28 THE HIGHEST BIDDER

28

THE HIGHEST BIDDER

Corayne

Smashed rails on either side of the galley. Lost cargo. A dead captain, along with a dozen members of the crew. All in all, not so bad for a battle with a sea serpent.

Corayne assessed the damage with a keen eye before settling in with the ship’s navigator, who was now the de facto captain. The stout little man reminded her of Kastio. Together they charted a course to take advantage of the Strait’s winds and currents. Her fingers danced over the parchment maps spread out like a carpet. The sun glowed warm; the air was clean and full of salt. This was where she belonged.

Once again, Dom found himself among the injured, stripped to the waist, his torso a mess of black-and-blue bruises, patterned like scales. He made no sound as Sigil examined his chest, her fingers prodding for signs of internal bleeding. Sorasa loomed over the pair, a long welt down one side of her face from the serpent’s snapping tail. The Elder kept his mouth shut, but his annoyance was infinitely clear. Only a cup of tea from Andry’s kettle settled him somewhat, as the squire made his rounds, offering up the sweet-smelling brew to the sailors.

By the time night fell, they were ready with a watch crew, the ship swinging with lanterns. The darkness passed without incident, as did the following evening. Nothing else rose out of the deep, but everyone remained on edge, stealing glances at the waves.

No ship had ever been so relieved to spot the Crown Fleet of Ibal, the gallant warships spaced across the narrowest point of the Long Sea like teeth in a lion’s mouth. Their flags danced in the wind, royal blue and gold. The trader ran out its Larsian flag, a white bull on pale blue, and every sailor gave up a cheer or a wave.

Corayne did not share the sentiment. Instead she watched Charlie set the last touches to their papers of passage. The seals looked perfect: Tyriot aquamarine set with the warrior mermaid, her scales patterned in real gold ink. How Charlie had managed to draw up something so beautiful on the deck of a ship, Corayne could not say. She marveled at the diplomatic papers, letters to mark them as agents of a Tyri merchant company.

“Not my best work,” Charlie said, his teeth gritted as she peered over his shoulder. “It would be better to have some variety. You can pass for Ibalet or Ahmsarian, same as Sarn. But I didn’t have time to make a fresh seal.”

“These will do fine,” she answered. “What matters is the cut of our shoulders, not the cut of the seal.”

Never far away, Dom sidled up next to them, his focus on the horizon. His lips moved as he counted ships. “I am a prince of Iona,” he said, folding his arms. “Certainly that counts for something?”

Charlie had tact enough not to respond, in word or expression.

“The Crown Fleet is an impossible blockade to run without intricate planning or sheer luck,” Corayne answered. And while the crowns of the Ward might still marvel at Elders, the captain of a fleet ship would hardly care, let alone believe you exist at all. Her mother contended with the guardians of the Strait of the Ward every time she sailed west, and Corayne was careful to avoid complications. “Everyone who passes pays a toll of travel. Either your papers are good enough to warrant the usual price, or you have to scramble. Some captains can be bribed in a pinch, but there’s no telling which ship will meet you on the waves.”

They sailed on toward the fleet. One of the ships hung low in the water, heavier. Corayne felt her mother’s hunger flare in her chest. The fat, triple-masted galley squatted like a toad on a pond. It would be filled with coin and letters of promise, signed marks from well-known nobles, diplomats, or even royalty bound to pay the treasury at Qaliram. Meliz an-Amarat often fantasized about capturing a toll ship, but their voyages were heavily guarded. Too great a risk, even for such a prize.

Corayne’s heart pounded as an Ibalet ship sailed up alongside them, her deck crowded with fine sailors in light, airy silk the color of blue mist. They had no use for real armor, both on the waves and in the southern heat. Ibalet’s sailors were talented swimmers and swordsmen. Heavy plate would only slow them down. Like Sorasa’s, their swords and daggers shone bronze, gleaming in the daylight, an open show of strength.

