“I think so.” Beq raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a little singed.”

“I’ll say,” Sarah said. “That was a plaguing impressive alchemical. I don’t suppose you want to tell me where you got it?”

“Honestly, I’m not feeling generous right now,” Maya said. She looked down at Sarah, who raised her hands apologetically.

“I said I was sorry! When they told me someone was asking questions, I figured bringing a couple of sell-swords along was the smart move.” She sighed. “More fool me.”

There was an awkward silence.

“So now what?” Beq said.

“I think we ask some questions,” Maya said. “Starting with this one. You’re one of these rebels, aren’t you?”

It was a shot in the dark, but an educated one. With a whole market full of people selling dhak, who else would rate the attention of a full squad of Auxiliaries down here?

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was,” Sarah said with a slight smile. “But I’m starting to think we might share a mutual interest.”

“What exactly would that be?” Maya said.

“Dux Raskos Rottentooth,” Sarah said. “Specifically, seeing him get what’s coming to him.”

“That’s … not impossible,” Maya said. “So what if we do?”

“If there were agents of the Order in the area,” Sarah said, “and they weren’t bought and paid for by the dux, I might advise them to check out the warehouse at the corner of Third Street and Broad Way, on the edge of the manufactory district. I think there’s quite a lot there that they might find … interesting.”

Chapter 12

Yevri’s Café had been a fixture of the West Central district for many years. It had been built in a prime spot, a prudent distance from the edge of the Pit but still close enough to bask in the warm, sulfurous air that rose continuously from the depths. But the Pit was always expanding, stone gradually crumbling under its acidic breath, and yesterday’s prudent distance was today’s teetering on the brink.

More than teetering, actually. At least half of Yevri’s building now projected over the edge, cantilevered out on a complex set of struts that had been built up, bit by bit, as the underlying rock fell away. Old Yevri and his sons insisted it was still safe, and most days someone was out there hanging from a rope harness, adding yet more beams and props. There was a morbid betting pool on whether the old man would live long enough to see his beloved café finally topple into the abyss.

In the meantime, the place was pleasantly warm, the food was reasonably priced, and no one looked too closely at suspicious characters. Gyre hadn’t had time to apply a fake scar, so he’d resorted to a scarf and a hood, making it obvious he didn’t want to be recognized. Yora, when she arrived, had her golden hair gathered in a tight bun under a shapeless hat.