Chapter 3

3

Sirsha

Sirsha knew she shouldn't have stayed in Raider's Roost as long as she had.

The settlement festered like a forgotten canker in the foothills of the Serran Mountains, a cesspool of liars, thieves, and worse.

Now Sirsha stood in one of the Roost's miserable, rain-soaked alleys in the dead of night, surrounded by a gang of miscreants. She was weaponless and—irritatingly—bootless, with nothing but her wits standing between herself and complete destitution.

Or possibly death. But she was, at this moment, primarily concerned with destitution.

She'd spent the last seven years saving up every penny from every job so she could leave the accursed Empire forever. She wanted warm weather, clear water, and a nice little inn to run in the Southern Isles. She wasn't about to lose her dream to a pack of poorly dressed halfwits.

"Give us the money, tracker," said the head thug, a pale weed of a girl called Migva. She packed a meaner punch than one would suspect, and she shook out her hand—sore from the beating she'd dealt Sirsha. "I'm tired and hungry and sick of hitting you."

Sirsha glanced behind her, to the shack she'd lived in for the past few months. It was an ugly, ramshackle sort of place, held together by spite and dirt, like most of the Roost. She'd rented a room in it from a hulking gem dealer too scary for even a Roost rat to cross. They'd worked out a trade: between her other jobs, she tracked down items or people he was interested in, and he ran off anyone who might want to rob her. In a lawless place like the Roost, it was a cushy trade.

Everything was dandy until the gem dealer's lover caught him cheating with the handsome tea merchant from up the lane. An hour later, the gem dealer was dead, his lover fled with his gems. Now the vultures circled.

"I told you, I don't have— uff —" Migva swung her fist low, and Sirsha landed on her knees, gasping. Her sopping, dark hair slapped across her forehead, and mud oozed between her socked toes. Skies, was there anything more disgusting than the feeling of wet sock?

"You've searched me a dozen times," Sirsha said. "I don't have anything."

"You must think I have dung for brains," Migva said. "You hid it. If you don't tell us where, I'll leave you in pieces all over the bleeding Roost. You're a filthy foreigner. No one will help you."

Sirsha glared at Migva through her non-swollen eye. The Roost rat came off as a petty thief, pecking at the crumbs left behind by bigger crooks. Clearly, Sirsha had underestimated the hag. Migva was smarter than anticipated. Nastier, too. Up close, she had that hungry glint that Sirsha knew well. The eyeshine of a predator, of someone who'd learned to hurt and kill out of necessity long ago, and found she enjoyed it.

Not for the first time, Sirsha wished her magic was useful for more than just tracking down jewel thieves.

A scrawny boy stood beside Migva. Last month, he'd tried to sell the gem dealer fake rubies. Sirsha convinced the big man not to kill him.

"You. Boy," Sirsha said. "I saved your miserable life when you were swindling the gem dealer."

The boy shifted from foot to foot, dagger shaky in his hand. "Migva, maybe we—"

Migva spun, drawing her blade across the boy's throat so fast that his blood was soaking into the mud before Sirsha understood what happened. She weighed her life against her savings. Would she enjoy spending years scraping together enough gold to leave the skies-forsaken Empire? No. But would it be better than getting thrown to the crows for their morning meal? Most certainly.

"The money's in the back bedroom," Sirsha said. "In a safe behind the painting of the ugly dog. Now that I think about it, the dog looks a bit like you, Migva. Did you ever sit for a painting—"

Sirsha doubled over when Migva leveled a kick at her belly. But even with her face in the muck and a broken rib or two, she smiled at the snickers from Migva's gang.

"What are you waiting for?" Migva roared at the thief closest to her. "Get in there!" The boy glanced at his dead companion and scurried inside. Half a minute later, he emerged.

Empty-handed.

Migva grabbed Sirsha's hair and dragged her to the outer wall of the shack, pinning her next to a barrel and a rusted rake. "What game are you playing?"

"No game!" Sirsha gasped. "The gem dealer's lover must have taken it. I swear that's where I put it!" Sirsha didn't bother controlling the shrill fear in her voice. If nothing else, it might keep Migva from decapitating her.

Migva released Sirsha, disgusted. "You're stupid and pathetic." She gestured to another of her gang. "Kill her."

"No—no, please—" Sirsha cowered—rather convincingly, she thought. Until one of Migva's minions grasped her neck.

At which point Sirsha latched a hand onto the rake and swung it up into the man's nether regions, relishing the bastard's howl of rage and pain before spinning the rake into the side of his head. Sirsha shoved him at Migva and darted into the shack, bolting the door behind her. It wouldn't hold back the gang for long. But it might delay them enough for her to get the hells out of here.

She swept up her boots, her blades, and her pack before diving into the bedroom. The ugly dog painting lay on the floor, and the hidden cabinet gaped open, empty. Ah well.

Sirsha threw herself into the closet, fumbling with a tiny latch on the floor as the front door splintered open. The latch gave and Sirsha was through, barely managing to close it before Migva's goons flooded the room. She padded down a narrow tunnel and through a secret door to a back alley. Once outside, Sirsha squelched through the mud, stopping at an alcove a few houses down to look back. Nothing.

She stripped off her socks and shoved the dark red leather boots on. She might get blisters, but skin would grow back. These boots fit like a glove and had carried her hundreds of miles. She wasn't about to dirty their insides.