The navigator met with the Ibalet captain, his purse and papers clutched in his fist. Judging by the way the navigator spoke, his hands curling and undulating in rolling paths, Corayne guessed he spoke of the serpent. It was enough to give the captain pause, and he barely rifled through their forged papers. He glanced over the crew still ragged from battle but did not linger. Not even for Sigil, clearly not of Tyri descent, nor Valtik, better suited to the grave than a trade vessel.

It only took a few moments to be on their way again, sailing for the Ibalet coast.

The grand city of Almasad followed.

Ibal was a land veiled in soft light, made hazy by the sun dipping in the west. The coast was green, lined with massive palm trees and succulent gardens, verdant as any forest of the north. Corayne marveled. The banks were thick with reeds and pale blue lotus along sandy beaches. A line of yellow glimmered on the horizon, where the dunes began. Villages and cities clung to the coastline, on cliffs or at the waterside, growing larger with every passing mile. Fishermen teemed in the shallows. Boats moved along the coast like carts upon a Cor road, ranging from war galleys to little skiffs poling through the shallows.

Then Almasad appeared out of the shimmering air, the port city fanning out on either side of the mighty Ziron. This wasn’t Ibal’s capital, but it was marvelous anyway, filled with sandstone monuments and gleaming pillars of limestone. The river was too wide for bridges, and barges crossed it like ants crawling back and forth. As Sorasa said, its cothon put Ascal’s to shame. The circular docks for the navy was a city itself, walled and patrolled by sailors in water silks. Corayne tried to count the dozens of ships in port, but could hardly keep up with the many sails and glimmering flags of Ibal and her fleets.

Raised causeways ridged the city like the arms of a sunbeam, carrying both freshwater and travelers through the many sectors of Almasad. They were not like the ruins of Old Cor, broken and chipped away. The limestone gleamed white under the sun, bright as a shooting star. Palatial compounds, citadels, and paved plazas ran along either side of the riverbank, patterned in soft yellow, green, and bright blue. A royal palace sat on the only hill, surrounded by sandstone walls and towers tipped in winking silver. It looked down on the Ziron, its many windows and balconies empty. As Corayne knew, the royal court of Ibal was not here or even in the grander capital. They were farther south, in the mountains, hiding or biding their time. They know something is wrong, she thought, clenching her teeth.

Statues of ancient kings flanked the river, taller than a cathedral spire, their faces worn by the ages. The galley passed through their shadows, cast for thousands of years.

“Are those emperors?” Corayne said at the rail, looking on them with wonder. As in Siscaria, as in Galland, the ancient empire ruled here once. She searched their facades, looking for some hint of her father, of herself. But found none. “Old Cor?”

Sorasa leaned into the warm wind, looking at the water, not the bank. “Do those look like northern conquerors to you?” she said with a proud smile.

Indeed, the statues did not, their features and clothing different from any emperor across the Long Sea. Each sat astride a fine stallion, with a cloak of patterned silk and peacock feathers. They looked more like my mother, Corayne thought, seeing the same lips and cheekbones.

Leaning into the warm breeze, Sorasa straightened her spine. Whatever fear she felt at returning to her home seemed to disappear. “Ibal was born before Cor and still lives long after it died.”

For certain, Ibal was truly alive. Different parts of the riverbank crowded with boats or splashing children or the knobbled form of a crocodile. Long-necked white birds flapped overhead, hunting shining copper fish. People traveled the causeways on foot or carriage or horseback, fading into the distance in every direction. The Ibalets of the coast were golden, their faces a prism of color in every shade of sunlight. Those from the south and east were darker, their faces the rich, reddish color of carnelian or black jet. They hailed from farther lands—Sapphire Bay, Kasa, or even distant Niron, a kingdom nestled in the Forest of Rainbows. Their voices rose in every language of the south, some familiar to Corayne, some foreign as Ishei.

Where Ascal stank and overwhelmed, a riot upon the senses, Almasad was a balm. The air was sweet, perfumed by the lotus gardens adorning the Ziron. Music drifted through the streets, from performers in their plazas or private homes along the river. And the water itself ran clean, not like the fetid canals of Queen Erida’s capital. Corayne almost wanted to dive into the water as they eased toward shore, the clear green current inviting as any fine bath.

