There are far fewer guards watching the waterways. We steer our boat toward a narrow canal that passes under a wooden bridge. The bridge is dimly lit by a single lantern suspended on a hooked post. Two sentinels stand watch, illuminated by the little sphere of yellow light.

I’m about to suggest a distraction when Phaut extends one hand. The metal hook holding the lantern aloft snaps. The light goes out as the lantern tips and lands with a clatter on the bridge.

Swearing, the sentinels scramble to right it as Phaut and I row quietly and quickly into the murk beneath the bridge. We’re gliding into the city’s main waterway by the time the sentinels get the lantern lit again.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

“Simple magic,” Phaut says.

“No, I mean, don’t you need a familiar?”

“I have one. Back in the Empire, away from the Dead Wood. I was there a couple of weeks ago, well before you arrived at Spinner’s End.”

“I didn’t know that.” I tilt my head at her.

“You didn’t ask.”

I’d like to ask now. There’s so much I don’t know about this woman who’s shadowed my steps from the moment I arrived at Spinner’s End—a fact that I no longer resent. However, such questions will have to wait.

“I assume you have a plan,” she says as we cut through the water.

“I do,” I say, but there are far too many variables for my liking. “I’ll need to get a better view of the city.” From the roofs, it’ll be easier to spot the guardhouse and get a lay of the streets in case we need a quick escape. Which I’m sure we will. It might also give me a better idea of where Kendara might be hiding.

She has to be here. In a city teeming with guards, no one else would have her resources to get the shamanborn safely stowed away on ships. Please let her be here.

Despite the late hour, once we enter the city’s market district, Vos Gillis’s waterways are far from quiet. Merchants crowd the canals, ferrying their wares up and down the riverfront. Houses sit on stilts, jutting out over the water like the prows of ships. Sleek little boats shoot past our slower one, the sharp blades of their sails extended like fins.

Bridges arch over our heads, some with railings fashioned into slithering zaj serpents and others with no railing at all. We steer our boat toward a dock and pull up beside an elaborate vessel with a canopy draped in airy silks. A woman’s laugh issues from beneath.