‘I can sail,’ the wiry man said, looking up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘What’s the job, beautiful?’

Chloe immediately knew that she didn’t want to travel alone with him. He was thin and balding, with a grimy tunic and several days’ stubble on his chin. And he was leering at her, eyes traveling slowly down her body.

‘No matter,’ she said, looking to the next table.

‘Hey!’ The brawny man scowled. ‘You said you had a job for my friend. Let’s hear it, woman.’

He was twice her size, with muscled arms and a red face. His necklace was made of iron links, the medallion bearing the impression of a blacksmith’s anvil. He glared at her from under a patched felt cap.

She pretended not to hear him, taking her staff and moving away.

But then the blacksmith grabbed hold of her arm, gripping tightly. ‘You deaf or something? I’m talking to you, girl.’

Chloe whirled to face him. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d cleared her mind. Her hand went to the top of her staff and a wind blew through the room, a gust strong enough to tear the cap from his head. The silver twist crowning the staff flared with white light and then subsided.

The entire tavern fell silent. Voices stilled and the music faltered. All eyes were suddenly on her.

‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘Now.’

But the blacksmith was undeterred and maintained his hold. ‘What are you?’ He glanced at her staff. ‘Some kind of witch?’

Chloe’s heart skipped a beat when a man from the next table slowly stood up. But rather than face her, he turned to the brawny blacksmith, and she realized when she saw the thick black beard that he was the drunk from the docks.

‘The lady told you to let her go. I suggest you do as she says.’ He spoke in a low, ominous voice. It was somehow familiar, but his speech was slightly slurred, blurring the words together.

‘Who are you, then? And what’s it to you?’

The blacksmith shoved Chloe so hard that she stumbled back against another table. He began to stand.

The bearded man moved into action.

He calmly reached out to take the blacksmith by the back of the head and slammed him forward so that his face smashed against the table. The smith’s wiry companion shot to his feet, but then he stepped back, eyes wide, when the bearded man drew his sword. Chloe stared at it. The workmanship was as fine as anything she’d seen. On the wide blade, near the hilt, was an embossed emblem: the eagle of Phalesia.

‘Here now, we don’t want any trouble.’ The wiry sailor spoke with a trembling voice, arms spread.

‘Good.’ The bearded man turned to scan the room, and then murmured for Chloe’s ears. ‘I suggest we leave.’