Another inspector met their ship at the docks. Corayne thought of Galeri back in Lemarta, bribes jingling in his pockets, his ledger full of falsehoods. The Ibalet officer seemed far more alert, her light, cream-colored clothing set with several badges of office looped together with gold chain.

Again, the navigator took up the captain’s mantle and met the officer as the crew unloaded in the usual chaos. The pair went over their surviving cargo, inspecting crates.

Corayne and the others gathered at the rail, watching the traffic below. Another galley was in port beside them, looking worse for wear, with torn sails and snapped oars sticking out like the quills of a porcupine. It listed to one side, leaning drunkenly, while its crew disembarked as swiftly as they could.

Corayne read the ship. Sardosi, black-and-white sails—a grain galley. The crew hastily rolled great barrels onto the dock, lest the ship sink right then and there with all its cargo.

“This is going to be a mess,” she said in a low voice, looking to Dom and Andry at her side. “Dock officers care more about cargo than passengers. We can give them the slip, move in pairs.”

Another barrel bounced down the gangplank, landing hard. After a second, its wood hoops burst, the barrel splitting open with a hiss of shifting grain. Both crews, well as the Ibalet officer and her inspection team, shouted in dismay.

On the rail, Sorasa slipped a slingshot back into her belt, her expression open and blank. “You first,” she said, grabbing Corayne by the arm. “Meet at the Red Pillar, the takhan,” she added to the rest, nodding at the impossibly tall obelisk rising from the city skyline. It was only half a mile away, Corayne judged, but through the densest part of the city.

Dom fell in at her shoulder, his bulk like a solid, comforting wall. Together, they marched her down the gangplank as the opposite galley groaned, her port side sinking fast.

The Ibalet officer did not stop them, her hands more than full as another barrel cracked open like a broken egg. They made it up the dock splits and onto the main plaza, retreating into the crowded port district. Flowers bloomed from seemingly every window and empty corner, with low stone pots of sweet-smelling oil and fat candles set at intervals. An ingenious way to combat the horrid smells of a city.

Sorasa knew the way and led them in a beeline, the Red Pillar dead ahead through the maze of clay and stone buildings. Weary travelers passed by, seeking stone-walled inns or cool courtyards shaded with trees. Despite the many taverns and wine bars, Corayne noted very few drunks or beggars. The Almasad streets were kept remarkably clean, both by sweepers and roving patrols of soldiers in silk and mail.

They passed a fish market with a rainbow of stalls, each one selling a different catch from the Ibalet coast and the winding Ziron. Corayne recognized most—oily catfish, massive river carp, crocodile tale, spiny puffers. Her heart thumped at the shadow of a curling tentacle, displayed proudly by a muscular fisherman. But it was only the arms of an octopus, inky black. The sea monsters of the Spindle had not made it here.

Sandwiched between Dom and Sorasa, Corayne heaved a breath. For a split second, she was back in front of her cottage, beneath the blue night of a Siscarian summer. The road lay before her, begging to be walked.

Her choice was already made.

Valtik and Andry trailed at a distance, the squire easy to pick out. He was nearly a head taller than most and darker-skinned than the Ibalets, not to mention dressed like a northerner. While most Ibalets wore flowing robes and head coverings to combat the heat and sun, Andry still had his tunic and leather leggings, with a cloak over his shoulder. Nodding, he met Corayne’s eye before she turned a corner, losing sight of him.

She blinked, confused, as another face stared out at her.

Her own.

The old brick wall surrounding the docklands was centuries old, set with a dozen open gates. Unlike the causeways, it crumbled where exposed. The rest was glued over with old paper. Notices, advertisements, fading letters in all languages, but mostly in swooping, artful Ibalet. The faces of criminals and fugitives glared from the brick wall, their misdeeds written beneath their names.

Corayne didn’t bother to read the many crimes listed beneath the drawings of herself, or Dom, or Andry, but their names were clear enough. CORAYNE AN-AMARAT. DOMACRIDHAN OF IONA. ANDRY TRELLAND. There was even a rough sketch of Sorasa, her eyes lined with black, menacing as a nightmare.

