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R HAIF FUSSED WITH his robe’s headgear, which consisted of a leather helmet and a mesh of linen draped across the front. The only opening was a narrow slit across his eyes. Each inhale sucked the cloth across his mouth and nose.

Blast it all, how does one breathe under all of this?

“Calm yourself,” Pratik scolded.

The Chaaen reached over and tucked the helmet’s loose drape under the faux iron collar around Rhaif’s neck, drawing the linen tauter so it no longer suffocated him.

“Thank the gods,” Rhaif gasped out as he turned to inspect the others.

Beside him, the bronze woman was similarly attired in a Klashean byor-ga. The embroidered length covered her entire body, outfitted with a matching pair of thin gloves. The only difference from Rhaif’s attire was the silver collar around her neck, mostly hidden by the high collar of her robe.

Pratik shifted over and tucked her headgear’s drape into her collar, then stepped back and nodded. “We’re not allowed to speak to another when shadowing a master on the streets, so her reticence will not be a difficulty.”

“And what about everything else?” Rhaif asked. He waved to the woman. “Do you think we can pass as a pair of chaaen-bound?”

Pratik shrugged. “Few in the Klashe pay any heed to the chaaen-bound. I fear my role will be the most challenging—and dangerous.”

Rhaif eyed the Chaaen. Pratik had stripped out of his gaoler garb, showing a surprising shyness in the presence of the bronze woman. He had hurriedly donned the final raiment purchased by Rhaif at a Klashean dressmaker. The boots were polished snakeskin. His tight breeches and sleeveless tunic were a crimson silk stitched in a zigzag of gold along the seams. Over it all hung a white robe—what the Klasheans called a gerygoud —that reached his knees and splayed out wide at the sleeves. A cap of gold finished the outfit.

Except for the thin scarf that hid the man’s collar, it was the typical raiment for an imri trader of the Southern Klashe. The habiliment alone had cost Rhaif nearly all of the coins he had pilfered over the past fortnight. But for the ruse to work, only Pratik—with his dark features and violet eyes—could pass as a member of the ruling caste. Rhaif and the bronze woman would remain fully hidden away until they reached their cabin aboard the wyndship, which was due to rise with the last bell of Eventoll.

With the fourth bell having already sounded a moment ago, there was little time for mistakes or interruptions. They still needed to cross Anvil to reach Eyr Rigg, where the wyndships were moored. If they missed their ship, they would have to wait until the next day—which Rhaif knew they could not risk.

Not with Llyra’s nose on our scent.

While short-haul wyndships traversed the territories throughout the day, those scheduled to travel farther left only at Eventoll, due to some vagaries of pressures, winds, and magnes energies that were beyond Rhaif’s understanding. All he knew for certain was that they needed to be on that ship before the last bell.

He gave the group one final glance, noting the thin coiled chains in Pratik’s hands. When their livery reached Eyr Rigg, those lengths would connect their collars to the bands around the Chaaen’s boots.

Pratik shifted those coils from one hand to the other, nervously jangling their links. If the Chaaen was exposed before he could bring the bronze treasure to the foot of the god-emperor’s throne, his impersonation of a royal trader would likely end with his death.

“Are you ready?” Rhaif asked.

The answer did not come from Pratik. A muffled crash drew their eyes to the secret door in the far wall. They all froze as shouts reached them, followed by one blood-edged scream.

Pratik turned wide eyes toward Rhaif.

Llyra…

Rhaif pushed the Chaaen toward the door, then swung to the bronze figure. He took her gloved hand, fearful that she might have already returned to her sluggish slumber. But her palm was still warm through the thin silk. Soft fingers closed over his.

“We must go, Shiya,” he whispered, using the name he had given her.

He didn’t know if it meant anything to her, but to him, it ran back to his mother, or rather to her homelands that she often told stories about. The shiya were small birds in the greenwood of Cloudreach. They were plumed in shimmering shades of copper and gold and piped sweetly in the dark depths of the endless forests. But they were also savage—like most creatures who survived those misty highlands—defending their nests with sharp talons and hooked beaks.

