The city of Taralius loomed in the distance, like the spectre of a mountain. Nestled on the shore of its lonely island, it haunted Shade from across the rushing blue waters of the Kharnine—and across the currents of her own turbulent memory.

It was a city in four parts.

The Stilt District stretched like a rickety wooden fan around the banks of the mighty river, not quite connecting with the ramshackle tenements of the Birches that were piled high against the eastern wall. Beyond the four gates was the Lower City, full of all the familiar neighbourhoods she’d haunted in her youth—the Grand Bazaar, Spicers Round, Hammerfall and Glendon Row. They were all hidden away behind the city’s tall, white walls. Only the bronze domes of the Halo’s nine cathedrals could be seen peeking over the battlements. The Upper City rose above the Lower—home to the Queenshold and the Ember Throne. Even from a distance, Shade could make out the specks that were the sprawling villas of the hierocracy.

Above it all—over the grime of the Birches and the opulence and decadence of the Upper City—rose the many-spired buildings of the Sanctum. Its great steeple stretched like a spear toward the sky. But even it was dwarfed in the shadow of Mischa’s Pillar. The towering stone column was crowned with the eternal light of the Everburning, blazing like an undying star.

Welcome home, the city seemed to call to her. We always knew you’d be back. If she could have managed it, Shade would have stabbed all of Taralius in the heart. City of the bloody Flame. Piss on that.

Seated on her horse, Shade took it all in with little more than a resigned sigh.

“Miss it?”

She turned to find Laird watching her from atop his own black stallion. His hands were crossed over the pommel of his saddle, and his lips were curled in the faintest hint of a smile.

Shade snorted. “Not a bit.”

“You’ve got to admit, it is quite the sight.” They were riding along a small road, leading north and west towards the Queensway in northern Avorny. So far as Shade could tell, they were entirely alone. “How long’d it take them to build all that, I wonder?”

“Not as long as you’d think. The oldest parts were all completed by the end of Elhorn Terramore’s reign,” Shade explained, with a smile that was not at all reflected in her quiet tone. “They say it hasn’t changed all that much in the centuries since. The Stilt District and the Birches, they’re newer—at least these versions. They’ve burned down a few times. The last big fire was about thirty years ago.”

Laird’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Thirty, you say? That would mean—”

“Mean what?” Shade snapped.

“Well, given your age—“

“I must’ve lived through it? Keen observation. I was young, I don’t remember much.” Except for the sound of my mother’s voice screaming at me to run. It was the only memory Shade had of her parents, burned into her memory by those long-extinguished flames. She shrugged the thought away, striving to appear as calm and collected as she wished she felt. “I survived. Eventually, I got away. I’d always hoped I’d never find my way back.”

Not since it all fell apart, anyhow. Has it really been four years?

Laird flashed his perfect, white teeth. How does a thug like him get blessed with a smile like that? Even when she’d first found him in the back of a tavern two years earlier—drunk out of his mind and covered in his own vomit—he’d somehow manage to strike that disarming smile that made so many women go weak in the knees. Shade had refused to be moved by it, but she’d seen the potential in that smile and been quick to capitalize.

They’d been working together ever since.

“But five hundred gold falcons is enough to draw you back?” the swordsman quipped.

“Obviously.” It still seemed a ludicrous sum for the retrieval of some glass bauble, but it was what Orlan Vander had offered. All she had to do was survive a return to the city that had nearly killed her twice. “Now, before we get too close, let’s rehearse. What’s your name?”

Laird groaned. “Again?”

“This isn’t a flaming game of Five Kings! We’ve pulled off some tough games in the past couple of years, but this time the stakes are higher. Much higher. The last time I was in Taralius, I found myself running from some very dangerous people. If they find out I’m here, it could well be the noose or the knife for me—and you too. Now, what’s your name?”

“Balen Kinn. I’m a loyal retainer sent to protect you on your first journey to the capital.”

“And who am I?”

“Serena Whitehawk. The daughter of a wealthy merchant named Everston Whitehawk.”

“Where are we from?”

“Tolis.”

“What does my father deal in?”