“‘Wanted by the Gallish Crown,’” Sorasa said softly, reading the words scrawled over all their heads. They moved closer, drawn to themselves like a ship pulled into a whirlpool. “‘For crimes against Galland. Reward for information, capture, or corpse.’”

Corayne’s fingers met her sketched face, her lips too thin, her jaw too sharp. Andry’s and Dom’s faces were more accurate. She suspected that Taristan had guided an artist through their portraits, if he hadn’t done them himself.

The paper was slick under her hand, still wet.

“These are fresh,” she said, her voice trembling.

Sorasa growled to herself, cursing. “Plastered in every port of the Ward, in every kingdom that fears or loves Galland. We’re being hunted, in every corner of the realm.”

“By men and beasts, both,” Corayne murmured. It didn’t matter who held the sword to her neck, a skeletal demon or a watch officer following the orders of a queen. It would still end in the world’s ruin.

Dom’s voice was low, guttural. “We need to get out of this city.”

“For once, I agree with the troll,” Sorasa replied, tearing the posters from the wall.

Almasad was one of the largest ports of the Long Sea, its docks bunched together, needling out from the banks. But only a few streets inland, the city relaxed, stretching out in wider arcs and less crowded lanes. Many homes and buildings were walled, islanded by palm and cypress gardens. The great avenues were wide as canals passing beneath the causeways. Some had canopies, canvas as big as ship sails, ready to be pulled out on great lines and wood frames. The shadows were cool and inviting, the streets clearly designed to minimize the southern heat. Unfortunately, easy, quiet neighborhoods were more difficult to pass through without notice. Especially for anyone with a bounty on their head.

The Red Pillar stood in the center of a plaza, carved from a single block of rust-colored granite. It was more than a hundred feet high, a square column that tapered to a point like a pyramid. A carved face of Lasreen, goddess of sun and moon, night and day, life and death, stared out from each side.

They hurried past it, hoods raised and heads down. When a troop of Ibalet soldiers passed, clad in silk and armor, Sorasa ushered Corayne into a basement dwelling cramped beneath a structure of apartments that looked more like a child’s blocks. It was dim and smoky; Corayne’s eyes stung as they adjusted to the light.

Once she could see, she realized they stood in a dirt-walled root cellar, the ceiling so low Dom had to stoop. Doors and archways branched off from all sides, leading into cramped darkness.

“I take it you know what you’re doing,” Corayne said. Dried herbs and bushels of plants hung from the ceiling, perfuming the air. Footsteps thumped from the dwelling above them.

The assassin kept one eye on a crack in the door. A single beam of sunlight split her face.

“Somewhat,” she replied. “This is a bit of a way station for the underbelly of Almasad. Thieves, pickpockets, the occasional assassin. And, now, fugitives of Queen Erida.”

“My aunt will not abide this.” Dom braced the side of his head against the roof. “I am a prince of Iona. To hunt me so openly is to court war with my enclave.”

Corayne tried not to roll her eyes. She investigated the cellar, turning over the plants with disinterest.

The assassin didn’t move from the door, her voice flat. “Your enclave refused to fight for the sake of the entire Ward, but they would fight for your life? Somehow I doubt that.”

“Just because you have no concept of honor or duty does not mean others do not,” Dom answered hotly. Sorasa replied with a withering glare, sunlight illuminating one copper eye.

A twist of lavender crumbled between Corayne’s fingers, filling the cellar with its heady, floral scent. She breathed it deeply, hoping for some calming effect. It didn’t work.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” Corayne said, shouldering between them. “The Spindle will be close to the Jaws, but that’s days into the desert. And no ship will take us by sea, not with our faces plastered all over the port.”

“Let’s figure out where we’re going before we figure out how to get there,” Sorasa replied. Without a sound, she slipped out the door, leaving motes of dust swirling in her wake.

“Good riddance,” Dom muttered. He drew up a crate and sat, straightening out his neck.