He thought it a fitting name.

She turned to him, her eyes softly glowing through the meshed drape of her mask. She gave him a small nod and followed after him as he guided her to the door. Pratik had already lifted the bar and set it aside.

“Hurry,” the Chaaen urged, cringing as more crashing and shouts echoed to them.

“No.” Rhaif pictured Llyra and her crew smashing through the rooms, searching for him. He cautioned Pratik, “We move as if nothing concerns us.”

He waved the Chaaen out, knowing even now Pratik must play his part by leading them. Not the other way around. With one last shudder, the man headed through the door and out into the hall. As they traversed toward the stairs, Pratik’s pace quickened, likely fired by his apprehension.

“Slower,” Rhaif warned him.

The man obeyed.

They reached the stairs. As they set off down, the steps creaked under the weight of the bronze woman. Rhaif feared they might break. But they safely arrived in the commons, which was better appointed with pillowed couches and tint-shaded lamps that cast a rosy glow all about. The wenches here sat straighter, with bosoms pinched higher. The matron of this establishment noted their arrival. She showed not even a hint of astonishment at the sudden appearance of a trader and his pair of chaaen-bound. Rhaif was not surprised. Curiosity did not serve one well in the Boils.

Without a word, Pratik led them out the main door and onto the street. A closed livery carriage awaited them, already arranged by Rhaif.

The driver rushed toward them from his post beside a pair of stout Aglerolarpok ponies. “Right here with ya,” he said, and hurried to open the carriage door.

Pratik played his role well, refusing the man’s proffered hand to help him into the livery. Instead, he cast the driver a look of lofty disdain. No one dared touch an imri.

“’Course, ’course,” the man mumbled.

Pratik ducked inside, scooting over to allow them to join him.

Rhaif guided Shiya to follow. She craned her neck, taking everything in as she approached the carriage. As she climbed inside, the livery tilted under her weight, but the driver didn’t seem to notice.

The man was still scolding himself under his breath. “You’re a daft gudgeon, that’s what you are.”

Rhaif took an extra moment to survey the narrow street. He allowed a heavy breath to escape, fluttering his mask. There was no sign of Llyra or any of her crew. Satisfied, he clambered aboard.

As he leaned back to pull the livery door shut, a chest-bumping boom erupted, fierce enough to knock a few slate tiles from atop the whorehouse. They shattered to the cobbles. Overhead, the clouds brightened as flames spiraled up from beyond the roof ridge.

Rhaif pictured the establishment on the other side blasted and burning.

He knew all too well that Llyra had a temper, as fiery and explosive as any combustible. If she thought she’d been thwarted of her target—unable to find Rhaif—it was easy enough to imagine her exacting her revenge. But he knew better. Llyra’s actions always had twice the purpose. Besides venting her frustration, she was trying to flush him out of where he might be hiding. It was a judicious ploy. Even if Rhaif died in the fire, she must know she could always sift through the building’s ashes for a treasure that would not burn.

With a shake of his head, Rhaif tugged the door closed and looked across the livery at the bronze woman. He then pounded on the front of the carriage, signaling the driver to set off for Eyr Rigg.

A whip snapped, and with a jerk, the livery rolled away.

Rhaif leaned back into his seat with a smile. I finally outwitted her. He pictured his finger tipping over a king on a board of Knights n’ Knaves—then more blasts and booms shook the carriage. Outside, the horses nickered and neighed in terror. The livery bobbled wildly until the driver could whip his charges back under control. Still, the frightened beasts sped at full gallop. The livery bounced and rattled behind their clattering hooves.

“What’s happening?” Pratik yelled.

Rhaif shifted to search out the small window, then out the other side. All around, fires erupted, choking smoke into the dark skies. Even as he watched, they grew and spread across the grease of the Boils. Rhaif gaped at the damage. He understood who had orchestrated this firestorm and how much he had underestimated her.

