As soon as she spoke the words, she realized how true they were. The brewer’s accusation had struck its target and buried itself in her mind.
Their deaths are on your hands, Raetawy, not mine.
“That dog deserved to die,” Omari growled. “I would have killed him myself if you hadn’t.”
Rae’s brow furrowed. It was true, the brewer gave her little choice but to silence him, and his wickedness had brought vengeance to his doorstep. But there was more than that in Omari’s tone. She’d never heard him speak with such venom.
“Everything of value has a cost, Rae,” he went on. “And freedom demands the highest price of all. We cannot be afraid to pay it.”
They were almost the same words Asim had said to her back at the weavers’ workshop. But when Asim had said it, she’d thought he meant sacrificing his own life for the cause—not the lives of others. What Omari seemed to be suggesting sent a shiver down her spine. She was about to reply when there was a noise outside the stable.
Omari put a finger to his lips and then pointed to the door. Someone was coming.
The sheep stirred, bleating.
Rae clamped her lips shut and stood, her hand going to the dagger in her belt.
Then came a low voice.
“The falcon sails across the sky.”
Both Rae and Omari nearly collapsed with relief. She opened the door a crack and whispered, “We shall meet him on the…”
The last word stuck in her throat when she saw who stood outside, silhouetted by the fiery glow.
“Horizon?” she finished.
“Hello in peace, Raetawy,” said Tamerit. The weaver was wrapped in a robe not unlike the one Rae wore, a hood covering her dark curls. Menk stood next to her, wearing something between a smile and a grimace.
“Room in there for more?” he asked gruffly.
Rae nodded and made way for them both to enter the stable. Except they weren’t alone. Behind them came nearly a dozen others, among them Mamet Mut and several other weavers, a few of the surviving Horizon members, and an old soldier who Rae often saw begging in the street. There were some young men that Rae recognized from the street fights too, including—most surprisingly—Buto.
The brawler nodded at Rae as he entered, a penitent expression on his face. She’d never noticed how crooked his nose was. Others must have broken it before she’d gotten a chance to.
“Hi, Rae,” he said.
“Buto,” Rae replied, utterly confused. “What’s all this about, Menk? I thought it was too dangerous to congregate.”
“It’s all right,” Menk assured her. “The Medjay and the nomarch’s men are all at the riverbank, readying for their journey back north. I’ve also left a lookout. He’ll send up the alarm if anyone approaches.”
Rae exchanged glances with Omari, but he appeared as bewildered as she was by the people assembling around them amid the sheep.
“The thing is, Rae,” Menk went on, “As I was gathering information, I seemed to gather people too. People who wanted to see you after they heard what happened tonight. They wouldn’t take no for an answer. More wanted to join me, but I managed to convince them to stay home so we wouldn’t attract too much attention. Most of these folks lost kin in the ambush at the Garden of the Dead.”
The assembled murmured their agreement.
“My father,” said a man.
“My son,” said another.
“My uncle,” said Buto. “When I found out that he’d had been killed by the Medjay, I vowed to avenge him. I went to the brewer for advice—after all, he had his hands in everything, knew everyone. I had no idea he was a traitor! If you hadn’t figured it out and stopped him, Rae… well, he probably would have turned me in too.” Buto cleared his throat. “So I suppose I owe you a debt.”
“You owe me more than one,” Rae grumbled.
“Fine,” Buto said, the usual playful smirk back on his face. “Two.”
“Menk said you spoke up for the weavers too,” Tam broke in, moving to Rae’s side. “That’s why he came to see us. We’ve tried to tell the men we want to help many times, but no one’s ever been able to get through to them. Except you.”
