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Another part of her wonders if this new person, this new pragmatic girl with a powder-streaked pistol, has been there all along.

“Who goes there?” she asks.

Firelight runs up the barrel of a musket as a soldier steps into sight. An unremarkable face, mouse-brown hair swept up under a tricorn hat, two rows of matte black buttons on a deep green coat. The soldier’s cloak is thrown back, musket butt resting at her shoulder.

The Girl from the Wold stands slowly, pistol leveled. The soldier aims her rifle at the same time.

“We are the Queen’s Guns, and you, Abetha Bonning, are surrounded,” the soldier says. Her voice does not waver, and as she speaks, the girl hears more footsteps, sees the flashes of more guns, and feels the presence of more watching eyes.

Panic flutters in her stomach. The Girl from the Wold steadies the pistol in both hands and tries to think, tries to see another way forward.

There is none. Just a dozen guns in the night, and a noose intended for another woman’s throat.

Cool metal brushes the girl’s neck, and a male soldier plucks the pistol from her fingers.

“I’m not Abetha Bonning,” the girl says. A crack or waver in her voice would have been useful just then, anything to inspire pity or create doubt, but it doesn’t come.

The soldier who took her pistol smirks, his eyes glistening with success. “Tell that to the hangman.”

***

THIRTY-ONE

A Most Honored Guest

SAMUEL

Ifollowed Captain Slader through the press and laughter of the ballroom. People and voices whirled past me, obscuring my view as I searched for one face.

I glanced at woman after woman, each one more beautiful, more lavish, and more shrewd than the last. Some of them met my eyes invitingly but I did not stop, growing frustrated as Slader reached the other side of the ballroom and stepped into a quieter corridor.

“You can mingle later,” the captain told me, pausing so I could catch up. He glanced over my shoulder to where a pair of Usti women watched me go, and the older man nearly smiled. “Stay focused, lad, and watch yourself.”

I nodded as a servant directed us into a private room. Half a dozen others were already here, seated about a well-appointed study with glasses in their hands.

James Demery addressed the company from beside the fire. As we entered his speech slowed an iota, his eyes jumping from me to Slader. Then he recovered with grace and gestured to several free chairs.

He continued in fluent Usti, “With this in mind, can you not see the profit of such a venture?”

“Many an explorer has ventured beyond the Stormwall, looking for treasure,” an old man replied, his Usti accent sliding and viscous. He sniffed over the glass of amber liquid resting atop his round belly. “So many that I cannot begin to name them. Do you know how few have returned?”

“Very few.” Demery shrugged. “But I am one of them.”

“How did you manage that?” Captain Slader inquired as he took a seat.

Demery offered the other captain a nod of acknowledgement. “Before I answer that, let me remind you we stand on Usti soil, and stretching my neck would be entirely unwise.”

Slader nodded. “You may be a brigand but, fortunately for you, you are not the particular brigand I am searching for. Have no fear.”

Demery’s smile was humorless. “In answer to your question, I crossed the North Line as a young man, and I know where the greatest riches are to be found.”

“How did you cross?” Slader asked again.

“With the aid of the Fleetbreaker, prior to her recruitment into Aeadine’s Fleet.” Demery turned his attention back to the company. “My current Stormsinger, Mary Firth, is the Fleetbreaker’s owndaughter—equallyas talented, and more than capable of taking us north.”

Slader turned to give me a silent look, reminding me of how gravely I had failed him.

“Where is the Stormsinger?” a woman with loose blonde hair and a fitted orange gown inquired. “I’d like to see the creature.”