Clearly, Llyra was not content to just burn down one whorehouse to flush him out.

She’s willing to take down all of the Boils.

Outside, the driver hollered and cracked his whip, but his ponies needed little guidance to flee the smoke and fire. The carriage crashed back and forth, tilting on two wheels to round sharp corners. Still, more booms chased them.

Thick smoke, glowing with cinders, choked the streets now. The livery rushed past a flaming shop, the roof tiles popping and flying high from the heat.

To either side, people fled all around. Several of them tried to clamber onto the carriage, but the driver turned his whip upon them. He dared not let any added ballast weigh down the carriage. Several bumps and screams suggested an unfortunate few were trampled or ridden over.

Rhaif hunkered with the others. He had to trust the driver’s knowledge of the Boils to get them out in time. Unfortunately, the man was not the only one who knew this squalid corner of Anvil well.

“Ho now!” the driver screamed.

The carriage abruptly slowed, throwing them all forward. Rhaif twisted to get his head out of the open window. As the livery cleared the worst of the smoke, the street ahead was packed with a panicked crowd, which ran up against a line of men in armor and mail, carrying swords and axes. They were inspecting everyone who passed.

Rhaif cursed the woman behind all of this. Llyra had always been coldly clever. He knew her fires had not been haphazardly placed, but instead they had been ignited strategically, to force survivors to guarded chokepoints.

Like this one.

Rhaif struggled with what to do. He feared their disguises might not hold up to close inspection. A simple lift of either veil would expose the subterfuge beneath. Plus, he could not know for sure if Llyra had spotted Pratik standing beside him in the gaol’s main hall.

Still, he had no other choice. The fires raged behind him, and the wyndships would soon lift off Eyr Rigg. Worst of all, the bronze woman had grown ever more listless. They did not have the time to seek another way out of the Boils.

The driver leaned over and spotted Rhaif’s head poking out the window. “What to do?” he called down from his seat.

“Push ahead,” Rhaif ordered. “Whip a path through if you must. I’ll pay you another gold march if you get us to Eyr Rigg in time.”

The driver’s eyes widened. “Aye. That I’ll do.”

Rhaif settled back inside the carriage as it lurched faster again. He glanced to Shiya, who had not moved even with the jarring and rocking. He placed his palm atop her gloved hand, testing for any warmth. He discovered only a disconcerting coldness. He searched her face but could no longer discern any glow of her eyes behind the meshed veil.

He gave her unyielding hand a squeeze.

Hold on, Shiya.

Outside, the driver’s whip cracked over and over. Townspeople cursed and shouted. A few spat through the window as the carriage barged toward the line of armored men. Angry fists pounded on the livery’s sides and back.

Pratik shifted to the center of his bench across from Rhaif. “What do we do now?”

“I’m going to sit here quietly.” He pointed toward the line of men ahead, surely Llyra’s crew in borrowed armor or other well-paid brawlers. “You, on the other hand, get your first chance to impersonate an imri. ”

Pratik visibly swallowed and ran his palms over his outer cloak.

Finally, the livery slowed, and the driver pulled his ponies to a stop at the guard line.

A gruff voice approached. “Out with ya!”

Rhaif nodded for Pratik to obey. The Chaaen scooted across his bench to the door and after two attempts got it open. He was immediately confronted by a barrel-chested larcener in rusty mail and balancing an ax on a shoulder.

He shoved his crook-nosed bullock head into the carriage. “Whatda we got here?”

Pratik leaned away, cringed, then tilted forward again. “How… How dare you?” he said with haughty ire. “This livery is Klashean territory as long as we are in it. Trespass and I will have your skin flogged from your bones at such an affront to the honor of the Imri-Ka.”

