When it reached the lowest tier that held boxed seating, the water stopped falling downward and began to pool along the steps. It looked as if someone had pressed glass along the back of one of the steps and stopped it from falling any farther, but Rasim knew better. The bulges and shimmers of the flattened edge were the natural tension of water's surface. Witchery held it in place, not glass.

  Rasim glanced at his own hands, half wondering if they were somehow directing the witchery, although clearly it wasn't his own working. Even seeing it, he couldn't feel it. The heartbreak at work, he supposed, although a shock coursed through him. The heavy humidity that was making him sick was almost what sea witchery felt like when others worked it. Maybe it was what it felt like to non-Ilyarans, or to those who weren't sea witches. Gasping at the thickness of the air and the incredible magic being worked, he glanced at Nasira.

  A vicious smile smeared across her face as she looked to the high walls. He began to speak, but instead followed her gaze upward.

  The water had gotten deep in the moments he'd looked away. It was running around the stadium now, relentlessly filling the upper ranks. It was a huge amount of water, at least as much as he'd flooded the Northern mine with. It had to be from the river. There had been no earth-shaking to suggest fissures had broken open and let water spring upward from below. He wondered if the riverbed was empty, and if the Waifia's keel was strong enough to hold the ship's weight if it lay foundered in mud.

  All at once the water leaped into action, as if simply filling the stadium steps wasn't enough. It snatched at people, seizing them into a current that hadn't been there a moment earlier. Rasim cast a hard glance at his guards, then climbed to his feet defiantly, wanting to see what was happening clearly far more than he feared them. The guards either didn't notice or didn't care, and after a moment Karluk and Bayar stood too. Nasira was already standing, her grin sharp enough to cut.

  Above them, in the seating, people of rank were being swept away, all of them screaming and thrashing. The water searched for them, nimbly seeking those who were best-dressed or who had slaves attending them. Those with slave collars, either tattooed or iron, were getting wet, but they weren't being carried away. More than once, key chains fell to the steps in wet splashes, and after incredulous moments, slaves began snatching them up and freeing themselves.

  As they did, the more distant elite, those who hadn't yet been caught up by the oncoming waves, began to shriek in a whole different kind of protest. Those cries turned to alarm as their own attendant slaves began to understand that their freedom was at hand, and started to turn on their masters. Water crashed toward them all, and more than once Rasim suspected the flow saved a slave owner from a harsh fate. Because instead of drowning, those who were being taken by the water were carried swiftly and without injury toward the exits. Some panicked, flailing in the coursing witchery, and once or twice the water violently ejected those panic-stricken riders. Then it leaped up and snatched them back down again, holding them firmly in its grasp as it carried them out of the arena.

  It was an imperfect attack. Some of the beautifully dressed masters escaped, and a few slaves and poorer folk were taken away. But given how many people were in the arena, it was surprisingly precise. The stadium was maybe half-cleared when rivulets began climbing down the steps again, this time to snake across the sand. The guards finally remembered they were meant to be killing slaves, and turned to face their captives with uncertain expressions.

  "I'd throw down those blades and run, if I were you," Rasim suggested. "So far, the water's not hurting anybody, but I think if you kill us, you're going to be exceptions to its rule."

  "Is this your doing?" whispered the one who had asked his forgiveness.

  Rasim extended his hand and smiled as coldly as he could. "Do you want to see what else I can do?"

  As one, their captors threw away their swords and ran. The water approaching them hesitated, then suddenly lost cohesion and sank into the sand, no longer animated by witchery. Karluk made an incredulous sound. "Is it you?"

  "No. No one person could do it." Not even someone using Missio's drug, Rasim thought. Lifting the water into the mines, breaking up the ice—those had been acts of brute force. The witchery being enacted now was full of finesse, and not even Seamaster Isidri could have done it alone. "I think the Seamasters' Guild must be here, somehow. Captain, do you know what's going on?"

  Nasira drew breath to answer, but Karluk interrupted with, "The entire guild? How?!"

