowl, Singe couldn’t help thinking they made a suspicious party. When the lift reached its destination at the top of the cliffs, he slipped a few copper crowns into the hand of the goblin operating it. Singe didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to-the goblin lost interest in them with professional swiftness. He probably made a tidy profit ignoring who and what rode on his lift.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Natrac. “He’s going to know we have something to hide.”

“Only a dead man doesn’t expect trouble,” Singe repeated. “We’re stalking a dragon. I don’t think we can underestimate Dah’mir-or Vennet. They’ve had more time in Sharn than I would have liked. Whatever magic Dah’mir used to transport himself, Vennet, and the binding stones out of Taruuzh Kraat, you can bet it got them to Sharn faster than the White Bull.”

The district where the old lift left them was dominated by warehouses and large workshops built among and into the bases of the great towers of the city. Away from the cliff’s edge, the streets quickly became dank and dark, the air stale and still. The steady light of huge lanterns that burned with cold fire replaced the natural light along the busiest routes. Singe let Natrac take the lead, and the half-orc kept them among a steady parade of traffic crossing the district toward one of the large lifts that would take them all the way up to the airy reaches of the upper city. For all that they walked a well-traveled route, the feel of danger lurked in the air. When the sounds of violence echoed out from a gloom-choked sidestreet, Singe’s hand jumped for his rapier. He kept moving though, pushing Ashi ahead of him when the hunter would have stopped to investigate.

“Trust me,” he told her. “You don’t want to get involved. That’s the way to Malleon’s Gate. Dol Arrah would think twice about going there alone.”

The warning only brought new light to Ashi’s eyes. “Why? What’s Malleon’s Gate?”

“Once it was the heart of Old Sharn,” Dandra said. “Now it’s where the goblins-and other monsters-live.”

“Like Droaam?”

“Worse than Droaam.”

Warehouses gave way to grimy inns and taverns as they approached the lift to the upper city. It was more than twice as large as the first, and much more recently constructed. The floor of the platform looked like a disc of solid metal only a handspan thick. The rails-likewise made of metal-that ringed it were solid and polished; the roof overhead was tinted glass. The lift was also more crowded, though the passengers studiously ignored one another. Once everyone had stepped on board, a section of rail slid across to close the entrance, and the lift rose so smoothly Singe barely noticed when it started to move. Half of the disc fit snugly into a curve in the outer wall of a tower; the other half hung out over open air. Ashi jostled for the best view, and the jaded inhabitants of Sharn gave it to her. The hunter watched as stone dotted with flickering chips of dragonshards-the focus of the magic that supported the lift-rushed past on one side and the face of another tower, complete with dirty or broken windows and cluttered balconies, flew past on the other. Every few minutes, the lift would stop and the railing on one side or another of the platform would part allowing passengers on or off through arches in the tower wall or along bridges to neighboring towers.

“How far up do we go?” Ashi asked.

“Almost to the top,” said Dandra. “We’re going to Overlook district. That’s where most of the kalashtar in Sharn live.”

The nature of the view and of the passengers on the lift changed as the lift climbed. The windows they saw became increasingly cleaner and more decently covered. The balconies became larger and neater. The passengers likewise seemed more respectable. A busy marketplace marked the midpoint of their ascent. Ashi stared with such fascinated longing at the seething crowds that she almost tumbled over when the lift began moving again. All the while, the ground slipped farther away. Birds and more exotic flying creatures swooped through the canyons between towers. A flock of pigeons broke before the diving form of a hawk, swirling in a feathery storm around a passing harpy, leaving her cursing violently as she fought to climb above the birds. Finally even Ashi stopped looking over the edge of the lift and retreated toward the middle of the platform. Dandra gave her a faint smile. “You get used to the height,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” said Natrac.

The air remained nearly as humid as it had been in the lower city. The wind was sluggish and the clouds above seemed darker than ever. They were very nearly at the top of the lift shaft when the clouds opened, and rain began to fall in dense sheets that turned the city black around them. Falling water beat against the glass roof of the lift, running in long streams into the void below.

“Wonderful timing,” Singe groaned.