The bullock retreated from the storm of his arrogance and hauteur. From the door, the man glanced quickly throughout the carriage, his gaze lingering first on Shiya’s robed form, then over to Rhaif. Rhaif lifted a gloved hand and fingered the faux iron collar around his neck, feigning nervousness, but mostly to expose his status as an enslaved Chaaen.

“Your breath offends me,” Pratik continued, “and pollutes the sanctity of my private space. Be off before I get truly angry.”

The bullock’s face darkened, but he made no further effort to enter. Instead, he hollered to a pair of brawlers behind him, “Look about. Make sure there be no stowaways hitchin’ along here.”

As the two circled the carriage, Rhaif stared past the bullock’s shoulders. The frightened crowd pressed the line. Sweating and cursing, Llyra’s men fought to hold them off. They yanked back hoods, knocked wet rags from mouths and noses, and searched each face before shoving the person past the blockade.

Then the line of men shifted. Rhaif stiffened in his seat and cursed his luck.

Of course she’d be at this chokepoint.

He watched Llyra use a dagger to slice away a scarf from a hunched man. She tilted his chin up with the point of her blade, scowled at what she saw, and pushed the man behind her. Her lips moved in a silent curse as she grabbed the collar of the next man who looked a match to Rhaif’s build.

Rhaif’s hand balled into fists.

All of this because of me.

Finally, Llyra swiped a sooty brow as she let a woman and boy hurry past her. In that moment, her gaze swept to the carriage. She took a step toward it.

The bullock noted her interest as his men finished their inspection with shakes of their heads. He lifted an arm, waved to Llyra, and hollered, “Black Klashers!” He spit his distaste on the ground. “The lot of ’em. Nothing else.”

Llyra’s eyes squinted. For a moment, she stared straight at Rhaif’s masked face. Then the mob surged the line all around. A few desperate figures broke through and ran. With the fires spreading rapidly through the greasy Boils, the frightened crowd had begun to decide the flames were the greater danger than the swords. Llyra snatched the hood of a man who tried to bowl past her and dragged him back.

The bullock took her diverted attention as satisfaction. He shouted up to the driver, “Get on with it!”

The driver needed no further encouragement. A snap of the lead got his ponies pulling again. The carriage swept past the blockade and away from the Boils. They were soon trundling into the broader breadth of the city.

“We made it,” Pratik said, sagging in his seat.

Rhaif frowned at him for daring to state such a hope out loud. Instead, he held his breath until the fires faded to a dim glow behind them. Only then did he finally exhale. He even allowed himself a moment of silent celebration. He again pictured his finger tipping a king atop a board and toppling it over. This had been a game he had longed to win for ages.

Finally…

He turned back to the fiery glow.

With Llyra behind him, no one could stop them from here.

F ROM THE BALCONY outside of the archsheriff’s office atop Judgement Hall, Shrive Wryth watched the spread of fires near the town’s port. The distant blasts and booms had drawn him and Laach through the doors, but the sheriff had already returned inside. Laach shouted and bellowed orders. Messengers and guardsmen came and went as the sheriff coordinated with Anvil’s highmayor to respond to the flames before they spread wider.

Wryth remained outside, trying to read meaning in the swirling cinders and flaming embers. Unlike Laach, he refused to assign this conflagration to misfortune and mishap. He divined purpose behind each spiral of flame.

His hands rose to the leather bandolier—his Shriven cryst—strapped across the chest of his gray robe. His fingers ran over the sealed pockets along its length. Most of his brethren’s crysts held nothing but mawkish charms and oversentimental detritus, each pouch intended to venerate and memorialize one’s long path to the holy status of Shriven.

Not so his own cryst.

His fingertips read the symbols burned into the leather. Each of his bless’d pockets hid dark talismans and tokens of black alchymies. He carried pouches of powdered bones from ancient beasts who no longer walked under the Father Above but whose dust was rife with ancient maladies. Other pockets held phials of powerful elixirs leached from the hard creatures who survived the frozen reaches of the far west. Others hid ampoules of poisons sapped from the beasts who crawled, burrowed, and slithered across the burnt wastes of the distant east. But the most treasured of all were the scraps of ancient texts scrolled into pouches, their faded ink indecipherable but hinting at the lost alchymies of the ancients, of the darkest arts hidden before this world’s histories had been written.

