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“This way,” Izamal says, taking off with distance-eating strides.
I match his pace through the twisting streets of the fifth, faltering only when Izamal turns onto a seemingly dead-end street and makes a three-fingered gesture at the hooded figure there.
Iz reads the question on my face as we step into the glittering ikonlightof the gray market. “Gives people a head’s up that I’m here. They’ll get the word out by the time we’re ready to hand things out.”
A shiver runs up my spine as I squint through the thick pipe smoke that hangs in the air. The street is lined with vendors—more than last time—but none of them call out to us or make any attempt to draw our attention to their wares. They’re too busy conversing furiously amongst themselves.
Izamal’s brow furrows.
Three women huddle with their heads pressed together, gesturing wildly, expressions tense.
Something isn’t right. I catch a snippet of a conversation, just one word: “Alcanar—”
I stop dead. Izamal tugs at my arm. “Keep walking.”
Thoughts whiz through my head, each more panicked than the last. I take a deep breath. Maybe they’re talking about another Alcanar. There has to be more than one.
“—Vale’s alive—”
I squeeze Izamal’s arm. “They’re talking about Pa.”
“Yes, I’d gathered that,” he says through clenched teeth.
A shadow peels itself from the side of a building and falls into step with us. They lower their hood, revealing a strikingly gorgeous face. Im, from the knitting circle.
She doesn’t smile. “You look like you could use a cup of sundust.”
In minutes, the three of us are seated at a slightly sticky table in one corner of the place I’ve been thinking of as a secret pub for revolutionaries-turned-knitters. Two other familiar faces—the green-eyedwoman and the grizzled man with the ikon-inscribed tooth—join us, bearing steaming mugs of sundust tea. I don’t touch mine.
Im murmurs. “We’ve tried to squash the rumors, but they’re everywhere. People know your father is alive.”
A knot in my stomach loosens atyour father is alive. I hadn’t realized how afraid I was that, despite all logic, Pa might already be gone.
Im shakes her head at my relief. “It’s not a good sign, love.”
The man speaks. “It’s not good for the city to know Vale’s alive, after what he did.”
Green Eyes holds my gaze. “They’ll demand justice.”
The taste of bile fills my mouth. “But if Dalca needs Pa—”
Three sets of eyebrows rise atDalca.Im speaks. “It may not be up to the prince now. The Regia’s Guard—they’ll have a say.”
Dalca’s face flashes through my mind, the tense way he saidthe Regia’s Guard.The hard face of the pale-haired man in black and gold. “Who are they?”
Izamal answers. “Their leader is Ragno Haveli. Cas’s father. He lost his wife in the rebellion.”
“Worse,” says Green Eyes. “He was a good friend of your father’s once. I’d wager he holds your father responsible. A personal betrayal.”
I fight the urge to jump to my feet. “What does all this mean?”
The three of them share looks. Izamal’s eyes widen.
Im answers. “Ragno will push for the Trials.”
“The Trials,” I repeat. “It can’t—that’s—they haven’t for years.” I barely remember the last one, well over a decade ago. Pa didn’t let me go. But I heard about it from other fifth-ringer kids. A Trial is how they punish those who commit crimes against the Regia. If the condemned survives three Trials, they win their freedom.
“No one wins the Trials.”