  "I don't know. It's been ten or so days since the raid on Hongrunn," Rasim said absently. The cleansing water rushing through the arena's seats was mesmerizing, its every flow beautifully directed. It reminded Rasim of the water sculptures some sea witches could create: dolphins and flying fish made from the water itself, skimming along beside the ships. Only those were for play, and this had purpose. He'd thought his acts of strength had meant he was finally really skilled with seamastery, but now he saw that the delicacy of this act was equally difficult and impressive. Still enthralled at its beauty, he continued, "If Skymaster Arrat could use the wind to carry a message to the absolute limit of his reach, and find another Skymaster to pass it on to, and again, you could get a message from Hongrunn to Ilyara pretty quickly, I think. And I don't think there's much of anywhere the fleet couldn't get to in ten days, if they were of a mind to."

  Karluk made another incredulous sound. Rasim frowned faintly at him, not wanting to take his eyes from the waterworks for long. "What?"

  "If a sky witch—carried a message—is that something that's done now? Relay stations manned by Skymasters? Is it even possible?"

  Rasim's face fell. "Oh. Well, I thought it might be. Don't you do that?"

  "I'm sure it's possible!" Karluk howled in exasperation. "But no, we don't do that! No one ever thought of it, as far as I know!"

  "Well, that's not my fault!"

  "I see now," Bayar said unexpectedly, and with a smile, "how it is you get into trouble, Rasim al Ilialio."

  "All I have are ideas!"

  "Ideas cause more trouble than anything else." Bayar lifted his chained wrists. "Do you have an idea on how to unlock us?"

  "Plenty," Rasim muttered, "but they all require either witchery or a key. Captain—"

  "All kinds of things can be a key." Karluk stretched for one of the fallen swords and began to work its point into the lock around Rasim's ankles.

  Rasim winced at his feet, afraid of what would happen if the sword slipped. "Maybe we should just wait. If that breaks in the lock it'll be a lot harder to get these off me."

  "Wait for what?"

  Rasim eyed Karluk, then looked pointedly at the water witchery storming the arena. "For whomever is doing that to come rescue us? I don't think they're going to this much trouble to leave us here. Captain, what's happening? Did you and Lorens plan this? Or is it the guild? Where is Lorens?" Rasim's heart fluttered hopefully. He'd been gone from Ilyara for months, with no word on Seamaster Isidri's recovery or whether there had been a sea change within the palace or if Sunmasters still held sway there. If the Guild had come to Moran, they would have all of that news and more. Better yet, they would be able to bring Karluk home, and perhaps hundreds of other Ilyarans as well.

  "I don't know where he is," Nasira replied. She hadn't moved, other than to stand. Her fists were clenched, and her gaze remained on the skyline. "It's not the guild. We—"

  An eruption of sound made Rasim whip around. Sand and water were clashing together near the amphitheater wall, neither able to gain an upper hand in a sudden battle of elements. Bayar's voice shot high. "What's happening?"

  "Someone remembered they had Ilyaran slaves on mindkiller to command," Rasim replied softly. "It'll get ugly now." He flexed his hands, wishing again he could use his own witchery, then yelped as Karluk attacked the chains again with more vigor. "Wait!"

  "Tilarea's teeth, Rasim, for a clever boy you've got no sense at all. How long do you think it's going to take for them to send one of those witches after us? A sky witch doesn't even have to leave the stands to kill us. We need to get free and out of sight!"

  "Oh." Rasim felt heat curdle his cheeks. "Right. Maybe you'd better hurry."

  His last words were lost in the sounds of more explosions, this time as steam billowed in huge waves around the arena. Rasim flung his arms up, instinctively trying to protect himself, and the chain between his wrists clobbered him in the face. He howled and fell, clutching his mouth, then looked up over his fingers to see fire slam into the watershed and create new bursts of steam. The sea witchery was under attack everywhere: what had once been seating now curved upward under the power of stonemastery, capturing the flowing water in balls and enclosed tubes. The stands were probably the mud and straw mix, Rasim thought bitterly. Moran's enslaved Stonemasters were better with their witchery by far than he had been. All of this could have been avoided if he'd been able to work the arena's walls well enough to escape through them.

  In other places, the sea witchery was being held to a stand-still by hugely powerful winds. Spray splashed from the front, and the water split, and split again, going around the outer edge of the winds, but time and again the sky witches wielding it caught the water's leading edge again and held it in place. One spot was held by someone who looked no older or bigger than Rasim. If they were in Ilyara, he thought, they would become a leader within the Skymasters' Guild.

