Micol stopped the closest of them, a short woman in the yellow-and-white of a palace servant. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

  The woman squinted at him like he was a fool. “The Ma’isans are arriving outside the gates. Didn’t you hear the bells?”

  “No. I work – worked – at the docks.” Micol wracked his brain, trying to remember if he’d heard bells, but if he had he hadn’t marked them as anything memorable.

  “Well, regardless, there’s your answer. Most of them headed to the walls. Though I don’t know what they’re expecting to see; the guards won’t let anyone up to the towers.”

  It was a valid point, but Micol found himself moving away from the woman all the same. He joined a trickle of others heading for the walls of black-and-white marble that lined the edges of the city; as he got closer the crowd grew thicker, until the bodies were so packed it was impossible to make progress.

  A hundred paces ahead, a crier began to speak. “People of Vicrum, I bring word from the city guard! The Ma’isans have arrived! They appear to be preparing for a siege. But do not fear; the walls of Vicrum have never fallen and will never fall! Calamity and the Tevulun armies are more than strong enough to rid us of these vermin.”

  The crier paused for a breath, and in that time was assaulted with dozens of questions. Closer to the wall, Micol heard more criers giving similar announcements.

  Once the questions had died down, the crier continued. “Obviously, travel through the city gates will no longer be possible. We do not know yet if the Ma’isans are planning a blockade of the port, but in case they do the guard commander is advising citizens against seeking to leave the city by sea. If we stick together and don’t panic, we’ll be able to weather this storm.” He tried to leave, but the surging crowd prevented him.

  Micol squeezed the coin in his hand. Guess it’s time to find a captain, he thought. In a few hours, he doubted it would be possible for any but the wealthiest to book passage out of the city. He slipped away from the crowd, heading back toward Sybil’s Square at a half-walk, half-jog.

  He was halfway down an alley when the man who’d taken his copper earlier stepped into view. He blocked the exit with a grin. “Seems like you have all the luck today. First that captain gives you a copper, and then the priest hands you… what? A silver? How kind of him.”

  A glance behind revealed three men blocking the only other path out of the alley. When he looked back in front, he saw two others joining the first man. “Rivas will have your hides for this,” Micol said, schooling the trembling in his voice. “Leaving mid-shift? You’d be lucky if he lets you back.”

  “Yeah, well…” The burly man shrugged. “There’s no shortage of work for men like us here. Especially now the Ma’isans have made an appearance. Besides, I never much liked dock-work.” He took a step toward Micol, holding his hand out.

  Micol stared at the man’s wrist. He felt something within it, a sour tug on his consciousness. It tasted like copper on his tongue, filled his mind with heat.

  “You know how this goes,” the man said. “Just like last time. Hand over the coin or catch a beating. You saw how I kept my word before; I have no interest in hurting you.” He took another step forward, coming nearly within striking distance.

  Over his shoulder, one of the men was following closely. The other was staying back, his face hidden partly in shadow. Regardless, Micol recognized him. “Pilar?” he asked. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”

  Pilar stepped into the light. “We were never friends, lad. I treated you with respect because I believe that’s what all men deserve, but you’re a fool if you think it was anything more than that. Just hand over the money and everything will be alright.”

  The leader snorted. “I wouldn’t trust a word he says, Deserter. Who do you think alerted us to the priest’s charity?” He took one more step forward, gripping Micol by the collar.

  Death’s words from earlier came back to Micol. It starts with a copper, the same way a giant oak starts as a sapling. The thought of giving up the coin – and the freedom it represented – made his insides churn.

  The leader had grown tired of waiting. He jerked Micol forward, bringing up a fist aimed at his jaw. Micol’s arm moved before his mind could catch up; he managed to direct the blow higher so it glanced off the top of his head.

  His other hand – the one holding the coin – engaged with the burly arm at his collar, gripping it between thumb and forefinger. At the touch, the feeling from before became even stronger. The copper aroma engulfed Micol, accompanied by a wave of heat roiling off the other man. Instinct drove him deep into the feeling, shrinking the world to a pinprick as he concentrated on the arm holding onto him and its owner. Feverish sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Impossibly, the man’s grip on him relaxed, becoming so weak Micol was able to pry the man’s fingers off. Once the physical connection between them was broken, the blindness dominating Micol’s vision cleared up. He saw the other man and Pilar heading for him, heard the three behind doing the same. Their leader had fallen at Micol’s feet, but that barely concerned the rest of the gang.

  With a growl, Micol leapt toward the men in front of him. It felt good to fight, even though he knew his odds were slim. He lunged with a right hook at the first man in front of him, shook off a kidney blow from Pilar.

  A moment later the three men from behind reached him. Two of them grabbed him by the arms, pulling him back while the third pried at his hand holding the coin from Death. Pilar and the other man kicked at him, landing blows against his thighs and groin.

  Micol twisted, managing to get his legs underneath him. He felt his right shoulder pop out of socket as he brought his arm around, taking the man holding it with him. The three of them – including the man holding his other arm – tumbled to the ground. He lashed out at anything that felt soft, taking several blows for each one he managed to land before he was hoisted back to his feet.