Dandra shrugged. “You get used to the rain too.”

The lift slowed and stopped. The railing slid aside, and they stepped from the platform into Overlook.

Gray stone soared above and below them. A bridge leaped from the lift stop to a nearby tower, while coiling stairs climbed and descended to what passed for streets in Sharn’s upper levels. Doorways, stalls, and underpasses were all crowded with people seeking shelter from the rain. In spite of the downpour, they seemed to be in a good mood, a mix of halflings, dwarves, and humans chatting easily with friends and neighbors.

Dandra led them down one of the staircases and along the lower street through the rain. “We’re close,” she said.

While they were in Sharn, they would stay at the apartment that had once been home to Tetkashtai, Medalashana, and Virikhad. The three kalashtar had left it behind, waiting for their return, when they had accepted what they believed was an honest invitation to visit a scholar in Zarash’ak who shared their interest in the interaction between dragonshards and psionics. That scholar had turned out to be Dah’mir, his invitation a deadly lure, and the possibility of their return permanently ended-after all, Dandra and her current company were the only ones who knew that the three kalashtar were now dead.

Occupying the apartment seemed vaguely ghoulish, but, Singe had to admit, eminently practical. He could even understand Dandra’s haste to reach it when they were so close. He just wished the rain had held off a little longer. Singe looked at the sheltering citizens with envy as they hurried past.

Ashi, barely even noticing the rain, just kept looking around. “Are the streets always decorated here?” she asked.

Singe raised his head and squinted against the rain. Wet and heavy, banners hung from windows and along the faces of shops. Most were the crimson and gold of Breland, but here and there were the colors of other nations. He calculated the date in his head. “Tomorrow is Thronehold,” he said. “A celebration of the end of the Last War. We’re just in time for a-Twelve moons!”

He flung up one arm, shoving Ashi and Natrac back into an unoccupied doorway, and grabbed for Dandra with the other, pulling her back against the wall with him. None of the others spoke, sudden alarm forcing them to silence, but Dandra looked at him questioningly. Singe pointed along the street and up.

Perched on a gushing rainspout at a point where the street turned was the huddled shape of a very wet black heron. One of Dah’mir’s herons. If Ashi hadn’t drawn his attention to the banners and he hadn’t been looking up, Singe wouldn’t have seen it himself. Dandra drew a sharp breath, and Singe felt the pressure of her mind against his as she reached out in the mental link of kesh. He accepted the touch, and an awareness of her-and of Ashi and Natrac as well-blossomed in his thoughts.

Is it watching for us? Natrac asked.

Does it matter?

I think it does, said Dandra. Beyond that bend in the street is Fan Adar, the kalashtar neighborhood. I think the heron is watching the kalashtar.

Singe cursed silently and thought for a moment, then asked. Does anyone see any others?

The others scanned walls and rooftops. One by one, they shook their heads. Good, said Singe. He raised his hand, a spell forming on his lips. Dandra looked at him with alarm.

Singe, a spell will attract attention!

Not this one. Singe focused his will, crooked his fingers, and murmured a soft word of magic.

Fire magic might have been his strength, but they’d just spent weeks on a wooden ship. If the crew of the White Bull had turned on them, throwing flames around wouldn’t have been a good idea, so Singe had made certain he was ready to cast a different kind of spell if the need arose. Up on the rainspout, the heron seemed to shiver slightly, then to sag. Singe lowered his hand and stepped away from the wall. The heron didn’t move, not even when he walked right up and stood underneath it. He turned back and gestured for the others to join him. “It’s asleep,” he said. “It should stay that way for a while and wake up without even knowing we were here.”

Dandra released her hold on the kesh, and the mental link vanished. “Why don’t you use that spell more often?”

He spread his hands. “Not everything falls asleep so easily, but pretty much everything will burn.”

Dandra shook her head and led them around the corner.

It was almost as if they had entered another city. The crowds that had packed the other streets were gone, leaving only a few figures huddled here and there. Singe had a feeling that even if it hadn’t been raining, the streets in this neighborhood would have been quiet and nearly empty. The Thronehold banners, though still present, were subdued. The gray stone of Overlook remained, but the decorations that enlivened it elsewhere were different here: bright flowers in painted window boxes gave way to gray-green herbs in suspended trays, curtains in windows bore curious embroidery that Singe had only seen in Dandra’s clothing, doors carried strange signs and symbols.

