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I paused, shielding my eyes as I gazed at the inert sand strider, wondering what it was like on the inside.

The strider’s oval body was made mostly of wood, as I imagined that if it were metal, the twin suns would turn it into an oven, especially during Demon Hour.

But its legs were made of copper and iron, with huge pistons that moved them up and down, forward and back.

The steam that powered them came from massive boilers tucked into the belly of the strider and a complex tangle of pipes that pumped water where it needed to go.

I didn’t pretend to understand any of it, but deep down—so deep I couldn’t even voice it out loud—my secret dream was to someday

take a strider all the way across the Dust Sea, to visit whatever lands lay beyond. It was a dangerous fantasy; if you were

a guild member, you were in for life. Vahn, the guild, and the Circle would never let me go—unless I scraped together enough

of a fortune to buy my way out. To offer the guild and the Circle enough money that they couldn’t refuse the offer. Obviously,

that dream was a long ways away, but under my floorboards, I kept a secret chest filled with the most interesting items I

had stolen, in the hopes that someday, it would be enough.

“Sparrow.” Jeran stepped up beside me, a slight frown on his face as he glanced at the strider, then back to me. “Come on,

the sailors are starting to look at us funny.”

I shook myself. “Yeah. Sorry,” I muttered.

Jeran was aware of my fascination with the striders, but he didn’t understand it.

For him, Kovass was home and the only place he ever wanted to be.

He had no aspirations to see anything beyond the city walls, and he didn’t get why I would want to go to unfamiliar places just to see unfamiliar things.

In fact, the very idea of it terrified him.

Turning from the docks, we continued farther into the district, the persistent haze of the Dust Sea clinging to us as we went.

On the very end of Warehouse Row, flanked by the Dust Sea on one side and a skiff repair shop on the other, sat a final warehouse.

For all intents and purposes, it looked abandoned. The large front doors had been chained shut, the windows were boarded,

and a debris field of broken crates, barrels, and boxes lay scattered throughout the yard. A wooden fence, gray and weathered,

surrounded the plot, half its boards missing or lying in the sand. Dust coated every surface inside the fence and out.

Jeran and I slipped through a gap in the fence, crossed the yard, and walked around to the back of the warehouse. Our passing

left footsteps in the coating of dust across the ground, but the prints would remain for only a few minutes before the wind

and haze scoured them clean once more.

We came to a heavy door set into the stone wall at the back of the building. Stepping beneath the arched doorframe, Jeran

knocked twice on the wood, paused, knocked twice again, and then once more. There was a click, and then the door swung back,

revealing a heavily muscled brute of a man on the other side. He was bald, with a neck like a bull ox and numerous scars across

his arms and chest. How he’d gotten so many was a mystery within the guild and an ongoing bet among younger members, including

me. Jeran said he must have battled a great sand cat and won. I maintained that with as many fights as he had probably been

in, his winning strategy was blocking knife strikes with his arms.

“Bassig,” Jeran greeted him as we ducked through the opening.

The scarred man grunted at us, closing the door as soon as we were through.

Bassig rarely spoke, preferring to loom or glower imposingly from a corner.

He knew his job, and he was good at it. Whenever the guild needed someone to help “persuade” a stubborn client or informant, Bassig was the one they called on.

Inside, the warehouse belied its abandoned facade; it was open and well maintained, a haven in which guild members could congregate,

relax, and plan their next heist. It was fairly empty now, with most members returning to “work” once Demon Hour was over.

“Sparrow,” Bassig said as I followed Jeran across the floor. Surprised, I glanced over my shoulder. “Vahn wants you,” he said

shortly. “Told me to let you know as soon as you came in. He’s waiting in his office.”

I nodded. “I’m going there now,” I told Bassig, who shrugged and returned to his usual pose, leaning against the wall with

his arms crossed.

I wondered what Vahn would say when I showed him the item the Circle had had me “procure.” Would he be relieved? Shocked?

Or would he smile and nod like he used to, his eyes showing the pride he rarely spoke out loud?

