Rhaif tried to imagine such a sight as he finished the climb out of the cooler depths of the dungeons and back into the swelter of the day. The air became smudged and reeked of burning oil. They passed a few gaolers heading down for their shift, but beyond a grunt or a nod, no one heeded anyone else.

  At the top of the steps, Rhaif hissed back at Pratik, “Stay close to my back. Eyes down.”

  Ahead, the main hall bustled with turnkeys coming and going, some leading chained prisoners. A handful of red-capped boys darted throughout the throng, whisking messages up and down the towers.

  Perfect.

  Rhaif led Pratik into the bedlam. He drew them into the flow of gaolers leaving for the day. In short order, the spikes of the portcullis appeared. All was going well until the crowd ahead eddied in confusion. A few shocked voices echoed back to them.

  Rhaif shifted to the side to determine the cause of the commotion.

  He groaned when he spotted a familiar figure in a gray robe who sported a noose of silver braids around his throat. Shrive Wryth scaled the steps toward the gaol. The rarity of such holy men, especially one traipsing into a prison, had stopped everyone, drawing all eyes. The sea of boys and gaolers parted before the Shrive, both out of respect and fear.

  Worst of all, the divide seemed to be aiming straight for Rhaif.

  He herded Pratik back, swearing under his breath.

  The gods must hate me.

  He grabbed the Chaaen’s arm and turned him away. What is Wryth doing here? The answer appeared directly ahead of them as a pair of turnkeys were shoved to either side. Two familiar figures strode forward, the same pair who had damned Rhaif to the mines of Chalk.

  Only steps away from Rhaif, Archsheriff Laach waved an arm in greeting toward the gaol gate. “This way, Shrive Wryth!”

  The sheriff, seemingly blind to his surroundings, had not even noted Rhaif standing there. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Laach’s companion. Little escaped the attention of Llyra hy March, the guildmaster of thieves. Her face froze for a breath in shock—then her lips thinned, and her eyes sparkled with dark amusement as she stared over at him.

  Rhaif groaned.

  The gods definitely hate me.

  19

  RHAIF’S VISION NARROWED as he struggled for a way to escape.

  Llyra met his gaze in that strained moment. Her fingers rested at her wrist, where the edge of her sleeve hid a bracelet of sheathed throwing knives. He had once watched her impale three rats—to a wall, a rafter, and a keg—with one sweep of her arm. And she hadn’t even bothered to look in the vermin’s direction.

  But that was not her truest threat. There was a reason she had been the guildmaster in Anvil for over a decade. He had learned long ago that her mind was as slippery as greased cobbles in the rain. Such cunning made it nearly impossible to keep one’s footing when pitted against her. Her skill was so daunting, he sometimes wondered if her talent was spyllcast or fueled by alchymies. In the past, he had often challenged her to a game of Knights n’ Knaves, but she trounced him every time, toppling his king on the board with nary a sign of effort.

  So, what hope do I have now?

  No doubt she was already thinking a dozen steps ahead of him, preparing to countermeasure any of his flight attempts. With every pound of his heart, he felt the iron jaws of a trap closing on him.

  She narrowed the distance between them, her gaze never breaking from him—then she brushed past with a bump of her elbow. She spoke to the sheriff and nodded toward the commotion at the portcullis. “Laach, we should get that braided bastard up to the tower before all these gaolers start bending a knee and begging a blessing.”

  The archsheriff grunted his acknowledgment and forged a quicker pace across the hall to meet Wryth.

  Llyra cast one last glance back at Rhaif, but her features were inscrutable.

  What new game is this?

  Despite the danger, he was struck by the severity of her beauty. Her blond hair was cut straight at the shoulder. Her eyes glinted an icy copper, framed by sharp cheekbones. The only thing soft about her was the bud of her lips. And though she had taken him into her bed many times, she had never let him taste those lips.

  As she turned and strode away, it was clear she had dressed to accent her curves. Her linens and leathers were corseted tight at the waist, her leggings hugged her like a second skin. And while she had the short stature of most Guld’guhlians, she was lithe of limb, sculpted of muscles so hard and wiry that he swore they were threaded through by steel. He especially remembered her strong legs wrapped around his buttocks, demanding he perform better.

  But what does she want now? Why didn’t she raise an alarm?

  All he knew for sure was that he could never outwit her in the past, let alone untie her elaborate plots. Instead, he took advantage of this mysterious reprieve to grab Pratik’s arm and guide him to the side. Rhaif picked a path that skirted the clot of onlookers around the Shrive, and once clear, he hurried under the portcullis and out into the open square.