  Here and there, Ilyaran slaves resisted their masters' orders. Rasim saw at least two of them die for it, too, but it seemed that they died with expressions of terrible triumph. A few simply triumphed, either too strong or too valuable for their masters to slay. A few more—those whose owners had been carried away—fought on behalf of the Seamasters who had begun the fight. They were the ones who turned the tide, Rasim thought. They were the ones who threw up resistance to the slaves who could not deny their masters. The former slaves didn't harm their brethren. They only broke the stone tubes and balls that held water captive and set up cross-winds to take the power from the sky witches, or quenched the sun witches' flames. There weren't many of them, but there didn't have to be. All they needed to do was disrupt, not hold the line.

  Karluk gave a sudden satisfied shout as the lock around Rasim's ankles came free. Rasim danced out of the chains and offered Karluk a distracted thanks. It was nearly impossible to see the stands anymore. Sand and steam and smoke were everywhere, fogging the view. This was what he'd imagined, with his initial plans to free them all. He'd been arrogant to think he could do it all himself, but this was what he had imagined. This was a chance at freedom and at changing Moranese culture. Rasim whispered a promise, wishing the big Northern warrior could hear him. "It's working. I'll try not to let anybody else get killed, Agnet. I'm sorry I wasn't able to save you."

  Clouds of steam and sand rolled across the arena floor itself, totally obscuring the stands. Karluk let go another shout as he freed Bayar, then handed Rasim the sword. "It's not too hard, but I can't get the angle if I hold the blade myself. Tilt it toward you, then twist—no, not like that, you'll snap the blade—!"

  "Someone is coming," Bayar reported calmly. "Please hurry."

  "I'm trying to!" Rasim glanced up as Bayar took up a sword and stepped in front of them. "No, Bayar—here, you try the lock, I'll hold them off." He took Bayar's sword and peered through the swirling gloom. There were at least five shadows in the dust and steam, far more than he could hope to defeat himself. Two of them were big, too, though the leader was slight. Rasim wet his lips and fell into the stance he'd been taught over the past week, ready to fight. It wouldn't be easy with his wrists still chained, but at least he could move his feet. It would give him a chance, however slim.

  "Ah!" Bayar's cry came with the sound of metal snapping open, and Rasim's heart soared as Karluk came forward with a sword of his own. Bayar took up his place, too, and they stood united as a gust of wind parted the dust to reveal the people approaching them.

  "Hi," Kisia said with a breathless smile. "Did you miss us?"

  23

  Rasim's sword fell from numb fingers as steam and stand billowed away to reveal not just Kisia, but Desimi, too. Desimi, and Hassin and Sesin and, to Rasim's baffled relief, Lorens. The prince's quick grin was the last thing Rasim saw before the mists closed again, leaving only Kisia close enough to be discernible. She held a key uplifted in her fingertips, and wore a smile wider than any he'd ever seen. He put his hands forward silently, still unable to do more than stare, and she unlocked first the chains that bound him, and then Nasira's.

  As soon as her chains were released, Nasira slammed an approving punch into Kisia's shoulder. The journeyman rolled with it, then turned to Bayar and Karluk, unlocking their chains too, before asking, "Can you run? Because I think we should run."

  Karluk looked hard at Rasim, who croaked, "They're friends. They're friends," before nodding at Kisia. That was all he could do: he couldn't even think clearly enough to really wonder how. Kisia nodded back, grabbed his hand, and shouted, "Let's go!" to the rest of her team, and all of them bolted for the exit.

  "Wait!" Rasim's voice broke and he stumbled to a halt. "Wait. There are slaves in the arena cages. We have to set them free. And the animals—the animals." A sob caught his throat as emotion began to return. Kisia and Desimi were alive. Sesin wasn't enslaved. Lorens was with them, an ally after all. It was more than he could take in, and it left him with tears streaming down his cheeks as he said, "The animals," again, his voice choked. "They don't deserve to be made to fight any more than people do. We have to let them go, Kisia. We have to let them go."

  Through the fog of tears and sand-filled mist he saw Kisia exchange glances with the others of her group. There was a strange authority in how she did it. Even though Nasira was the one who nodded, in the end, it seemed as if the decision had been Kisia's, and that somehow Nasira lacked the authority to countermand it.

  "I'll do it," the captain said unexpectedly. "Slaves and animals alike, Rasim. I'll get them into the hills. You get to the Waifia."

