Free Children of Earth and Sky by Guy Gavriel Kay

Viero Villani had had some status as a painter, a measure of recognition, and then debts.
    The house had been an extravagance, an over-bold statement. It was gone, of course, the furnishings sold off. The elder Villani’s belongings, including all unsold paintings, had been claimed by his creditors. In a city fixated on commerce, the law as to debts and inheritance was precise and the courts moved rapidly. His son had managed to conceal and keep two paintings, one a portrait of his mother. You could say he was a thief.
    Pero Villani, after his father’s sudden death, had found himself with nothing but a modestly respected family name, much desire, and what was judged to be talent—though only among others in his own situation, which is to say, those who meant nothing in the world.
    The friends who knew his work were also drinking companions and would have been protection now had he been with them tonight. Had they all been making their way in a staggering group, singing, arm in arm down canal-side alleys, over bridges, under the two moons in and out of clouds.
    There was more than one man behind him.
    He was pretty certain he’d detected three footfalls. There might be four, and they’d sped up when he had. Thieves roamed Seressa at night, as they roamed any city. So did gangs of youngaristocrats seeking the idle, vicious pleasure of attacking people at night to show their bravado, to prove they could. The law, so ardent in financial matters, could be slack in prosecuting sons of the powerful.
    Villani suspected the second possibility, for the simple reason that any competent thieves would have sorted out by now that he wasn’t going to have anything worth taking. Captured thieves were sent to the galleys, and there
were
night patrols. It didn’t stop assault and robbery—hungry men needed to feed themselves, greedy ones remained greedy—but it did tend to mean that a thief would choose his target with a bit of care.
    A threadbare artist carrying a sketchbook wasn’t worth risking death chained to a rowing bench. He’d passed under lights in brackets on the walls of city palaces when he’d left the shop. The condition of his cloak could have been seen by anyone with a thought of robbing him.
    He considered shouting that into the blackness, but didn’t. If it was reckless sons of wealth behind him, it would only amuse and incite them. Of course, it could be no one. He could be agitating himself over some drunken cluster of friends, as his own would be, somewhere in their district.
    Except there were no wine shops in this warehouse part of the city, and he’d heard this group come—quickly, not drunkenly—down a side street as he went by it, then turn to follow him.
    Two more footbridges and one square—by the lovely Lesser Sanctuary of Blessed Victims—and he’d be on his own ground. He could find acquaintances abroad, working women he knew, who could shout or scream a warning; wine shops would be open.
    He was sober and young. He ran.
    Immediately he heard them do the same, which did answer any lingering questions or doubts.
    He was in real danger. They had no particular reason to let him live. And if this was a pack of swaggering aristocrats they’d haveeven less concern about using a blade in the hidden dark—it might add to the glamour of their existence.
    The walkway was briefly wider here. He stayed close to the canal side. There were posts at intervals for mooring boats. If he didn’t crash into one himself, perhaps one of those behind him might. He needed to be careful, running this fast. It was easy to stumble on uneven stones, trip over a cat, a scurrying rat, someone’s garbage not dumped in the water.
    First bridge. Up one side of the curve and down. He liked this bridge, the smoothness of its arc.
    A
really
trivial reflection just now, Pero thought.
    Still no lights. This was a district crowded in the daytime with commerce