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The Thieves Guild of Kovass operated out of the Docks District, one of the poorer and rougher sections of the city, but also

one of the most colorful in terms of people. Here, on the edge of the Dust Sea, sand ships and the great mechanical striders

would dock and offload cargo from the lands and cities beyond. Exotic goods, plants, creatures, and more passed through the

docks on their way to markets or homes or private vendors. But the most interesting cargo was the passengers who came off

the striders—Kovass citizens with stories to tell about what lay across the Dust Sea, or, very infrequently, a person who

lived in the lands beyond. A wandering Fatechaser would sometimes come to Kovass on their journey to wherever the winds and

Fate took them. Once, the entire Docks District was in a frenzy because a merchant had somehow acquired a juvenile rock beetle,

the chosen mount of the insect-riding Scarab Clan. Even as a baby, the shiny black beetle was the size of a small donkey,

with mandibles that could grind though solid stone. Unfortunately, rumors were that the merchant did not have permission to

take one of the prized animals of the Scarab Clan. He was found in a dark alley one night, both arms and legs cut from his

torso, and the beetle was never seen again.

But whatever a person’s reason for coming to Kovass, whether profit or curiosity or needing a place to disappear into, they all passed through the Docks District.

Where, unbeknownst to all, the watchful eyes of the Thieves Guild took note of everything that passed through the sector. And, if it was profitable, acted on it.

Demon Hour had finally passed by the time I reached the district, and activity was returning to normal. The city was waking

up as Solasti moved on and the temperature dropped; merchants returned to their stalls, beggars appeared on corners and sidewalks

once more, and housewives cautiously poked their heads out of their doorways to gauge the location of the suns.

I dropped from the rooftops and landed in a shaded alley with a sigh of relief. The rooftops were more open, and probably

the fastest way to get around the city, but that path required a lot of jumping, sprinting, and balancing, and frankly, I

was tired, hot, slightly cranky, and didn’t want to expend more energy than I had to. The rough crowds and narrow streets

of the Docks District were familiar and comforting. This was my territory; I was more at home here than anywhere else in the

city.

“Sparrow.”

A figure melted out of a nearby alley, smoothly avoided a body lurching down the sidewalk, and came toward me with a smile

and an arm raised. He was dressed like me and many others in the district, in loose clothes with his hood drawn up for protection

from the sun. When he raised his head, laughing almond eyes glinted under the cowl. A few scraggly beard hairs were trying

valiantly to grow on his relatively young, smooth face.

My stomach gave a weird little flutter, which I ignored.

I had known Jeran a long time; he was a childhood friend who had faced tragedy when his father was taken away.

We’d always been friendly rivals, always trying to outdo each other, but recently, it seemed as if he had grown up a lot.

His interest in me had changed, too, his glances becoming longer and more pointed.

I wasn’t blind. I knew what was happening.

But I had avoided acting on it, making excuses when I could, or leaving the room before things went too far.

It wasn’t that Jeran was undesirable, or that I hadn’t thought about him.

.. in that way. I just didn’t know if I wanted to go down that particular road.

It was easier—and safer—not to deal with those emotions.

“Jeran.” I smiled as he fell into step beside me. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he replied easily. “I couldn’t find you anywhere in the base, so I figured you were holed up somewhere

else.” A grin split his face as he glanced at me. “What’s the matter, did you get caught out in Demon Hour and couldn’t get

back in time?”

I winced. “Something like that.” If he only knew. I had just stolen the Tapestry of the World from the Temple of Fate during

the hottest part of Demon Hour. That was a lot of capitalized names, and I couldn’t even tell anyone about it.

Jeran snickered. “Sometimes, I don’t understand why everyone says you’re one of the best.” He sighed. “I just see you getting

lucky, over and over and over again.”

I smirked. “You know, I heard that jealousy can stunt beard growth.” I casually scratched my own chin. “Besides, according to the teachings, there’s no such thing as luck. So that must mean I am the best.”

Jeran frowned and ran a hand down his jaw. “Certainly the most humble,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. I grinned. “Anyway,

where are you heading now? Back to base?”