“Welcome to Fan Adar,” said Dandra softly.

The few faces that regarded them from arches and stalls shared features distinct from the men and women of the Five Nations. Some had the distinct exotic beauty-long and thin with angular features-that marked a kalashtar. Others had the rounder, softer features of humans, though they and the kalashtar were alike enough that they might have been distant cousins.

In a way, Singe supposed, they were. The humans were Adarans; Dandra had said that the far-off nation of Adar had been the birthplace of kalashtar eighteen hundred years before and that kalashtar and Adarans still lived close together. All had dark hair and eyes, with bronzed skin tones that ranged from the same rich brown as Dandra’s to a pale duskiness. Most wore clothes and sandals similar to hers as well.

Dandra kept to the middle of the street, not returning the dark-eyed gazes. Singe thought he saw recognition in some of the faces they passed, but no one called out and as soon as a kalashtar or Adaran turned to him, Natrac, or Ashi, even the merest hint of curiosity vanished into blank solemnity.

“Real welcoming sorts, aren’t they?” said Natrac under his breath.

Dandra turned her head just enough to reply. “They’re insular, that’s all. Adar is a place of refuge. Kalashtar and Adarans don’t trust outsiders easily.”

“Even here in Sharn?” Singe asked her. “Dandra, if this was a village and we were passing through here during the war, I’d say the locals were scared of something.”

“If Dah’mir’s herons have been watching the neighborhood,” said Ashi, “maybe they are.”

Singe felt his skin crawl at the suggestion. “Let’s get to the apartment before we start speculating,” he said. “We may need to revise our-”

The shrill howl that erupted to his right stopped the words in his throat. Singe whirled to face a flash of movement and glimpsed a man-a kalashtar-as he leaped from behind a closed-up stall, his eyes wild, wet hair plastered against his head. Ashi’s sword flashed and Natrac’s knife-hand rose, but Singe was closest to the attacking man. He fell back a step, grabbing for his rapier.

The kalashtar was on him before he could draw it, hands outstretched. Singe twisted and one hand missed him, but the long fingers of the other grabbed at his sword arm. There was a silver-white flash, a crack like lightning striking close, and sharp pain burst through the wizard’s arm. He shouted, wrenched his arm free, and planted a kick in the kalashtar’s belly.

The man staggered but came surging back, hands reaching once more. There was no room for Singe to draw his sword, no time for him to cast a spell. Moving quickly, he pushed himself inside the kalashtar’s reach, grabbed his arms at the wrists, and forced his hands away. The kalashtar, however, fought with the strength of a madman. Singe yelped as he was heaved off his feet. Natrac, Ashi, and a glimpse of the street-kalashtar and Adarans alike staring in shock-blurred past him.

He ended up with his neck locked in the crook of the other man’s arm. The smell of his unwashed body was thick in Singe’s nose and mouth. The kalashtar screamed again, and his hand darted at Singe’s face. Silver-white light shimmered around his fingers.

“Ashi! Natrac! Get back!”

A sharp drone rose like a chorus. Out of the corner of his eye, Singe saw Dandra’s face tense with concentration.

Whitefire burst around him and the kalashtar man both, enveloping them in a heat so intense that took Singe’s breath away. He flinched, an automatic reaction and nothing more. The ring he had inherited from his grandfather consumed the magical fire that licked at him. The kalashtar, however, had no such protection. His howl turned into a gasp as the heat sucked the air from his lungs. The hand before Singe’s face fell away, the pressure on his throat eased. Singe tore himself free and the kalashtar swayed, then slumped to the ground. His wet clothes steamed, but the kalashtar was otherwise uninjured.

Singe bent over with his arms on his knees and breathed in cool air before glancing up at Dandra. “Thanks,” he began, but paused as he saw the expression on her face.