“You’d still be wandering up and down the Ward looking for me, if not for Sorasa,” Corayne said, brushing lavender off her hands. “You can at least pretend not to hate her.”

The immortal heaved a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the wall. “I do my best not to lie.”

Before Corayne could laugh or snap, Sorasa returned with Valtik and Andry in tow. The squire was flushed, his hood drawn up, his body coiled with tension. Somewhere, the witch had picked up a colorful scarf, patterned with scales, and wrapped it around her hair.

“Did you see?” Andry demanded, pointing back to the street with a shaking finger. “That’s us out there. Already.”

“We saw the posters, Squire,” Sorasa said, holding the door ajar for Charlie and Sigil, who trooped in with a little less concern. “That’s why we’re hiding instead of enjoying the sunshine.”

Corayne went to the old witch and took her by the hand. Her flesh felt so light, her skin thin as paper. “Valtik, what do the bones tell?” she said, pushing all her worry into her eyes. Valtik stared back, her gaze that same vivid blue. “I know they tell you something. Anything.”

“Don’t bother,” Dom said. “The witch has a way of being useless precisely when we need her most.”

Sorasa shut the door tight, plunging them all into shadow. “Something you two have in common?”

To Corayne’s relief, Dom ignored the jab and Valtik quirked a grin. Her free hand strayed to her belt, loosing the pouch of bones with a single pull of a string. They spilled around her feet, yellow and white, scrubbed clean of blood and muscle.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Valtik said, watching as they fell into place, seemingly at random. The others looked on, hunting for a pattern only Valtik could see. She didn’t stare long. Whatever she saw in the bones was clear as day. “We’re in the right land.” She turned her cornflower eyes back on Corayne. They bored into her. “But we must find a mirror—mirrors on the sand.”

“Why do we tolerate this Jydi nonsense?” Sigil hissed. Her bronze face had gone red in the heat, but it was nothing compared to Charlie, who was already sunburned. “And how long are we going to cower here?” The bounty hunter also needed to crouch, lest she crack her head on the roof. “It’s only a matter of time before one of your own comes along and sells us out.”

“Take heart, Sigil. The Amhara would rather kill me themselves then let a northern queen do it,” she said lightly. “But yes, we should be moving. Almasad is not Ascal. Criminals are not so easily overlooked.” She bit her lip. “Mirrors on the sand, eh, Valtik? Any ideas on what that could mean?”

The witch had no more to give. She ran her fingers over the dirt floor, scooping the bones back into her purse.

Charlie watched, bright-eyed even in the dim light. He kissed both palms as he had in the crossroads tavern. “Strangeness follows Spindles. It clings to their locations, before they open and even after they close. Scripture calls it the shadow of the gods. It’s how the Spindletouched are born, brushed with magic,” he said, gesturing to the old woman scrabbling on the floor. She seemed anything but magical. “If there were a Spindle open in this land, there would be a sign.”

“But some of us can’t exactly walk all over Almasad eavesdropping and looking for such signs.” Corayne said.

“It’s not my face on those posters,” Sigil offered. “I can make the rounds, see what I hear. Hopefully bring back something the rest of you can piece together.”

Sorasa offered her a rare, true smile. “Thank you, Sigil.”

“I’m a simple woman, Sarn,” the bounty hunter said with a shrug. “I serve the highest bidder. That’s currently you.”

The assassin took it in stride. “The ruins of Haroun, on the outskirts. Dusk,” she declared. “Charlie, you can walk free too. Can you get us horses? Ready by the Moon Gate?”

Before the fallen priest could acquiesce, Dom shook his head, still braced against the wall. “And what if they abandon us?” he said, eyeing both Sigil and Charlie.

It isn’t a foolish thing to wonder.Corayne bit her lip, trying to fight down her own trepidation. Across the floor, Andry frowned. We’ve made enough mistakes so far. Will trusting two criminal strangers be another?

Sorasa’s eyes flashed, a warning. “Then they abandon the Ward to ruin, and themselves to doom.”

“Cheerful to the last, Sarn,” Charlie said, wrenching open the door. It spilled light so bright Corayne winced. Sigil’s silhouette flared across the floor, a giant behind her.

