Tavin had landed on the barge’s crates. The Gull sailor swung his barge pole up, yelling about bone thieves on his goods. In turn the Hawk tossed his sodden cloak in the Gull’s face, grabbed the other end of the pole, neatly pushed the man into the canal, and slid down to the barge’s deck.
“Where is he?” Tavin asked as he pulled Fie up. He didn’t mean the sailor.
“Here.” Jasimir climbed aboard at the barge’s other end and darted to put the crates between himself and Third Market. “We can’t stay on—”
“I know.” Tavin took Fie’s hands in his own and closed his eyes. A dreadful sharp itch rolled through every gash. She gasped, shuddering, and Tavin let go. “I’m sorry, I can’t do more than stop the bleeding right now. Jas, cloak.” Tavin tore the crowsilk into yet more strips and wound them around Fie’s hands as alarm horns split the air anew. He twisted to look around, frowning. “On my signal, we jump to the street and—”
An arrow cut off the end of his plan, thudding into the crate by his ear.
He stared. “Consider that my signal.”
They scrambled off the barge and into Third Market, Fie’s wet sandals crunching against uneven brick. Alarm horns wailed through the tents. Shoppers halted in place, peering about for the cause. One man found it when Tavin shoved him out of their way and into a plantain stand. Curses and shouts trailed in their wake.
Then sun caught steel again, flitting through bodies at the end of the market ahead. Screams burst in the air like fireworks. Fie looked behind and found more Hawks closing in, barreling through a panicking crowd.
Tavin grabbed her shoulder. “You have to hide us.”
“No,” Jasimir cut in. “If we get separated, we’ll lose one another.”
Fie couldn’t think. Help Pa. She had to help Pa.
Tavin muttered a curse, looking wildy about the market. His gaze lit upon a tent. “Watch Jas,” he barked, and lunged.
A moment later a chorus of shattering ceramic scraped, dissonant, against the alarm horns. Fie caught the acid tang of flashburn and lantern oil.
So did everyone nearby.
The crowd’s brewing panic boiled over into a full-blown stampede, sending a tidal wave of human flesh into the oncoming Hawks. One table tipped, then another. The deadly avalanche smashed and splattered across the street as people fled, as Fie’s eyes ran, as her lungs burned, as she stumbled back.
Then—then, the sparks.
A blue phantom hissed across the oil and flashburn faster than a heartbeat. Forks of blazing white fire exploded from the streets, waves of heat stripping the river from Fie’s face in puffs of steam.
Tavin burst from the flames. “The alley—go,go—”
The three of them bolted into the cramped back street. A moment later Fie heard a sound like breath being sucked through a flute.
The bricks beneath her feet leapt and shuddered as white light and thunder rocked the alleyway.
The tent. The whole tent of flashburn and lamp oil had gone off.
Dead gods be kind.
Tavin towed them farther down the alley, sheltering behind a cold communal oven. His hands were shaking. Adrenaline? Fear? Both, like her? Her blood still streaked his palms. “This is our chance. We can throw them off the trail.”
I have to look after my own.
All of Fie’s own were still in the Floating Fortress.
All of Fie’s own might have died on that bridge—
“Fie.” Jasimir’s voice brought her back. “Could you create a diversion with a Peacock tooth?”
“Blowing a smoking crater in half of Third Market isn’t enough of a diversion?” Tavin asked.
The prince shook his head. “Not like that. An illusion they’ll chase instead. Can you do it?”
Could she? Fie pressed into the cold plaster wall. Peacock witches were a naka a dozen; she had enough of their teeth in her string.