She was staring at the fallen man. Singe looked down at him as well. He was as dirty as he had smelled. The rain was making streaks in a face smudged with grime. His clothes were dirty and wet too, but otherwise in good repair. His features carried the slightly stretched look of someone who hadn’t eaten for several days. He had been living rough, Singe guessed, but not for very long. Probably less than a week.

“I know him,” said Dandra, “or at least Tetkashtai knew him. His name is Erimelk. He’s a scribe.” She knelt down beside him. “This isn’t like him.”

“There’s a surprise.” Singe straightened and twisted his arm to see where Erimelk had grabbed him. Blood stained the wet cloth in two big patches. “Twelve moons! He hits hard for a scribe.”

A hiss of warning from Natrac brought Singe’s head up again. The half-orc stood with his knife-hand held low and ready. Ashi kept her sword unsheathed.

The few kalashtar and Adarans who had been lingering on the rainy street were closing in on them, their faces hard with concern. Singe let loose a curse under his breath. He could imagine how the attack must have looked. They weren’t making a good first impression! “Dandra?” Singe said softly with a glance over his shoulder.

Dandra was still kneeling beside Erimelk, worry on her face.

Before she could rise, before the clustered locals could draw too close, though, a shout rose up. “Erimelk! Light of il-Yannah, you’ve found him, Tetkashtai!”

The locals paused and turned as new figures came hurrying up the street and pushed past them. There were four of them, three men and a woman, all kalashtar. They drew up short as they saw Natrac’s and Ashi’s weapons. The one who had called out, a big man with coarse gray hair and a worn face, was the first to step forward again. “It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands out flat and gesturing for the hunter and the half-orc to be calm. “We’ve been hunting for him. I’m sorry if he’s caused you-ah.” His gaze stopped for a moment on Singe. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s not serious,” Singe said. He glanced at Natrac and Ashi and nodded at them. They lowered their weapons. By the time he had looked back to the old kalashtar, however, the other man had already moved past him to Dandra.

“This is a poor homecoming. I’m sorry, Tetkashtai. Come away from him. You can’t have hurt Erimelk more than he’s hurt himself. We’ll look after him. Here, stand up.”

The kalashtar was holding an arm out to Dandra when his words sank into Singe’s head. You’ve found him, Tetkashtai … I’m sorry, Tetkashtai.

Twelve bloody moons, Singe thought. He can’t tell what’s happened.

The same thought must have worked its way through Dandra’s head. As rapidly as a cloud drifting past the sun, her face brightened and became confident. “Thank you, Nevchaned,” said Dandra, her voice unfamiliar and haughty as she fell into the role of her creator. “What happened-”

The old kalashtar cut her off with a shake of his head as he helped her to his feet. “The poor man,” he said sadly, and Singe noticed that he left the statement hanging to wave forward the two men who had come with him. The woman, the wizard realized, was moving among those who had been on the street when the attack occurred, calming them and sending them on their way. Before the men bent to pick up Erimelk’s unconscious form, the small crowd had already begun to disperse.

The men’s touch, however, must have roused Erimelk. The scribe’s eyes snapped open wide and for an instant he seemed to stare straight at Singe-then his eyes rolled back and the tones of a strange wordless song rippled from his lips, clashing but somehow still musical. “Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-”

The two kalashtar holding him stiffened. Nevchaned reacted instantly, pulling his hand from Dandra’s and reaching across to clap it across Erimelk’s mouth, muffling the song. “Take him to my shop, Fekharath,” he said swiftly. The men holding Erimelk began to move and Nevchaned went with them, hand still over the scribe’s mouth. The woman fell in beside them, staring at Erimelk. Nevchaned twisted around enough to nod a farewell to Dandra. “A poor homecoming,” he called back to her, “but it’s good to see you again. Are Virikhad and Medalashana …?”

“Still in Zarash’ak,” Dandra lied.

“Ah.” Nevchaned threw a brief glance at Singe and the others. For a moment, Singe thought he saw suspicion and disappointment in the old man’s eyes, then Nevchaned gave Dandra another nod and said, “Patan yannah, Tetkashtai.”

“Patan yannah, Nevchaned,” Dandra answered coolly.

And then they were alone on the wet street once more.