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  As soon as their ship touched the berth, Horace nodded his thanks to the boat master, and then he and Mezim hopped off.

  “I’m glad to be back in civilization,” Mezim said.

  Horace started down the docks. They weren’t as crowded as the ones in Avice or even Tines, nor as chaotic. Akeshians in general, he reflected, seemed to live more orderly lives, but something in him missed the hustle and bustle of his home.

  Once they were inside Thuum, Horace’s plans hit a roadblock. He had no idea how to find Alyra among the thousands of people. He didn’t even know the basics of her mission. Was she living in the royal palace as a slave again? He couldn’t see her going back to that existence, but then again she was the most driven person he had ever met. It made sense to start there, in any case. He just hoped she knew how to find the rebels. The feeling of doom hanging over his friends had only grown stronger over the past several days, leaving his stomach tied in knots.

  With Mezim in tow, Horace entered the city proper. The buildings grew taller the farther inland they went. Humble homes and riverside storehouses gave way to towers and temples. Most of the grander buildings were made of pink marble, a detail that lent the city’s interior a welcoming atmosphere. The distinctive stone was also used in the many statues and sculptures that lined the streets. Flowering vines hung from the rooftops and scaled tower walls. Every element of the architecture was ornate, from the hand-carved pillars to the scrollwork trim around the windows and doors. He’d never seen such a civic dedication to aesthetics.

  When he commented to Mezim about it, the man replied, “Thuum is called the ‘Rose of Akeshia.’ The pink stone comes from a nearby quarry. It is highly prized, but they rarely export it.”

  A tree-covered ridge ran along the northern edge of the city. Its upper slopes were enclosed behind a long wall that looked more decorative than military. “What’s up there?”

  “I believe those are the famous Stone Gardens of Thuum. Some sort of veneration of their death cult, from what I recall.”

  “Death cult?”

  “Aye. These Thuumians are in love with death. At least that’s what is said. They even keep their dead with them inside the walls.”

  They turned onto a major artery that passed through the middle of the city. To the east, the wide road led to a series of rising pink tiers, capped with jagged battlements and fluted minarets. Uneasiness stirred in his stomach. Was this the wisest course? He felt as if he were walking into a lion’s den. His qa quivered as if reminding him of the power waiting behind it.

  Stopping in the middle of the street earned him some strange looks. Horace reached under his belt and palmed the wooden sea turtle. He thought of Alyra as he cast out his senses to find her trail. After a couple of minutes, he gave up. There was a general indication she was here in the city, but he couldn’t discern any more than that. Stay calm and think. What would Alyra do?

  “How do we find where the lower castes live?”

  Mezim looked back the way they had come. “Many would dwell by the river. But there will be enclaves where the servants and lesser craftsmen gather.”

  “Let’s find one of those. Someplace near the palaces but out of the way.”

  Mezim led Horace down several side streets. Away from the main avenue, the buildings were smaller and less decorated.

  Horace spotted what appeared to be an inn house on the corner next to a lofty five-story building. “That one should work.”

  “Master, may I ask how you intend to find Mistress Alyra? Your explanation lacked certain details.”

  “I’m working on it. Do you have any money?”

  Mezim unslung his shoulder bag and started rooting through it. “Some. But may I ask another question?”

  Horace tried not to sigh but failed. “Of course.”

  “What if she doesn’t know where to find the others?”

  “I’m working on that, too.”

  The inn was a small affair run by an old woman wearing a long brown shawl around her shoulders over layers of clothing. Just looking at her made Horace sweat in sympathy. She rented them a room on the top floor. After taking their money, she went back to her perch on a stool by the front door and closed her eyes.

  Horace handed Mezim his satchel. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a rest?”

  “What about you, sir? You look exhausted.”