“Spices, silks and other textiles from Mesinia. Business keeps him away most of the time, but this year he’s decided to send his only child to Taralius to attempt to negotiate contracts with a number of minor heirocrats.”

“How old am I?”

“Twenty-three. Almost married once, but the suitor died at sea.”

“What’s my favourite colour?”

“Lavender.”

“Flower?”

“The same.”

Shade nodded. “Good. And when people approach you looking to buy information?”

“I act offended.”

“But…”

“Eventually, I’ll cave.”

“For what price?”

“Nine gold falcons or a hundred silver herons. I’ll tell them that you’re looking to play the various merchant families against each other, all with the intention of securing favour for your father.”

“Good. Very good.”

“Do you actually plan on talking to any of them?”

“Only if I need to,” Shade admitted. “The plan is to get in, find what we’re looking for, and get out. The moment we have our hands on this Phial, Serena Whitehawk vanishes. All evidence points toward murder, and Balen Kinn’s disappearance marks him as the prime suspect. Nothing ever comes of it. By the time it’s all but forgotten, you and I are somewhere in Weylar or Arenoth, with our purses significantly heavier.”

“I do like the weight of a heavy purse,” Laird said.

“Don’t we all? Now shut up and try to look dangerous.”

“I am dangerous,” the swordsman growled, running his fingers along the hilt of his weapon.

“Remember the Seventh Rung?”

“That was a mistake. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Didn’t happen to me.”

Laird scowled, but reigned in his horse, dropping back to the respectful distance of a protector. Shade stifled a smile, forcing herself to maintain an expression of disinterested boredom. She enjoyed goading him. It kept him on edge—and at a distance. It was important to stay guarded. The last time she’d let someone get too close, it had ended poorly.

Besides, he right. What happened in the Rung really was an accident.

They rode for another hour in relative silence. Shade used the time to slip into character. It was simple enough. She’d used the identity frequently enough that it was as familiar and comfortable as an old boot, broken in at all the right places. Part of her was saddened by Serena’s impending death. The woman was clueless and self-absorbed, but she’d served her well over the years. Shade briefly considered saving parts of the persona, building them into a new identity. She decided against it.

Too dangerous. Bury the brat and move on.

Eventually, they reached South Crossing. It was a walled town—though Shade suspected that the fortifications would be of little use in repelling any serious threat. Once they’d ridden beneath the single portcullis, they were quickly swallowed by a diverse crowd of farmers, traders and travellers from all across the Realm. A smattering of soldiers stood apart in their uniforms of Avornish green and silver. Shade allowed Laird to take the lead, as befit his role as her retainer.

It wasn’t difficult to find their way; they simply followed the crowds. South Crossing had few permanent residents, and all roads led to the docks, where public barges and private ships ferried goods and people across the Kharnine to Taralius. After several minutes, they managed to secure passage on one of the larger barges. Serena put on a show of pouting and imploring Laird to hire a private vessel, but her retainer refused to be moved—just as they’d planned.

Soon, they were on their way.

The barge was flat and ordinary, constructed of wooden planks that stank of pitch and river water, and powered by some hundred or sow rowers sitting below the main deck. A full forty feet in length and twenty feet across, the vessel carried only about half its capacity. There were plenty of passengers, but enough space that most congregated in small groups, chatting idly. Shade positioned herself strategically, so that she could listen to several conversations without appearing to be participating in any of them.

Most of the chatter was inane, sometimes bawdy and filled with laughter or meaningless gossip. Still, by the time the barge had reached the wharves of the Stilt District, Shade had learned three interesting bits of information.

The first was that the Abbot of the Healer had been murdered in the heart of his own Cathedral. The second was that there had been a string of unexplained deaths in the city—Hearthborn turning up dead, seemingly burned out by their own evocations. It was a strange pattern, and it was clear that people were troubled.

“It’s the Sanctum,” one woman insisted. “Mark my words. They’re calling on the Nine to cull out all the infidels who acquiesce to the blasphemies of the Karinth.”