I turned to Jeran, who smirked and held up his arms, taking a step back. “I know,” he said. “I can’t come with you. Common,

petty thieves aren’t allowed to step into the Guildmaster’s office. You have to be his special favorite to be allowed past

the doorframe.”

“Don’t be a sand ass,” I said.

He grinned. “Dahveen and I are heading to Highmarket at sundown,” he said. “Come find us when you’re finished with the boss. If he can stomach his special little bird slumming it with the no-talent commoners, that is.”

I aimed a kick at him. He dodged smoothly and trotted away, laughing. Rolling my eyes, I headed to Vahn’s office and tapped

on the door.

“Come in,” said Vahn’s calm voice. The Guildmaster stood in front of his bookshelf, reading from one of the many ledgers stored

on the shelves. I always wondered why his office was so plainly decorated; no elegant pictures hung on the walls, no gold

or onyx figurines littered his desk. He kept no gems, jewelry, or trophies of any kind, though I knew he had the means to

acquire whatever he wanted. Perhaps he knew that as the Guildmaster in a den of thieves, having such glittery items lying

around would just be asking for headaches. No one I knew of would dare steal from the Guildmaster—probably—but it was a good

idea not to tempt that loyalty.

“You’re back.” Vahn placed the ledger back on the shelf with the others and came around to his desk. His dark eyes stared

at me over the surface. “Were you able to acquire the item addressed in the letter?” he asked.

I nodded. Wordlessly, I removed my satchel and placed it on the desk between us. “It’s in there,” I told Vahn. “As much as

I could get. It was too big to take the whole thing.”

His eyes narrowed. Leaning across the desk, he took the satchel and pulled it toward him. For a moment, he fumbled with the

leather cords tying it shut, then flipped it open to peer inside.

The blood drained from his face. One trembling hand reached down and drew the strip of silken, shimmering cloth from inside the satchel. The piece of tapestry hissed as it came free, gold and silver strands winking in the gloom and throwing threads of light over the walls and floor.

“The Tapestry of the World,” he murmured, holding it up to the light. “You actually did it.”

I swallowed a flash of pride and nodded. “From the Temple of Fate itself,” I said, trying to keep the smugness from my voice.

“Right under the high priestess’s nose.”

“Then, it is time.” Vahn’s voice was a whisper. His suddenly wild gaze rose to mine. “And no one saw you?” he demanded. “No

one was aware of your presence? No one spotted you entering or leaving the temple?”

I remembered the iylvahn, the slight hesitation, the sudden panic in my gut when I thought he had sensed me. But he had moved

on, and nothing had come of it. “No,” I told Vahn, shaking my head. “No one saw me.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

He blew out a slow breath, then quickly stuffed the tapestry piece back into the satchel and flipped it shut. For a moment,

he stood there, both hands on the satchel, holding it upright. His eyes were closed, and I saw that he was shaking.

“Sparrow,” he murmured, and I held my breath. “I...”

Abruptly, he straightened and opened his eyes, that blank mask falling over his expression once more. “You’ve done well,” he said almost absently, tucking the satchel under one arm. “The Circle will be pleased. You are free to go until I call for you again.”

Disappointed, I watched him turn to leave, only the half-hearted acknowledgment of a supremely risky task hanging in the air

between us. “That’s it?” I asked, frowning. “No reward for stealing the Tapestry of the World from the Temple of Fate? For

basically thumbing my nose at Maederyss herself?”

For saving you from the wrath of the Circle? Both our hides were on the line, you know .

He paused, then turned to me. The lantern light reflected in his eyes, washing over his expression, which was suddenly weary

and angry and resolved all at once. “You have no idea what you have set into motion,” he said in a quiet, almost sorrowful

voice. “Soon, everything you know—your entire world—is going to change. I wish to the goddess that it wasn’t you, but we are

far too close to turn back now. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Stunned, I watched him stride out, satchel tucked firmly under his arm, and shut the door behind him. For a moment, I could

only stand there staring at the closed door, trying to understand.

What did he mean? What was the Circle planning?

And where did I fit into it?