  He didn’t know if Llyra ever looked his way again.

  He didn’t care.

  As long as I’m still free.

  He kept moving, forcing himself not to run. “Keep with me,” he warned Pratik. “We have a ways to go.”

  And likely a trail of shadows to shake.

  It was the only possible explanation. Llyra surely knew the value of what Rhaif had stolen and wanted it for herself. She must hope that he would guide her hounds to his hiding spot. As Llyra and Laach reached the portcullis ahead of Rhaif, she had likely already signaled lurkers out in the square. And she certainly had the entire breadth of the guild from which to choose the best trackers.

  But not the very best, Rhaif thought with a matter of pride—which he prayed was not misplaced. As he headed toward the crossed hammers of the square’s main arch, he searched around him. He sought eyes that lingered too long, or bodies that shifted course in his direction. He identified a half dozen suspects, but he was equally sure there were more. Worst of all, he had no doubt that word of his sighting was rapidly spreading ahead of him.

  With Pratik in tow, he did his best to navigate back to the port. He knew the city well. He chose the narrowest alleyways, empty of any others. He crossed into shops and out back patios. He sought crooked paths and backtracked often. He entered a smoke-choked smithy, where one could barely see the fingers of an outstretched arm. There, he tossed the blacksmith a silver eyrie and retrieved a pair of cloaks to hide their gaoler garb.

  Back out on the streets, he continued his winding route homeward. Finally, the stinking air turned salty, and the squabbling screams of sea terns cut through the ever-present Grumble of Anvil.

  “This way,” Rhaif urged.

  By now, they had reached the Boils, a cramped dark warren in the shadow of the city’s largest chimneys. Here, the air was just soot and cinder, while underfoot, muck and shite coated the cobbles. In the Boils, all manner of ill repute found their home. He led Pratik into the maze of squeeze-thrus and narrows that made up the whoremongers’ yoke. He finally reached a door and shoved inside.

  He paused long enough to remind Pratik, “Not a word.”

  It was rare to have a Klashean—let alone a clipped Chaaen—in such a place. Rhaif dared not let the man’s lilting accent raise any suspicions.

  As they entered, the stink of sour ale and piss greeted them. A heavyset matron heard the telltale creak of the door and began to stir a few languid forms draped about the room, most of whom were smoking snakeroot or stronger leaves. Rhaif waved leadenly at the matron, who scowled in recognition of her renter. She settled back over a tankard, likely already forgetting him.

  Rhaif climbed rickety stairs and passed down a hall where closed doors did little to mask the grunts, gasps, and spats of laughter, some genuine, more feigned. He reached his room and rushed Pratik inside.

  Once the door was closed and barred, the Chaaen inspected the cramped space. The bed was a flat board with a thin spread of hay atop it. The privy was a bucket in the corner. Nothing had been freshened in several days.

  Pratik’s face pinched with disgust. He covered his mouth and nose against the stench. He mumbled between his fingers, “I now regret leaving the dungeons.”

  Rhaif grinned. “Oh, fear not, we’re not home yet.” He crossed to the wall, dropped to a knee, and lifted away a section of planks to reveal a tight squeeze. He had secretly sawed this opening shortly after securing the room. “You’ll need to crawl the last of the way.”

  Pratik bent down and inspected the dark pass-thru between old beams. “Where does it lead?”

  “To both our freedoms,” he said, voicing his best hope.

  * * *

  RHAIF DUSTED OFF his knees and helped Pratik out the far end of the cramped passageway. It emptied into a larger rented room in a neighboring whorehouse. This one backed upon the first and opened onto a different corner of the Boils, one slightly less tawdry. He had prepared this arrangement early on, anticipating trouble, because it always found one eventually.

  He had also been following a creed ingrained into any rogue.

  Never trap yourself in a room with only one door.

  In this case, such an extra measure served an additional purpose. If any of Llyra’s hunters had managed to shadow Rhaif across the city, they would believe their mark had holed up at the other establishment. If Llyra attempted a raid there, the commotion through the thin walls would alert him in time to make his escape from here.

  At least, I pray so.

  Once Pratik was out of the tunnel, Rhaif refitted the section of planks on this side back into place. He rubbed grime and dust over the outline in the wall, doing his best to mask the secret door.

  Once satisfied, he rolled to his feet.