I nodded. “I have to report to Vahn.”

“Doing anything afterward?”

“Probably not.” Not unless the Circle wanted me to go on another solo heist. I hoped not. After stealing the tapestry, I dreaded

what they might ask me to do next. Sneak into the king’s palace to “procure” the nose ring from his favorite concubine? “Why?”

I asked Jeran.

He shrugged. “There’s a firedancer circus set to perform in Highmarket this evening,” he replied. “Dahveen and I were planning

to attend. You’re welcome to join us.”

I cocked my head. “And how will we be attending this performance?” I asked in an innocent voice. Performances like that meant

large distractions and a lot of people packed into one place, paying little attention to their surroundings or their belongings.

Easy pickings if you went for that reason, but it also meant you couldn’t really enjoy the show. “Are we going as civilians

or workers?”

“Purely civilians,” Jeran assured me, and smiled. “Unless an opportunity too good to pass up presents itself.”

“Obviously.” I thought about it, then shrugged. “Sure, it sounds fun. If Vahn doesn’t want me to do anything tonight, count

me in.”

He nodded, and we continued through the district, weaving around beggars, sailors, workmen, and everyone else who had returned to life now that Demon Hour was over.

Leaving the main street, we entered Warehouse Row, where blocky structures of stone and wood lined the roads, towering over us.

The air changed, turning musty, dry, and somehow old.

A haze hung in the air, not white or smoky, but amber colored, like the sky before a sandstorm.

A fine powder coated every surface and clung to everything, including the people moving through the streets.

Men and women passed us, their faces wrapped in cloth to filter out the dust, only their eyes visible through the fabric.

I pulled my scarf over my nose, tugged my hood lower over my face, and took shallow breaths as dust began accumulating on my clothes and seeping into every seam

“I hate this part of town,” Jeran muttered, his voice muffled by the cloth over his nose and jaw. “The dust is really bad

after Demon Hour. I wish Vahn would move the base somewhere else.”

“Stop complaining,” I said. “You know he keeps it here on purpose. No one likes venturing into this part of the district unless

they have to.”

“Including me,” Jeran mumbled, as the road we were on ended abruptly at a series of piers, wharves, and stone docks.

I shivered in the hot, dry air. Beyond the pier, the Dust Sea stretched out before us, an endless expanse of roiling waves and shifting sands, rising, falling, continuing on to the horizon.

Sand eddies danced across the surface; miniature tornados stirred by the wind.

Waves crashed against the pier, sending sprays of golden dust into the air to disperse on the breeze.

According to legend, eons ago this had been a vast ocean of water filled with life and plants and fish so large they could swallow you whole. I couldn’t even imagine such a thing.

A pair of rough-looking sailors, their heads wrapped in cloth, stalked down the road with a barrel over each shoulder, causing

me and Jeran to scuttle aside. Per normal, the docks were bustling even this soon after Demon Hour. Sand skiffs bobbed in

the waves close to the piers, sails fluttering in the wind. A sand strider crouched near the wharf like an enormous beetle,

its four jointed legs hissing steam into the air.

The sand striders fascinated me. The wood-and-sail skiffs peppering the docks were fast and agile, but they never ventured

more than a day’s journey from the city. Out on the Dust Sea, the winds were fierce and unpredictable, with deadly sandstorms

cropping up out of nowhere. Regular wooden ships could get blown around like leaves in the wind and smash on the rocks, or

have their sails torn to shreds. Driving sand could scour paint from hulls and flesh from bones, and the twin suns were relentless

on the open sea. It was dangerous to sail far from shore.

But the massive sand striders didn’t have to worry about wind. They didn’t sail across the ocean—they walked. Their jointed

legs were long enough to reach the bottom of the dust bowl, which, on the most common routes across the Dust Sea, was only

twenty or thirty feet deep. Enough to drown and suffocate a person, but shallow enough for the striders to find solid footing.

There were, according to most sailors, places in the Dust Sea that were far deeper, but the striders stuck to the well-traveled

routes and didn’t venture into the unknown. Few who did ever came back.