Wryth cared little for the here and now, only so much as it served his ends. He sensed this world was but a shadow of another, a place of immeasurable power, and he intended to collect that power for himself. No knowledge would be forbidden to him. No brutality too harsh to acquire it.

Even now, he remembered how bronze had melted to life before his eyes, the miracle fueled by his bloodbaerne sacrifice in the caverns of Chalk. His fingers clenched into fists at what he had lost, at what he must find.

He stared again toward the fires and could guess the culprit behind it. It had to be Llyra hy March. The guildmaster of thieves had vanished with the midday bells, making excuses that seemed feeble now, burned away by the flames in the distance. She had learned something, kept it from him, even from her consort, Archsheriff Laach. Wryth thought he had fathomed the woman’s greed, but clearly he had vastly underestimated her.

A fresh commotion drew him away from the flames and back to the sheriff’s office. Wryth’s eyes narrowed upon Laach. Had he played a role in the woman’s deception? From the purple anger in the man’s face, Wryth guessed not. The bastard was also too dim-witted for such a cunning feint as this.

In the office, a steely-eyed guardsman burst into the chambers and rushed to the sheriff’s desk, breathless but intent. “Archsheriff Laach, I’ve just received word from the dungeons. A prisoner has gone missing, maybe escaped.”

Already standing behind his desk, Laach glared across to the guardsman. He pointed a stiff arm toward the balcony. “A missing prisoner? That’s what you trouble with me right now? When the city is burning?”

The guardsman blathered and hawed, plainly not sure what to say.

Again, Wryth refused to treat this bit of misfortune as insignificant. He strode from the balcony to the office, an ostentatious chamber of imported woods and rich tapestries.

“When did this prisoner escape?” Wryth asked.

The guardsman jerked straighter, having failed to note the Shrive’s presence until now. Apparently, Wryth decided sourly, much was missed in Anvil that was standing in plain sight, a heedlessness that no doubt seeped down from the very top.

Laach waved for the man to answer. “Speak up already.”

The guardsman nodded, bowed to Wryth, then nodded again. “We can’t say for sure when he went missing, Your Holiness. Late in the day, as best we can determine.”

Wryth absorbed this information. So shortly before Llyra hy March made her excuses and vanished. Another blast echoed to them from the city. “And who has gone missing?”

“It was one of the many slaves we stored in the dungeons while you finished your questioning of their masters, the Klashean traders.”

“So, one of the Chaaen?” Wryth said.

“Aye, Your Holiness. I know those Klashers won’t take to us misplacing one of their own. That’s why I rushed up here myself.”

Wryth took this into consideration. He faced the open balcony doors and returned to reading the message written in cinder and ash out there. He had to assume these two misadventures—a burning city and a vanished prisoner—were connected, all tied to that clever rogue Rhaif hy Albar.

But how? Of what use was a Chaaen to such a thief?

He closed his eyes and lifted a hand to touch a sigil burned into one pocket. A fingertip traced the curled outline of the horn’d snaken. Its pouch held the dried tongue severed from Wryth’s first blood sacrifice. He willed the tongue to speak to him with the wisdom and cunning of Lord Dreyk.

As he prayed to his dark god, a calming slowed his heart. The knot in his head—formed by tangled threads of these mysteries—loosened. New patterns came and went until finally a picture formed in his mind’s eye.

A Chaaen leading two robed and cloaked figures.

His eyes snapped open.

Of course…

He dropped his arm and swung toward Laach. “Rally your best swordsmen and archers. Saddle your swiftest horses.”

Laach straightened, glancing toward the smoke and flames. “And go where? To help with the fires?”

“No.” Wryth pointed in the opposite direction. “To Eyr Rigg.”