  His right arm hung limply at his side, but he was glad to see one of the men who’d been holding him from before was still on the ground. From the looks of it, he wouldn’t be rising anytime soon.

  “All this for one damn silver?” Pilar said. Micol wasn’t surprised to find the older man was the one who’d lifted him out of the pile.

  Micol spat out blood from a cut one of the men had opened inside his lip. “You can still stop this. Whatever you feel toward me, it’s not worth dying over.”

  Pilar’s grip on his left arm tightened. “I’ll admit, you fight pretty well for a coward. Better than I expected.” His weight shifted; for a moment, Micol thought he was relenting. Then he felt the man’s foot connect with the inside of his knee, knocking him over. Pilar kicked at his back while the others figured out how to engage in front.

  At first, they appeared cautious. One of them chanced forward, landing a vicious kick at Micol’s stomach. When he didn’t respond or move to stop the strike, the others came forward. The blows kept coming; at first, each one was followed by a flare of pain, but that soon gave way to numbness. Eventually, he lost the strength to keep his hand closed. His left arm fell to the ground, releasing the coin.

  It rolled two full paces along the cobblestones, catching a ray of sun peeking down between the two buildings lining the alley. The instant they could see the coin – registering the gold glint rather than silver – the four men left standing forgot all about Micol.

  They fell on each other instead, biting and clawing and tearing in their greed. Before giving in to unconsciousness, Micol was treated to the sight of one of the remaining assailants falling, a knife lodged deep in his eye.

  Chapter 9

  Tarana

  Thunderheads portended Tarana’s arrival at the worn city gates. Since awaking days after the attack by the Army of Solus – how many, she didn’t know – she had gathered them around her like a protective shroud, spanning miles in every direction. The black clouds above were pregnant with unstable power that begged to be released, but she would not allow it.

  The power sustained Tarana, giving her something to focus on other than the wounds she’d received. The hole in her abdomen was healing slowly. Dark, dried blood stained her clothes. Tarana loped toward the distant gates, her stride off-balance. She held the shortsword in one hand, lacking anywhere to stow it since its previous sheath was occupied by her convalescing organs.

  When she arrived at the city gates, Tarana saw nearly a dozen guards arrayed before her. Perhaps they had noticed the signs of her arrival, or perhaps they had noticed a crazed-looking woman garbed in Death’s colors, carrying an unsheathed sword. The only way to know for sure was to approach.

  A man in mail put a hand to the sword at his hip. “Stop right there, girl. What brings you to Lontiel? And why…?” His eyes trailed down to her clothes, finishing the question for him.

  Tarana straightened, grimacing as the motion sent a lance of pain through her. “Ah, so this is Lontiel. I was hoping for Egolis, but just as well. As for what brings me here…” She gestured to the dark clouds overhead. “Do I really need to explain?”

  The man in mail grunted; his expression remained impassive. “Last we heard, Calamity was headed north. If you are truly Calamity, you will need to tell us why you were diverted from that path.”

  So they haven’t heard about my flight, Tarana thought. She could have breathed a sigh of relief, but instead she fixed the man with a glare. “I need tell you nothing. As for the question of whether I’m truly Calamity, you need only attend.”

  She pointed at a nearby hedge with the sword in her hand. Lightning engulfed her, following the direction of the sword. It arced to the hedge, tracing blue-and-purple paths along the branches to the ground. An instant later flame ignited within the hedge, lighting up the relative dark of mid-day.

  By the time Tarana had turned back around, she saw every guard had fallen into a deep bow. “Am I to take this to mean you believe me?”

  “Yes, Calamity,” the man in mail said. “Please accept my apologies for the cool greeting. We’ve been on alert since word reached the city that Vicrum was under siege.”

  “Huh. So the Ma’isans are planning to lay siege to Vicrum after all?”

  The man in mail addressed her without looking up. “It would seem that way, yes.”

  “Interesting. You can rise now.” Tarana waited for the men to climb to their feet before addressing the man in mail. “As you can no doubt tell, I’ve been through a lot recently. I’ll need a safe place to rest for the next couple days, as well as somewhere to put this damn sword.”

  The man nodded, turning to lead the way. “Elias, take the sword and find a sheath.” He gestured to a boy with curly hair; the boy came forward, holding out his arms for Tarana to set the sword on. “Make sure it’s suitable for the aspect,” the man in mail instructed. The boy nodded and hurried off, holding the sword as far away from him as possible.

  “Hasn’t he seen a bloodied weapon before?” Tarana asked, her eyes following the boy.

  The man in mail chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine he has. He’s an earnest young man, but not the kind to seek out a fight.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Too many men in Accalia seek out fights, if you ask me.” Tarana turned back toward the man in mail. “I was hoping the guard houses would be close by. It’s been a long journey – three days in my current condition, and a fortnight on horse before that. The sooner I can rest, the better.”

  “Of course, Calamity. I was planning on booking a room for you at the Mare’s Respite. It’s only a short distance further. You won’t find nicer accommodations in the whole city.”

  Tarana’s instinct was to insist upon a room in the guard houses as she had been trained to do – more protection against those who wanted to harm her and her family, or so she’d been told. But it occurred to her news of what had happened wouldn’t be far away; when it broke, the further away she could be from those men the better.