“Either way,” Corayne muttered, “we don’t have much choice in the matter.”

Sorasa slammed the door behind them, scowling. “That’s the spirit.”

They wouldn’t last much longer in the cellar. Sigil was right: it was only a matter of time before the Ibal patrols or some criminal element discovered their ragtag band. Even a common thief wouldn’t balk at turning them in, should he manage to escape Sorasa’s blade. So Sorasa led them east, through a damp, muddy passage that surfaced in an overlooked alleyway strewn with hung laundry. To Corayne’s dismay, Sorasa was jumpier than a rabbit, double-checking every corner, avoiding alcoves and sewers like they might snap shut on her body.

“Is it just me, or is Sorasa Sarn scared?” Andry murmured.

“Terrified,” she answered.

“There’s an entire sea between us and Taristan, his army, the other Spindle.” He adjusted his steps, matching her stride. “What could she fear?”

“Her own,” Corayne said, coming to realization even as she spoke.

A fallen Amhara, forsaken, broken. Osara. It must also mean doomed.

Corayne’s blood chilled, her skin prickling even in the dry, desert heat of Ibal. She licked her lips, tasting sweat and salt. Not long now. Dusk approached, the sky overhead going hazy pink. We’ll meet Charlie and Sigil. We’ll have horses. We can leave this place and those posters behind. There aren’t any patrols in the dunes. There isn’t anyone at all.

Sorasa’s caution got them through the alleys without trouble, her internal compass winding them away from the hustle and bustle. It took hours of careful navigation, avoiding patrols and crowded markets, but eventually the buildings grew sparse. The causeway overhead sloped downward, its arches lower and lower until it ran into an avenue of paved stone. Almasad bordered the Great Sands and had no use for walls beyond the port. No army could assault the city from the desert. The roads and streets simply disappeared, swallowed by ever-shifting dunes. Even the scent of flowers grew weak, replaced by the smell of hot, dusty sand and the underlying drift of some herb Corayne couldn’t name.

The ruins of Haroun were not a temple, as Corayne had suspected, but a massive tower at the edge of the city, fallen like a tree broken in half. All that was left was a hollow column, a single spiral stair reaching up the middle like a spine, leading to nothing. The crown of the fallen tower was missing, torn from the rough sandstone.

“Stolen,” Sorasa said, following Corayne’s gaze. Her fingers fumbled at her arm, loosing her sleeve. “Haroun’s Eye was taken before the tower fell, when the Cors defeated ancient Ibal. The rest, the bronze cap, was cut up piece by piece after the tower collapsed. Melted into weapons, coin, jewelry. Northerners do not honor the past as we do in the south.”

Corayne furrowed her brow, looking over the ruins again. She tried to imagine it long ago. “Why would they build a lighthouse this far from the sea?”

“Well seen,” Sorasa said, baring her forearm. The black lines on her fingers continued over her wrist, forming the lashes of an open eye halfway to her elbow. The pupil held the moon and sun, a crescent fitted around flame. “It wasn’t for sailors. Haroun’s Eye blazed night and day, guiding caravans home across the Sands.”

“I wish I could have seen it,” Corayne replied, a lament all too common in her life.

Sorasa covered up her tattoo again. Another flashed on her inner arm, some kind of bird. “Let that wish go, Corayne. It won’t do you any good.”

If only it were that easy.

“It’s past dusk,” Dom grumbled. He glared at the sky, the light waning into purple. “Your priest better get those horses. I can walk the desert to hunt Spindles, but can any of you?”

“Of course, go ahead,” Sorasa snapped, waving her hand at the dunes. “We’ll catch up.”

Again, Valtik plopped onto the ground. She traced her nails in the sand, drawing Jydi spirals and knots. “Sand and rain, salt and grain, much to lose, much to gain,” she chanted.

“Valtik, please,” Corayne sighed, her nerves fraying.

The first star gleamed directly above, straight out over the desert. Corayne tried to name it and found she could not. I don’t know the stars here. I don’t know the way forward. I don’t even know the way back.

