Phaut and I sprint back into the streets to make our own escape. We lead the guards through twisting alleys and stacks of crates; over bridges that rattle beneath our boots, a board coming loose and splashing into the river below; past merchants thrusting their wares at passersby and chickens pecking for bugs. The chickens squawk and startle, flapping madly and spitting feathers into the guards’ faces as their owners shout in protest.

I don’t chance more than a quick glance over my shoulder. There are too many guards. We won’t be able to lose them long enough to reach our drakes, not without heading onto the roofs, and I don’t know how well Phaut can climb.

We head east, skirting the southern edge of the night market, where the strains of a reed pipe haunt the dirt-packed paths despite the night’s activity. Seconds later, we hit a wall of bodies—spectators who’ve crammed into the streets to watch the blaze of the Queen’s Wharf. The fire rages on, setting the night sky aflame. We elbow our way through the crowd, earning a few curses.

“Make way!” the guards shout from behind us. Their command is drowned out by the commotion.

A manic laugh escapes me when I see that Phaut had set fire to all four of the queen’s ships. Efforts to put them out have subsided. Instead, the fire crew watches along with everyone else as the ships burn, collapsing into the sea.

Within moments, we break free of the crush and dive back into the shadows of an alley. An arrow strikes the wall beside my head with a loud thwack.

At the next intersection, Phaut veers left in the direction of our drakes, but I clutch her sleeve and drag her with me to the right. We rush past a pile of refuse, and then the cramped towers of buildings abruptly end. We plunge into thigh-high grass. The field ripples under a sharp sea breeze, each blade of grass brushed gold from the glow of fire.

“Hurry,” I shout as Phaut stumbles to a stop.

She drags in two wheezing breaths, then jumps into a run again when an arrow lands near her feet. “Our drakes?”

“We’ll never make it!”

We cut a line straight through the field, heading directly for the twisted black shape of the Dead Wood.

“Are you sure about this?” she shouts. Another arrow sings through the air.

“No other choice!”

Taking the rowboat we’d stolen would be too slow, the canals too congested for swift movement. Even were that an option, the waters between Kazahyn and Evewyn are closely patrolled. If all shadowblessed have eyesight as sharp as Theyen’s, our boat would be easily spotted. We can’t risk returning to our drakes and being chased north, either. We might lead them straight to Sab Hlee.