Phaut and I adjust our plain wool cloaks as we climb from our stolen boat and anchor it to one of the many lantern posts lining the waterfront. The head of this particular post is in the shape of a phoenix, its flaming tail and magnificent wings raised high. The lantern hangs from its curved beak. Oddly enchanted, I push into the busy streets.

The buildings are tall and cramped, homes stacked one on top of another. A haphazard tiered roof caps each level. They look to be held upright only by virtue of the buildings beside them, which are equally off center. Suspension bridges stretch overhead, connecting the higher levels. They swing precariously at every gust off the sea.

The streets are more mud than dirt. My boots make a squelching sound with each step. Despite this and the overcrowding, Vos Gillis is a colorful city.

Paper lanterns hang from nearly every roof and awning. They’re strung from bridges and windows in every shape and color, from cream cylinders capped in green to crimson spheres accented with golden tassels, so that the lines of the city seem drawn in lights. Painted signs hang over the swinging doors of taverns, teahouses, and shops selling trinkets and sweets. Streamers flutter and twine in the air, and beneath the chaotic hum of the crowds is the tinkling of windchimes.

We’ve wandered directly into Vos Gillis’s night market. Perfect. A thriving market means an abundance of purses to pickpocket. Phaut tries to direct me toward a quieter street, but I pull away, plunging into the heart of the Market District.

“Sirscha,” she hisses, tugging at her hood. I wonder if she’s ever been in Evewyn without the protection of Ronin’s name.

“It’s fine.” I skirt around bodies to peer at the market stalls, my fingers deft and silent. I pause to admire one stall that carries bolts of sandsilk, weever lace, and other imported fabrics. The next stall drips with necklaces and charms that flare copper and amber in the firelight.

All I can see of Phaut’s face is her pinched lips. I laugh as I move on to inspect a stack of polished teakettles and dainty hand-painted fans. I scan the crowds, searching as well for any hint of Kendara. A couple of years ago, Saengo had visited this city with her parents. She hadn’t been allowed to explore the market, but she’d still returned with stories of massive ships as tall as the Temple of the Sisters. We’d promised to travel the country together someday, and I mean to keep that promise.