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The old brick wall surrounding the docklands was centuries old, set with a dozen open gates. Unlike the causeways, it crumbled where exposed. The rest was glued over with old paper. Notices, advertisements, fading letters in all languages, but mostly in swooping, artful Ibalet. The faces of criminals and fugitives glared from the brick wall, their misdeeds written beneath their names.
Corayne didn’t bother to read the many crimes listed beneath the drawings of herself, or Dom, or Andry, but their names were clear enough. CORAYNE AN-AMARAT. DOMACRIDHAN OF IONA. ANDRY TRELLAND.There was even a rough sketch of Sorasa, her eyes lined with black, menacing as a nightmare.
“‘Wanted by the Gallish Crown,’” Sorasa said softly, reading the words scrawled over all their heads. They moved closer, drawn to themselves like a ship pulled into a whirlpool. “‘For crimes against Galland. Reward for information, capture, or corpse.’”
Corayne’s fingers met her sketched face, her lips too thin, her jaw too sharp. Andry’s and Dom’s faces were more accurate. She suspected that Taristan had guided an artist through their portraits, if he hadn’t done them himself.
The paper was slick under her hand, still wet.
“These are fresh,” she said, her voice trembling.
Sorasa growled to herself, cursing. “Plastered in every port of the Ward, in every kingdom that fears or loves Galland. We’re being hunted, in every corner of the realm.”
“By men and beasts, both,” Corayne murmured. It didn’t matter who held the sword to her neck, a skeletal demon or a watch officer following the orders of a queen. It would still end in the world’s ruin.
Dom’s voice was low, guttural. “We need to get out of this city.”
“For once, I agree with the troll,” Sorasa replied, tearing the posters from the wall.
Almasad was one of the largest ports of the Long Sea, its docks bunched together, needling out from the banks. But only a few streets inland, the city relaxed, stretching out in wider arcs and less crowded lanes. Many homes and buildings were walled, islanded by palm and cypress gardens. The great avenues were wide as canals passing beneath the causeways. Some had canopies, canvas as big as ship sails, ready to be pulled out on great lines and wood frames. The shadows were cool and inviting, the streets clearly designed to minimize the southern heat. Unfortunately, easy, quiet neighborhoods were more difficult to pass through without notice. Especially for anyone with a bounty on their head.
The Red Pillar stood in the center of a plaza, carved from a single block of rust-colored granite. It was more than a hundred feet high, a square column that tapered to a point like a pyramid. A carved face of Lasreen, goddess of sun and moon, night and day, life and death, stared out from each side.
They hurried past it, hoods raised and heads down. When a troop of Ibalet soldiers passed, clad in silk and armor, Sorasa ushered Corayne into a basement dwelling cramped beneath a structure of apartments that looked more like a child’s blocks. It was dim and smoky; Corayne’s eyes stung as they adjusted to the light.
Once she could see, she realized they stood in a dirt-walled root cellar, the ceiling so low Dom had to stoop. Doors and archways branched off from all sides, leading into cramped darkness.
“I take it you know what you’re doing,” Corayne said. Dried herbs and bushels of plants hung from the ceiling, perfuming the air. Footsteps thumped from the dwelling above them.
The assassin kept one eye on a crack in the door. A single beam of sunlight split her face.
“Somewhat,” she replied. “This is a bit of a way station for the underbelly of Almasad. Thieves, pickpockets, the occasional assassin. And, now, fugitives of Queen Erida.”
“My aunt will not abide this.” Dom braced the side of his head against the roof. “I am a prince of Iona. To hunt me so openly is to court war with my enclave.”
Corayne tried not to roll her eyes. She investigated the cellar, turning over the plants with disinterest.
The assassin didn’t move from the door, her voice flat. “Your enclave refused to fight for the sake of the entire Ward, but they would fight foryourlife? Somehow I doubt that.”
“Just because you have no concept of honor or duty does not mean others do not,” Dom answered hotly. Sorasa replied with a withering glare, sunlight illuminating one copper eye.
A twist of lavender crumbled between Corayne’s fingers, filling the cellar with its heady, floral scent. She breathed it deeply, hoping for some calming effect. It didn’t work.
“I don’t know where we go from here,” Corayne said, shouldering between them. “The Spindle will be close to the Jaws, but that’s days into the desert. And no ship will take us by sea, not with our faces plastered all over the port.”
“Let’s figure out where we’re going before we figure out how to get there,” Sorasa replied. Without a sound, she slipped out the door, leaving motes of dust swirling in her wake.
“Good riddance,” Dom muttered. He drew up a crate and sat, straightening out his neck.
“You’d still be wandering up and down the Ward looking for me, if not for Sorasa,” Corayne said, brushing lavender off her hands. “You can at least pretend not to hate her.”
The immortal heaved a dramatic sigh and leaned back against the wall. “I do my best not to lie.”
Before Corayne could laugh or snap, Sorasa returned with Valtik and Andry in tow. The squire was flushed, his hood drawn up, his body coiled with tension. Somewhere, the witch had picked up a colorful scarf, patterned with scales, and wrapped it around her hair.
“Did you see?” Andry demanded, pointing back to the street with a shaking finger. “That’s us out there. Already.”
“We saw the posters, Squire,” Sorasa said, holding the door ajar for Charlie and Sigil, who trooped in with a little less concern. “That’s why we’re hiding instead of enjoying the sunshine.”