As she eased out of the alcove, someone shouted ahead of her.

"There she is!"

Sirsha flung one of her poison-tipped needle blades at the scout and ran, a fading groan telling her she'd hit her mark.

Exits. Exits. Sirsha knew the Roost well—better than most who passed through here. Problem was, Migva lived here too. There were countless less-traveled paths out of the Roost—most of which were incredibly dangerous.

Sirsha knew of one that no sensible person would traverse. She headed for it, flitting from alley to alley, one eye behind her. She thought she saw movement and crouched low in the shadows beside a tavern. When no one emerged, she continued until she reached the eastern outskirts of the settlement.

The Roost was sprawled in a narrow space between two immense rock faces. From afar, the rocks shot straight upward, appearing impassable. Sirsha knew better. She picked past the outlying huts and tents, and made for a fissure in the stone. The opening was just wide enough for her. She pulled on a pair of gloves and began the dangerous climb up.

The rain made it treacherous, and soon she was sweating. As she picked up speed, she heard a scrape from below.

A face peered up at her. Even from a distance, Sirsha recognized Migva's lupine features, twisted into a snarl.

"Bleeding hells," Sirsha muttered. She'd like to think that Migva would slip and fall to an unceremonious death. But the girl was like a Jibautian spitting cockroach—mean and strong and impossible to kill. Sirsha looked to the thin slice of sky above, the rain-bloated clouds illuminated by a stroke of lightning. Everything hurt. Her bones felt like shards of glass. But it wasn't far to go.

Sirsha grimaced as she climbed. Every time she looked over her shoulder, that bony wretch was getting closer. When Sirsha emerged from the fissure onto the cap of the rock face, Migva was a mere twenty feet behind, and Sirsha panted with exhaustion. She clambered forward, squinting in the dark.

The rock ahead sloped down toward the Jutts—land formations that looked as if the earth had grown spikes. Beyond was the Serran Mountain Range. It would be spectacularly foolish to traverse the Jutts in this weather.

Which was why Sirsha staggered toward them. The way down to the Jutts was steep. But if she was careful, she could avoid tumbling head over feet into the wide chasm below, and reach one of the thin rock bridges she knew lay in that direction.

"Come back here!" Migva screamed, hands shredded from the climb.

"When has that order ever worked for you, dog-face?" Sirsha slipped and went skidding down the slope toward the chasm, her fall halted when she smashed into a ridge, jarring every bone in her body. Lightning flashed and she jumped at what looked like a figure ahead, huge and hulking, standing near a spot of flat land beside a boulder.

A moment later, it was dark once more and she wasn't sure what she'd seen. Her distraction cost her. Migva knocked into her, tearing the breath from her body.

Sirsha lurched forward, and Migva's gaze caught on the thin gold chain around Sirsha's neck. Her eyes shone with sudden greed, and she lunged for it, sending both of them rolling down the rocky slope. They were approaching the chasm too fast.

"Stop, you idiot!" Sirsha screamed as Migva tried to rip the chain off. "You're going to get us killed!"

But Migva was past caring, and all Sirsha could do was try to fend her off with one arm while scrabbling for a grip with the other. There were knobs of rocks here, vines, ridges. If she could grab one, she could arrest her fall.

Just before the slope dropped off into the gorge, her fingers caught on something rough. An old dead vine that she felt a sudden and abiding love for. She latched onto it, and though it stretched taut as gravity pulled her and Migva closer to the cliff's edge, it did not give. Sirsha shoved her thumb in Migva's eye and kicked out viciously. The Roost rat released her, startled at the sudden attack. She hurtled down into the darkness, her panicked scream echoing until it was suddenly cut off.

"I did warn you," Sirsha muttered. She didn't dare move. She was practically vertical, with no clear sense of what was anchoring the vine. Gingerly, she felt for a foothold.

As she did so, the vine slackened. Sirsha fell, dropping away into death. Bleeding, burning hells. Sharing a grave with that pasty-faced bitch. What an end.

Until quite suddenly, she was hovering. Not dead. Her beloved vine stretched taut and she held on to it for dear life, dangling over the Jutts' maw. Inexplicably, the vine began to inch upward.

No, Sirsha realized. Someone was pulling it upward. Quickly. After only a few minutes, she was out of the crevasse, and she tried to get a look at whoever had saved her. She saw a flash of a lamp and a huge figure before the rain blurred her vision. Seconds later, a hand pulled her to a flatter spot on the rocky slope that had nearly killed her.

"You can let go. You won't fall from here." The voice was a deep rumble that Sirsha didn't recognize. Lightning flashed and she caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar man. He was taller than her, with light eyes and dark hair. His face was grim—marked by sorrow. He appeared to be twice her age.

"Are you Sirsha Westering?" he asked. "The tracker?"

Before he could so much as think about drawing a scim, she had a knife to his throat, the blade cleverly concealed in a strap on her wrist. "It's pronounced Seer-shah. And who wants to know?"

She expected anger from him, or irritation. Men didn't like being bested by the likes of her. But he smiled and nodded downward. He held a blade to her stomach. As quickly as it appeared, he was flipping it back into his belt and holding up his hands.

"I'm a client," he said. "And I've got a job for you."