  “I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  Mezim took their bags upstairs, and Horace left the inn. Back in the street, he considered his options. His entire scheme rested on the idea that Alyra would base her mission out of a home or apartment, probably in a poorer neighborhood. For one, she hadn’t taken much money with her. Second, she would want to stay out of sight until she made her move, and it was easiest to remain hidden among the multitude. He started walking. He had no clear destination, but it felt better to be doing something.

  On a whim, he turned a corner and found himself on a street lined with weavers. Stacks of baskets, bowls, rugs, and other woven goods crowded each line, leaving only a narrow path for people to walk. Horace picked his way along, enduring several calls for him to stop and inspect the wares. At the end of the avenue, he turned another corner. This lane was lined with drinking houses on one side and a row of homes on the other. A gaggle of half-naked children played in the street, chasing each other.

  Horace chose a tavern at random. He was heading for the door when he spotted a glimpse of golden hair. It flashed among a small crowd of women walking away from him, but then was gone.

  Horace hurried after the blond hair. He reached the women, who were carrying clay jars and baskets of laundry. They fell silent as he passed by, their gazes following him. He stopped at the next intersection and looked around. People walked along in each direction, but none of them were blond, and none were Alyra. He started a few steps down the left-hand street, heading east, when another glimpse of yellow hair made him turn. A young woman in her teen years came out of a potter’s shop. She was obviously Akeshian judging by her copper skin and dark eyes, but she had dyed her hair gold.

  Deflated, Horace slouched against a stone post. The enormity of the task he had set for himself was starting to dawn on him. He could spend weeks, even months, searching for Alyra in a city this size.

  He was heading back to the inn when a squad of soldiers appeared at the end of the street. By their gleaming steel armor and bronze tabards, he knew they weren’t mere militia. Royal troopers. He turned around and froze. Another squad in the same livery was approaching from the opposite end of the street. This squad surrounded a tall man in bright red robes. Horace started to reach for his power but stopped himself. He didn’t know how many zoanii were nearby, but if he used sorcery every one of them would know his precise location. Keep your head and think.

  Pretending that he saw something interesting in a fruit-seller’s stall, Horace ducked under the shabby awning. A middle-aged man with a long, oiled beard stood behind the table. Horace glanced around for an escape, but the street here had no alleys. He was trapped between the two squads. The soldiers advanced purposefully, but they didn’t seem to be searching the crowd too hard.

  Behind the stall was a doorway set in a deep alcove. Horace pulled out one of his few remaining coins and tossed it to the fruit-seller. Then he ducked into the alcove and pressed himself into a corner. He held his breath and waited. Minutes dragged by, until he considered poking his head out to take a peek. Then the fruit-seller greeted someone, and a trooper came into view. The soldier gave the produce a casual glance. Behind him, the two squads met in the middle of the street. The Crimson brother’s gaze swept all around. The scarlet tattoos on his bare scalp glittered in the sunlight like the scales of a serpent.

  Horace squeezed himself tighter into the corner. He was prepared to summon his power at the first sign of trouble. He might be able to take down the Crimson brother and soldiers without too much collateral damage. But then he would have to fetch Mezim a
nd get away as fast as possible.

  Flashes of steel caught his eye as the squads separated, each going their own way. The fruit-seller tried one last time to interest the soldiers with his wares before they moved on. The Crimson brother was the last to leave, still looking around as if searching for something. Or someone. After a score of rapid heartbeats, he moved on as well.

  Horace released the breath that had been pent up in his lungs. This was going to be even more difficult than he had anticipated. He wished he had brought a cloak with a hood. Sure. That wouldn’t be suspicious at all in this heat.

  After a couple of minutes, the fruit-seller beckoned to him. “It is safe now, stranger.”

  Horace peeked out from the alcove. The soldiers were disappearing into the crowds far down the street in either direction. He eased out of his hiding spot. “Thank you.”

  Horace reached for another coin, but the fruit-seller held up a hand. “No need.” He tossed Horace a lime. “Eat. You look unhealthy.”