  Rasim made a sound that was barely even a broken word. Nasira's eyebrows rose in question and he forced his thoughts into words. "They drugged you, didn't they? Mindkiller? Heartbreak? I saw them, when they gave me the second—the third—" He couldn't remember how much he'd been given, now. A lot. His mind didn't seem to be working very well. "When they gave me more. They gave you some too. And I didn't feel you purify it, someone would have stopped you—"

  Nasira cut him off with a fierce grin. "You were full to your eyeballs with the stuff, lad. You wouldn't have felt it if I'd run a current up your nose, and there were no other sea witches at hand to be sure I didn't purify it. I'm fine. Who do you think was directing where all that water went through the stands?"

  Rasim stared at the water-filled arena seats briefly, then back at his captain. "But I can't feel…"

  "Rasim, for Siliaria's sake, go. I can handle myself. Now run." She spun on her heel and disappeared into the mist, leaving Rasim to gape after her, shaken and shaking. Kisia took three running steps herself, then realized Rasim wasn't with her and came back to grab his elbow firmly.

  "Come on, Rasim. Let's move."

  "But—but how...you...?"

  "Later," Kisia said. "When we're safely aboard the Waifia."

  "The Waifia? But the crew...?"

  Hassin flashed a smile toward him. "Mostly safe. Now come on, Rasim. We need to escape in the chaos."

  A thud of relief slammed through Rasim so hard he could barely breathe. His whole body felt watery, and he couldn't quite get his legs moving. He knew he was crying again, but the tears spilled over a huge smile that wouldn't go away.

  Everybody—or mostly everybody—was safe. Kisia and Desimi were here, somehow. Hassin was no longer in chains. Rasim didn't understand what had happened, but he didn't care. Somehow, almost magically from his perspective, they had survived. Things had gone right. He wanted to hug everyone. He wanted to sit down and cry. He wanted to throw up. He didn't know what to do with all of that, so he tried taking another step on his watery, wobbly legs, and this time, managed.

  That was wonderful, too, and all of a sudden he was sure he could run. He could run forever, if he had to. If that's what it took to get away, that's exactly what he would do.

  Lorens crouched beside Bayar, putting him a little below the small boy's height, and spoke in careful Shenryalan. Surprise crossed Bayar's face and he answered in the same language, then nodded. The prince turned away from him and Bayar scrambled up on his back to be carried. "I prefer horses," he said in Ilyaran, "but a Northern prince will do, under the circumstances."

  The Ilyarans all laughed, big startled sounds. Lorens flashed a grin over his shoulder, then broke into a ground-eating trot that led them toward the water-logged gates. Kisia grabbed Rasim's hand and dragged him along, which was good, because his legs didn't work as well as he'd hoped, after all. Kisia's hand was so warm and real in his. Rasim thought maybe he hadn't really ever expected to see her again, and squeezed her fingers.

  She gave him a bright-eyed smile that said she was as glad as he was, and Karluk, scurrying along at Rasim's side, breathed, "This is familiar."

  Rasim gave a fast, high laugh. Truthfully, their exit from the arena a few nights earlier had been orderly and sedate, compared to the madness around them now. The bewitched water didn't simply drop its passengers at the gate. It carried them into the streets and out of sight. Rasim suddenly imagined the water carrying them straight home, and wondered how the house slaves would react to their masters being deposited rudely in the gardens. Would they help them, or seize their opportunity to escape?

  At a glance, many were clearly taking the chance to throw off their chains. The streets were filled with slaves clutching children or partners, as they ran away to anywhere but where they were. Some had found ways to cast off their collars, while others still wore them, and many, of course, couldn't escape the tattooed thorns that weighed around their shoulders. But there was a sense of jubilance amongst them that hadn't been present a few nights earlier. Then, uncertainty had tamped the hope. Now, after the second witchery-based rebellion in a handful of days, those who were running seemed to have the strength of conviction with them. They moved as though they had a real chance for freedom. Rasim understood how they felt: jubilant, amazed, disbelieving, excited—it all seemed to fill him, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that was just the running, but he thought it was both, maybe. He wondered suddenly how many of the escaped slaves might turn toward Ilyara, once they escaped Moran's valley. Ilyara could well seem like the only safe place on the continent for those who had once worn slave chains.