I parry Prince Meilek’s next attack with one sword and then hurl the other. The move leaves me exposed, but the tip finds its mark, clanging into the guard’s blade. He gasps as the sword flies from his hand. Immediately, Prince Meilek pulls his next strike, which would have sliced open my side. Before I can retaliate, though, he steps in close and slides his blade beneath my chin.

Kudera makes a broad sweeping motion with her arms. The water snaps across the guard’s face. With a grunt, his head lolls, and he crumples to the dirt. She’s breathing hard as she turns, stricken, to me and Prince Meilek.

Silence settles in the alley. Prince Meilek’s sword hand doesn’t waver. His blade is cold against my skin. My mind races for a way to get out of this, but it comes up short. His skill matches mine. I mentally curse. My only option now is to distract him long enough to allow Kudera and the others to make a run for it. They might have a chance of reaching the ship unscathed.

I open my mouth to tell them to run when the sword drops from my neck. I instantly pull away, raising my remaining sword between us.

Prince Meilek’s face is all sharp angles in the shadowy light, his eyes like flint and his mouth an angry slash. He jerks his head toward the mouth of the alley. “Get these shamanborn out of here. That guard won’t be out for long, and there are more coming.”

Warily, my body poised for a trap, I wave at Kudera and the others to hurry ahead. They don’t argue, scurrying quickly toward the next street. As I make to follow, my gaze falls on Nong’s body. I pause. My throat works as I try to swallow the lump that forms there.

“I will have him seen to,” Prince Meilek says.

What does that mean? Will he be given a proper burial? Who will sing his lifestory to the Sisters? Who will walk with his spirit, retracing the path he’d taken in life until he reaches the gates into the spirit realm?

But there’s no time for questions. I pray that the Sisters allow his spirit a place among them even without the funeral rituals. Then, keeping my gaze on Prince Meilek, I retrieve my other sword and dart out of the alley after the others.

We rush past rows of ships to Berth 15, far from the Queen’s Wharf. Phaut’s lean form is pacing on the dock, the anxious set of her shoulders outlined in soft yellow lantern light. When she spots us, she waves and sprints to meet us.

“About time,” she hisses and then draws up short when she sees the shamanborn. “Is this it? Only three?”