  Horace caught the fruit, and then he slipped down the street. He took a roundabout route back to the inn, feeling paranoid about being followed. Once he got back inside its shaded confines, with the old woman snoring by the door, he just wanted to bury himself in a bed and stay there. His nerves were wound so tightly he almost blasted a hole in the wall when the innkeeper awoke with a start. He nodded to her and hurried up the narrow stairs.

  When he got to the room, Mezim was asleep in a nest of blankets on the floor. Horace kicked off his shoes and lay down on the only bed, feeling slightly guilty. He made up for it by placing the lime beside Mezim’s pillow. But he couldn’t sleep. His thoughts jumped around, refusing to leave him in peace. So he stared at the ceiling watching the beams of sunlight crawl across the walls, and wondering where Alyra was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Last Day was one of Thuum’s most affluent gaming houses in the city’s upper west side. Once a stately manor house, and then an elite brothel, it had been refurbished as a club for gamblers with deep purses. Horace looked around the main room from his seat at the bar, nursing his horribly overpriced glass of imported wine. Mezim sat beside him, both of them wearing new clothes that had cost them nearly every bit of silver they had, all in an effort to blend in with the highest tiers of Akeshian society. Instead, they both received their share of stares from the clientele.

  Mezim could not stop fidgeting in his blue silk jacket, pulling at the collar or brushing barely perceptible specks of dust from his sleeves. He sipped from his glass sparingly as if it held holy ambrosia and managed to look guilty at every moment.

  For Horace, it was clearly his appearance that drew the most attention. With his foreign features, he was unmistakable no matter what garb he wore. The looks he received came in two varieties—the curious and the overtly hostile. He did his best to ignore both as he continued to scan the crowd. On the theory that Alyra would be attempting to infiltrate Thuum’s upper crust, he and Mezim had begun a systematic search of the most exclusive public venues. A very costly search. They had sold everything of value they owned, including Mulcibar’s amulet, which pained Horace the most. But he didn’t think twice about it. He had the overwhelming impression that time was running out, that something dire was about to happen. So he dragged Mezim from gaming house to whorehouse to wine bar throughout the city’s finer neighborhoods.

  He and Mezim spoke little during their expedition, instead listening hard to the conversations around them, hoping to pick up some mention of a western woman seen circulating among the nobility. So far without any luck. What they did hear was a lot about the troubles in the empire’s western reaches. Every tongue wagged with rumors about the Dark King and the recent murder of a high-ranking court official here in Thuum. Supposedly, they were tied together. And now people were saying that Epur had fallen as well. These ill tidings rang throughout every high hall in the city, shading every conversation with hushed tones of fear. Everyone wondered if Thuum would be next and what that would mean. Horace knew well enough. It meant the tide of war and ruin would spread farther. More people were going to suffer.

  “Can I freshen up those glasses, gentlemen?” the bartender asked. He was a smart-dressed young man whose face seemed frozen in a perpetual smile.

  Horace waved him off, and Mezim put a hand over the rim of his glass. They needed to retain their senses. And we can’t afford it anyway. How many more taverns can we visit before we run out of money? Two? Three?

  Early this morning he had woken from the now-familiar dream of the world being swallowed by a rising sea of black waters. He had seen Alyra plunge into those waters, swept away like a piece of flotsam in a riptide, and he hadn’t been able to get the image out of his mind. It goaded him to search harder. Now it was past midnight and they were no closer to finding her than when they had arrived in this city. It was enough to make him want to seize his power and start knocking down buildings until he found her.

  “Sir, perhaps we should be leaving.”

  Mezim nudged Horace’s arm and glanced toward the front door. Half a dozen royal militia officers had just entered. Their weapons were still scabbarded, but it looked as if they were searching for someone.

  “Yep,” Horace replied under his breath. “That’s our cue to leave.”

  As the officers headed toward the bar, Horace and Mezim avoided them by weaving through a group of noisy gaming tables where gamblers threw dice and flipped over cards. Horace exhaled with a loud sigh once they had slipped out the door.