The third thing Shade learned was that the Queen had called the Lords of the Realm to the Assembly. It was said that the Clan Lords of the Karinth territories, the Lord Governor of the Easterly Isles and even the High Priestess of Yvor Shai would be attending. Well, Vander failed to mention that. The Upper City will be crawling with even more heirocrats than usual. Some of the lesser lords would be forced to seek lodging in the Lower City. Shade wondered if their presence would complicate matters, making it more difficult for her and Laird to find suitable accommodations for Serena Whitehawk.

There was no mention of anything connected to the Phial. Hardly a surprise. How often do talismans come up in casual conversation?

When the gangplank was lowered, she was the first to disembark, drawing frowns and scowls from the passengers who’d been waiting ahead of her. She all but flittered down the ramp, finding an ideal spot to wait with bored indifference as Balen coerced both horses back down onto the pier. He helped her mount.

Soon they were riding along the main boardway. It was a wide street that cut through the heart of the Stilt District. As the main throughway, it led directly from the wharves to the River Gate. It was also packed with hundreds of people, all coming and going, or else spilling in and out of the various side streets that meandered through the Stilt District. Most were Relenian, though Shade spotted Karinth and Norads and even a group of Qyar midderites in their grey garments and strange glass jewellery. Taken together, it almost created the impression of a peaceful, unified Realm.

Shade was considering the inherent irony of that illusion when she caught sight of a face in the crowd. It was only the briefest of glances, like the shadow of a cloud passing over the moon, but it was enough to make her rein in her horse so quickly that the man behind her nearly walked face-first into its rump.

“Watch it!” he yelled. “You can’t just stop like that.”

Shade ignored him, peering through the crowd, seeking those distinctive features. A long nose. Thin lips. A chin like a dagger. Dark, angled eyes, brimmed with venom and malice. It was a face she knew all too well, a face like a snake.

She found nothing but a sea of strangers.

Flaming hells. The man behind her was still screaming and shaking one meaty fist. Here I am, making a scene already. Best to play it up. Her eyes fell on a street hawker selling candied fruits along the main throughway. Good enough.

“Do you smell that, Balen?” she cried. She slipped daintily from her horse and threw the reins to her apparent protector. “Candied peaches! Just like the ones Dinah used to make!” Dinah was Serena’s imagined nurse—dead for more than seven years, but fondly remembered. Especially for her candied peaches, it seems. “Oh, I simply must have one. I’ll absolutely perish if I don’t. And father would be most upset at that.”

The last words were part of a secret code, carefully intoned to mean: something’s amiss.

Laird nodded his understanding. “Of course.” He spoke with an air of practiced dignity. He put it on a little thick, but it was reasonable enough to pass for genuine. “May I accompany you?”

“No need, silly. I’m a grown woman.” More code, meaning: keep away and watch your bloody back.

Shade was already moving, weaving through the crowd with seemingly oblivious intent. She garnered some hard glares, but they were exactly the sorts of looks she wanted. Blinded by their own irritation, the people she passed dismissed her as a spoiled brat and failed to catch her eyes darting in every direction, or the way her hand lingered near the edge of her skirts, where she’d concealed her stilettos.

She made her way toward the hawker, noting every face she passed. There were dour faces, smiling faces, and those that were entirely inscrutable. Some were attractive, others homely. Many were marred with scars of some distant battle or unhappy accident. She avoided making eye contact, which would never occur to Serena—these people were too far beneath her. It didn’t prevent her from noting the glares and frowns as she passed, evidence that the guise she wore was suitably offensive.

Yet amid all the faces she passed, there was no sign of those cold, lifeless eyes.

When she reached the vendor, Shade purchased a portion of the candied peaches, carrying them back to where Laird was waiting. She gushed over their flavour. Easy enough. They’re actually quite good, though perhaps a bit sticky.

As Laird helped her mount her horse, she whispered harshly in his ear. “I thought I saw Ghemen the Asp.”

The swordsman gasped, but held his tongue, offering only a small nod of understanding. Shade caught the flash of fear in his eyes.

She couldn’t fault him for it. The Asp was a dangerous man, with a reputation that had spread all throughout the dark and shadowed corners of Relen-Kar. He was cold, calculating and viciously ruthless, a master of poisons and toxins. The last time they’d met, he’d promised to deliver Shade to her own sending—in at least a dozen pieces.