  And so she silenced any complaints, following the man down the cobblestone path. They arrived at the inn less than a quarter hour later. Vines crawled up the outside of the three-story building, winding up to windows made of crown glass. The building itself was made of broad white bricks; although the years had tarnished the color on some of them, it was clear they had been cleaned recently. A carved sign above double doors announced the name of the inn, book-ended by images of a white-maned mare.

  They stepped inside to find the dining area mostly empty. The man in mail approached a short, thin woman Tarana assumed was the innkeeper. He dipped his head in greeting. “Good afternoon. We would like to rent out your most stately room. This young woman has travelled a long way; I’m sure she could use a hot bath and a comfortable bed.”

  The woman’s eyes slid to Tarana. “Of course, sir. As it so happens, the balcony room on the third floor is available. Comes with a separate living room and a bed fit for a king. Although I should warn you; we’ll charge for replacing the sheets if she plans to fall into bed how she currently is.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tarana said, stepping forward. “As he said, I’m long overdue for a bath. I’ll make it my first order of business.” She paused, then added, “If you have bandages on hand, I could use some of those as well.”

  The woman focused on Tarana with a matronly smile. “Oh, of course dear. I’ll have them sent right up. You can head up to the room if you’d like; I’ll have Hector meet you.” She turned to shout over a shoulder, “Hector! We have guests for the balcony room!”

  Sensing she was being sent away, Tarana sighed and made her way toward the staircase to her left. As she started up the stairs, she heard the innkeeper and the man in mail whispering.

  “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Bilal?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” the man in mail said. “This isn’t like that. She…”

  Tarana missed the rest of the sentence as she ascended the stairs. Each step made her grit her teeth, and by the time she made it to the second floor she was seriously considering stopping there and demanding the nearest room.

  With a hiss, she made herself continue. An older man she assumed was Hector met her halfway up the second flight of stairs; he put one hand on her back to steady her, helping her finish the journey.

  Hector stepped forward once they’d reached the top of the stairs, fitting a key into the intricate redwood door. Tarana’s eyes followed the hand-carved swirls as the door creaked open, revealing a grand room tiled in marble.

  “Not sure who you are,” Hector said. “But it sounds like your board is already covered. Usually those who stay here are wealthy merchants or noble’s sons and daughters.” He paused, clearly expecting Tarana to reveal which she was. When she didn’t, he continued, “At any rate, our clientele are fine folk. You can dine with them, or I can bring your meals up to you if you’d prefer. If you think the stairs would be a struggle, I mean.”

  Tarana thought about it for a moment. She didn’t relish the thought of making the trip up the stairs again. “I’ll take my meals in here, please.”

  “My pleasure, miss. Do you have any personal effects I can bring up in the meantime?”

  “No. Just what I have on me.”

  Hector raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Curious. Most curious. If you don’t mind me saying so, you might want to look into getting some new clothes while you’re here.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” Tarana moved past the man, making her way to the window at the side of the room. It looked out upon the harbor, revealing a single ship through the banded circles of glass. She heard the door close behind her a moment later.

  I wonder who that ship belongs to, she thought. And more importantly, whether they owe allegiance to my family. Depending on where the ship’s crew hailed from, commandeering it might spark another conflict; a prospect Tarana didn’t look forward to.

  A knock on the door made Tarana turn. She opened the door to find the man in mail standing before her. “Yes, Bilal?”

  His eyes flared with surprise at the use of his name. “I wanted to make sure you were happy with your accommodations, Calamity. The room is taken care of, courtesy of the Lontiel city guard.”

  “You can call me Tarana. And the room is fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bilal frowned, adding, “Tarana.”

  The use of her name made Tarana smile. It had been years since she’d been able to let the pretense of Calamity drop. Asking the guard to use her name seemed like a small rebellion, yet she was surprised at how good it felt.

  Bilal’s eyes trailed down to the floor. “You may not remember, but this city owes you a debt of gratitude. Several years ago, the Ma’isan army came close enough to kiss our gates. I was drafted into the city guard then, as part of a sallying force to blunt their attack. When you came through, twin tornadoes in your wake and the Tevulun army at your back… it was one of the most blessed sights I’ve ever seen, your grace.”

  Tarana nodded. She didn’t have the heart to tell him the Battle of Lontiel had been fought by her aunt – that it had, in fact, been her aunt’s last battle before succumbing to the powers of Calamity entirely – so instead she settled on a weak smile. “Don’t worry. I remember.”

  The man’s eyes lit up at the confirmation. The smile made him look handsome, in a solid sort of way. He had a strong jaw and a blunt nose – they were no doubt soldier’s features, but there was still some grace there.

  “What can you tell me about the ship in the harbor?” Tarana asked.

  Bilal frowned, his eyes jumping to the window as he searched for an answer. “My primary focus is the gates, Your Grace. I don’t keep track of the comings and goings of the ships. But I promise, I’ll find out for you.”

  “Please do.” Tarana reached out to clasp the man’s wrist. His eyes widened at her touch; he gave an awkward bow and backed out of the room, unable to meet her eyes.