As for the second rumor, Gyre had plowed his cut from the jobs they pulled into a network of eyes and ears, keeping track of scavenger gossip and notable comings and goings. In three years, it had brought him plenty of wild speculation, but never anything solid. There were ghoul arcana out there, and Chosen weapons, lying broken and forgotten in the dark—enough to make a few scavengers rich, but nothing that could accomplish what Gyre wanted. Nothing that could challenge the Order.

So he scouted targets for Yora, stole Raskos’ ill-gotten gains, and waited.

With a sigh, he set the pages aside and picked up the second envelope, breaking another thin wax seal. The paper was considerably better quality, and it was written in a clean, educated hand. There were only a few lines.

Halfmask, it began. That made Gyre take a bit more notice. His agents didn’t know his real identity, of course, but most of them didn’t even know they were working for the mysterious rebel. That someone else had figured it out was worrisome. His brow creased as he read on.

I have been following your activity with interest, and I think we can help each other. I’d like to meet, if you have no objection. Come to the Smoking Wreckage tomorrow night and order the Katre ’49. I’ll find you.

That was curious enough that it took him a few moments longer to notice the signature. When he read it, Gyre went very still.

Doomseeker.

Chapter 3

Another problem with a city built inside an indestructible wall, Maya thought. Traffic jams.

At Bastion’s main gate, four streets merged into one messy thoroughfare, each contributing its load of vehicles and anxious, unhappy animals to the congestion. Whenever the line moved and a space opened up, drivers and teams jostled for position, trading insults and a variety of grunts and squawks. Loadbirds glared at one another and puffed out their feathers, thickheads exchanged clicks and hisses, and a pair of long-horned woodbreakers had to be kept from taking big bites out of the next cart in line. Pedestrians filtered through the mix, and enterprising locals sold food and water from trays.

“I thought,” Marn said from his position in the back of the cart, “we were staying another week. You said we could look for those dumplings I like.”

“Would you shut up about the dumplings?” Maya hissed.

“Plans change,” Jaedia said, with a serenity Maya could only aspire to.

“But why?” Marn said, secure in the knowledge that Maya was not allowed to actually set him on fire.

“There’ll be dumplings at the Forge,” Maya said.

“Not the same kind. At the Forge they make everything with lake shrimp. It’s gross.” He shifted in the back of the wagon, trying to find a comfortable position on the pile of blankets and rolled-up tents. “If you killed Hollis, why are we in such a hurry?”