If she squinted, the dunes could be the Long Sea, their rolling backs like waves. She tried to picture the cliffs of Siscaria, Lemarta in the distance, the cottage behind. Her mother’s ship on the horizon, returning. How fare the winds? Corayne thought, her lips moving without sound. The breeze that played in her hair was nothing like what she remembered, too hot and dry. Still, she could pretend. Fine, for they bring me home.

Andry kept his distance, pacing, wearing tracks closer and closer to the collapsed ruin of the tower. She was glad for the space, oddly comforted by the gap between them. Through long weeks on the road, Corayne had never been truly alone. She wasn’t now either, but felt better than being loomed over night and day.

Oddly, the Spindleblade seemed lighter. Or at least she took less notice of the giant sword on her back. It wasn’t any more comfortable, and she sweated where the leather pressed against her clothes. But somehow it felt less. More like a limb than a piece of metal. She reached back over her shoulder, fingers grazing the hilt. It was still worn to her father’s hand, the grooves fitted to a dead man. They will never fit me, she thought, pulling back.

The sun disappeared completely, the disc of gold slipping beneath the western horizon to leave smudges of red and purple. Though the day had been hotter than any Corayne could recall, the night was almost immediately cold, the sand quickly losing its warmth. Blue and then black came, like a blanket drawn from one end of the sky to the other, pinpricked with more stars. As they winked into existence, Corayne breathed a sigh of relief. There is the Dragon. There is the Unicorn.

The Ward was still her own. Any navigator could find the way now. And so will I.

Mirrors on the sand.

“Sorasa!” she shouted, tearing back over the sandy ground. Her companions whirled to the sound of her voice.

Dom caught her first. “What is it?” he said, eyes wide with worry.

She looked to Sorasa. “The Eye was a mirror, wasn’t it?” Corayne demanded, heaving a breath. “An enchanted mirror? Special? Spindletouched?”

“It was.” Sorasa clasped her arm through her sleeve, instinctively touching the tattoo. “Glowing without flame, bright as a second sun.”

“Where did it come from? Here?” Corayne demanded, grabbing at the assassin.

Sorasa furrowed her brow. “No, not Almasad,” she muttered, racking her memory. “Priests of Lasreen found it, in the desert. At an oasis.”

“An oasis. Does it have a name?” She felt Valtik staring, silent, her eyes blue and cold. “Where, Sorasa?”

The arrow thwipped between them before Sorasa could answer, and Corayne was thrown bodily to the ground, half buried in the sand, half crushed by Dom’s weight. He didn’t let her up, using one hand to keep her down, the other to draw his sword. Corayne glanced up through her wild hair to see his eyes trained on the city. Another arrow whizzed past his head, missing by inches, fluttering the long hair tucked behind his ear. This time it came from the tower, the opposite direction of the first.

Ice bled through Corayne’s gut.

Ambush.

She squirmed under Dom’s grasp, trying to get up, but his hand was a deadweight on her spine. Sand choked her mouth, tasting of heat. She craned her head, looking for Andry, only to spot Sigil emerging from the ruins of the tower, a contingent of soldiers with her. Corayne gnashed her teeth, so angry she couldn’t even scream.

In a second, she counted forty troops approaching from the tower. Twenty of Ibal, with their bronze swords and pale rose silk over steel. Twenty of Galland, their green cloaks unmistakable, their pale, pig-eyed, sweating faces grim beneath their helms. Sigil stood between them, her weapons abandoned on her hips. She raised two fingers to her lips and whistled, a keen, sharp sound that made Corayne’s ears hurt.

Another forty soldiers appeared from the outskirts of Almasad, all of them Ibalet, arrows nocked to every bow.

A stream of Ibalet curses spilled from Sorasa’s lips like blood from an open wound. Soldiers surrounded her, their blades drawn, as Sigil approached.

Sorasa spat heartily, her aim true.

“Don’t take it personally, Sarn,” Sigil drawled, wiping a hand over her face. “You know what I am, and I know what you are. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same?”

Sorasa’s voice was a serpent’s hiss. “To the highest bidder.”