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When she returned to the ship, she moved up the rope ladder in ablink, eager to get over the rail and onto the deck. Dom was already waiting, his hood raised against the setting sun.

“Anything of use?” he asked, relieving her of her pack.

Sorasa handed over her trove of stolen goods. A few waterskins, accurate maps of Allward, thread and a good sewing needle. The rest of her haul, the result of a very fruitful stroll through an apothecary, she kept tucked away in the pouches at her belt.

“Too much,” she answered, scoffing. “The Queen is dead, the Queen lives, Prince Taristan has seized the throne, the Queen’s usurping cousin paid the Amhara to kill her.”

Sorasa despised that particular rumor. Assassins did not kill for fame, or to be remembered. Their service was to the Amhara, their names and memories for the Guild alone. Even so, she hated that Lord Konegin might take credit for her blade.

Dom followed her doggedly below, into the too-familiar cramped cabin. It was good of the ship’s navigator to let them continue to use it, but the little room was starting to make her skin itch.

The tight space was made even worse by the growing pile of provisions spilling over the floor. A new cloak for Dom, fresh leathers, weapons, undershirts, gloves, saddlebags for nonexistent horses, whatever food would keep, and mixed coin from every corner of the Ward.

“And what of their movements?” he said, settling against the doorframe.

Sorasa gritted her teeth, wishing for a little quiet. Or for another bout of nausea to level the Elder.

“Nothing yet,” she replied, busying herself with her wares. “But we’ll hear soon enough.”

“And if we don’t?”

“We will. Whole armies cannot move unnoticed.”

“You lie too much, Sorasa Sarn,” Dom replied in a low, shuddering voice. “Can you even tell the difference between falsehood and truth anymore?”

Gritting her teeth, Sorasa tore off her new leather jacket. She debated throwing it at him, then sat to inspect the seams and fix a few broken buckles.

“Does it matter?” she scoffed back at him, a needle braced between her fingers.

Quickly, she set to working on the leather, adding a few interior pockets to supplement the pouches on her belt. It was soothing, thread and fabric and soft, old leather. The needle passed through as easily as a knife through flesh. The repetitive motion stilled even Sorasa Sarn, and she thought of younger days doing the exact same thing. Washing away blood, sewing up her torn clothes as she would an open wound.

Dom said nothing, watching her work. As the shadows grew, he even lit a lantern, sparing her eyes from squinting in the dim light.

“Erida did survive,” Sorasa finally murmured, breaking the silence. “I spoke to a merchant who saw her, from a distance. She’s taken up refuge in one of the cathedrals.”

Suddenly Dom stood over her, nearly filling the cabin. His chest rose and fell beneath his leather jerkin, his teeth parted to inhale sharply.

“And Taristan?”

“By her side,” she answered, raising her eyes to his. The furious green darkened.

“Let it go, Domacridhan. He’s vulnerable, but still beyond your reach.”

His lip curled, exposing more of his teeth. “I am still standing here, am I not?”

“There were also rumors that someone left the city, under the Queen’sown command,” she added, if only to distract him. “A small man, robed in red.”

“Ronin,” Dom muttered with disgust. He braced a hand against the cabin wall, above the window, and leaned down to peer out. “Would that Valtik had broken his spine and not just a leg.”

“You know Valtik.” Sorasa turned back to her sewing and bit off a line of thread. “Useless until the second she isn’t, and then useless again. You can relate, I’m sure.”

Dom gave a low snarl, and the little peace between them broke. “I leave you to your work, Sarn,” he grumbled.

“Enjoy pacing the deck a thousand times,” she replied, grateful to continue her work in silence.

25

The Skin of a God