  The balmy night air carried scents of smoke and flowers. The Stone Gardens were only a couple of blocks away. Horace was tempted to take a quiet stroll alone through those shaded bowers. He needed to clear his head. But he couldn’t let go of his personal quest.

  “Come on. Let’s hit one more on the way back.” Waving for Mezim to follow, Horace headed toward the next public house.

  Mezim plodded beside him, looking as if he could fall asleep at any moment. Horace skipped past the next two taverns and a smoking den. Finding Alyra was going to be almost impossible, but what if he drew her to him? He was thinking of ways to get her attention without calling the authorities down on his head when he felt the itch between his shoulders. He looked back, but the street was mostly empty behind them. A handful of revelers stood outside the last wine shop they’d passed, laughing and singing. Tugging on Mezim’s sleeve, Horace turned right at the next intersection and increased his pace, but the feeling they were being watched kept after him.

  The spying could be magical. If that was the case, then running wouldn’t do any good. Horace had learned techniques to keep hostile sorcerers from penetrating his mind but didn’t know if they would work against scrying. Opening his qa just a tiny bit, Horace wove a defensive shield around his thoughts. The itch remained, but maybe that was his imagination.

  Frustrated, Horace steered them back toward their lodgings. The night had borne no fruit, but they could start fresh in the morning. It took them several more blocks to leave the upper-class neighborhoods and return to their impoverished hideout.

  They were turning the last corner onto the street where they were staying when torchlight brought both men to a halt. A crowd of soldiers filled the street halfway down the block, surrounding their inn. Cursing under his breath, Horace pulled Mezim back behind the corner. Careful to stay out of sight, he peeked around the edge.

  “We should leave,” Mezim whispered. “Find another place to stay and never return here.”

  Horace held up a hand for quiet. He wanted to see precisely what these soldiers were doing. A pair of guards stood outside the door of the inn, and lights moved inside, presumably more soldiers searching for them. Horace felt the purse on his belt. He had only a few coins left. Wherever they went, it would have to be cheap. Maybe down at the riverside quarter. He was making new plans when he glimpsed a flash of deep red among the soldiers. His blood chilled as a Crimson brother exited the house. They must be tracking me with magic somehow.

 
; “All right,” he whispered to Mezim. “I’ve seen enough. We can—”

  His words were cut off as he was grabbed from behind. As Horace fought to stay on his feet, he was dragged backward and pushed against the wall. He spun around, ready to unleash his power, until he recognized the two men holding them. “Jirom? Emanon? What are you doing here?”

  “This one’s going to be one hell of a hard nut to crack,” Emanon commented.

  Jirom nodded as he studied the massive stone blockhouse. He and Emanon lay prone on the flat roof of a tenement across the street from one of their primary targets. Elsewhere in the city, groups of rebel fighters were casing other locations, scouting for what was going to be—in Jirom’s mind—either the most epic battle in modern history or a swift, brutal massacre. Or both.

  “But it makes sense,” Jirom replied. “This is one of only three arsenals in the city?”

  The target building was situated on the edge of the government quarter, abutting a residential neighborhood. Close enough to the palace to be a problem, but it also had several avenues of escape if things went wrong.

  “Aye,” Emanon replied. “They don’t let the soldiers keep their weapons in the barracks ever since a mutiny about thirty years back. So they keep everything in these big storehouses. If we control them, we control the weapons.”

  Jirom pointed out the few windows in the arsenal, all of them buttoned up tight with iron shutters. “We could pack the place with oil-soaked straw and set it alight. The brick of the building might contain the fire, but that would ensure the Akeshian militia can’t get to their arms.”

  “That’s good. Setting them on fire would require less manpower. But we should leave one armory intact. We’ll need weapons to arm the slaves.”

  Jirom backed away from the edge of the roof and turned over on his back, thinking through the plan. “That’s a big risk, Em. If we lose control of that armory, the battle’s over. We’re outnumbered more than ten to one as it stands.”