Let the flaming bastard try. He’ll find I’m dangerous too.

“Come along, Balen. What’s the delay?” She asked the question as though she’d already forgotten about the peaches, even as their juices still moistened her lips. “I’m eager to get settled.”

Now there’s a bloody lie.

They passed through the open River Gate and onto the streets of the Lower City, following the Pennant Road as it meandered through the sprawl of buildings. A hundred flags in a hundred colours all flittered in the breeze, each bearing the crest of a different house. Some had dissolved years ago, while others were newly raised; all had left their mark on the Realm in some way.

By the time they reached the curves of the Halo, the sun had already set. Hundreds of lanterns burned around the expansive circle, bathing the cathedrals in a warm glow. The grand and ornate buildings were arranged in a spherical formation so that each great double door faced the massive bronze statue of the rukthar, Mishca. The mythical bird’s jewelled eyes glimmered, even in the dim light of the lanterns. Her beak was pointed toward the sky, as though prepared to ascend to the heavens on her great, feathered wings. Shade paid the statue no mind. Other than having its surface polished and cleaned once a year, it never changed, and meant as much to her as the Sanctum itself—which was to say almost nothing at all.

The only person in the entire Halo that mattered to her was Sister Marva. Shade glanced to the circle’s southernmost curve, toward the Cathedral of the Mother, where Marva lived and served—at least when she wasn’t ministering to the people of the Birches.

Shade determined to visit her soon.

She also noted an increased presence of the Ember Guard throughout the Halo. A quad of sentinels stood guard at the entrance of each cathedral. Their great swords were strapped to their backs, and their faces all bore the same dour expression.

Seems the Abbot’s murder is being taken seriously.

From the Halo, they continued west to a region of the city known as Hemlock Ridge. It was built on a natural rise, and still contained groves that had once been a part of the island’s native forests. The buildings were nearly as grand and opulent as the villas of the Upper City. Most were private residences, but there were a handful of manors that could be rented. By Shade’s careful calculation, they had just enough coin to secure three weeks of lodging in one of the finer residences—assuming the sudden influx of heirocrats hadn’t already reserved them all.

Three weeks to find the Phial.

If I can’t manage it by then, I’m not worth the gold Vander’s paying me.

“We’ll try the manors on the north side,” said Laird, as though he was intimately familiar with the Ridge. He led them down the street Shade had instructed him to follow, stopping at the first manor along the way. He spoke to the caretaker, only to find that the manor had already been rented.

So it went.

It was only on their fifth attempt that they finally found a residence that was not already accounted for. It was a smallish building, set back on a lonely boulevard behind a thick grove of oak trees. With only three small bedrooms and a single parlour that could comfortably seat no more than eight, it was hardly the sort of residence that Serena Whitehawk would ordinarily settle for. She protested loudly, and when those protests failed she turned to pouting. Neither was enough to move her retainer to seek more expansive accommodations.

“Sorry,” muttered Laird once he returned from paying the caretaker and seeing to the stabling of the horses. He fell into one of the parlour’s ornate chairs, reclining casually as he pulled his long hair out of the topknot he’d been wearing all day.

“Don’t be. This turned out better than I could have hoped for.”

“Really? You seemed awfully put out.”

Shade shrugged. “Serena was, but for our purposes, this serves remarkably well. It’s only half of what I was expecting to spend, which leaves us plenty of coin to work with, and the remote location will make it easier for me to sneak away unseen.” She pulled off the blond wig, letting her own short, dark hair fall across her face. “I’m going out,” she said, lifting the small pack that contained another identity.

“Already? We just got here.”

“And the sooner we find the Phial, the sooner we can leave again. Remember the noose, Laird. We don’t want to feel it tighten.”

“Fine. Where are you going?”

“To visit an old friend.”

“What about me?”

“Stay put. Put your hair back up and try to look presentable. If anyone comes by, Serena’s exhausted from the day’s journey and retired to bed early. Understood?”

“Yeah, I got it. Look like a gentleman. Lie through my teeth.”

“Exactly,” she smiled sweetly. “Don’t wait up.”