  Pratik had used the time to inspect the new room. His expression looked relieved. The chamber had a single thin window, presently shuttered. A small hearth glowed in a corner, its ruddy coals sprinkled with incense, casting a spicy hint to the air. The bed was far more stout with a pillow and mattress, both stuffed with sweethay, and all covered with a light blanket. A clay washbasin sat atop a table, and the privy had its own closet.

  Pratik passed his judgement. “A slight improvement on the dungeon. But…” The Chaaen glanced full around the room, even stepping to peek past the open door into the privy. His brows were pinched when he faced Rhaif again. “Where is the bronze artifact you promised to show me?”

  Rhaif grinned and crossed to the other side of the bed. While the room’s hall door was barred against any unwanted trespass, he had taken one extra precaution. Along the far wall, he found the carved fingerholds and revealed his last bit of carpentry. He lifted free yet another secret door—this section far taller than the others—and exposed a cubby between dry beams.

  Pratik came to stand at Rhaif’s back.

  Inside the niche, the bronze woman stood as if a statue. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were demurely folded at her waist. She still wore the yellow linen robe he had bought with coins pilfered from the milling crowds of the port.

  “Mes wondres,” Pratik murmured in his own tongue. He drew closer. “I’ve never seen such perfection in forge and mold. It looks as if she is about to take a breath at any moment.” He glanced to Rhaif with wide eyes. “Such a sculpture belongs in the finest imri garden or among the House of Wisdom’s collection of ancient treasures. Even the Imri-Ka himself would pay dearly for her.”

  Rhaif chuckled, realizing how little this Chaaen knew about how truly mes wondres this statue was. But the man’s ignorance made sense. Of course, Laach, Wryth, and Llyra would have shared as few details as possible about the discovery in Chalk, restricting such knowledge to themselves.

  “Why do you laugh at me?” Pratik asked with a frown.

  Rhaif pointed to the cubby. “Maybe she can explain.”

  Pratik turned in time to see the woman’s eyes open. The cold glass glowed brighter as the fires inside her form stoked her back awake. Her gaze quickly warmed and softened under that heat, finally shifting to linger on the stranger.

  The Chaaen gasped and stumbled back a step.

  The woman’s head cocked to one side, her attention still following him. Rhaif lifted an inviting arm toward her. She responded by unfolding her hands and gently lifting a shapely leg to step free of the cubby.

  Choking in shock, Pratik retreated until he reached the bed and dropped heavily atop it. He stammered, leaning farther away, “Wh … What magick or alchymy is this? Or is it some form of artifice?”

  “No, it’s far from trickery. And in truth, beyond anything that I understand.”

  In order to win over the Chaaen, Rhaif knew he would need to reveal all. He started by explaining about the quake deep in the mines of Chalk and the bizarre discovery even deeper. He described the blood sacrifice that revived the artifact, including the Shriven’s seeming knowledge of it.

  Pratik interrupted with a smattering of questions, but there were few that Rhaif could answer.

  Rhaif finally finished the tale with his escape and arrival in Anvil. “But we can’t stay here. I must find a way of absconding with her. Hopefully to the lands of the Southern Klashe, where those hunting us will not follow.”

  Still seated on the bed, Pratik spent much of Rhaif’s story studying the bronze woman. Though calmer now, he was clearly fearful of drawing any nearer to her. She had crossed to the thin window and opened the shutter. She stared up at the sooty skies, toward the wan glow to the west that marked the moon. From the slump of her shoulders and doleful bend to her back, she was a bronze sigil of sorrow.

  I’m doing what I can, he silently promised her.

  Over the past fortnight, he had come to sense a desire in her. Though sluggish, she would drift around the room for a spell, then eventually come to a halt somewhere, but always facing to the west, like a lodestone in a broken wayglass that could only point one direction. Plainly she fretted upon some concern known only to her.

  As he stared at her now, he could not forget the one mournful word she had spoken on the train, staring up at the full face of the moon. It haunted him.

  Doom …

  Over the past fortnight, her trepidation had seeped into his bones. He knew he could not discount her warning.

  But what could a petty larcener from Anvil hope to accomplish?

  It was why Rhaif had chosen to free a Chaaen with an iron collar, one steeped in alchymical lore. He needed an ally to help him understand what he had stolen and to perhaps discern what mystery lay buried in her bronze heart.

  Yet, there was another reason he had needed the Chaaen, but that could wait for the moment. Right now, a more pressing question required his attention.

  He faced Pratik with a challenge. “Will you help me?”

  20

  RHAIF 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.