Izza swept off the towel, threw it in his face, and ran into traffic.

A horse neighed and reared beside her; she ducked beneath pawing hooves, and dove through the gap between the party wagon and a golem cart. Cries of “Thief” from behind and “Stop!” mixed with street noise, with the roll of wheel and the jangle of tack and the laughter of the wagon’s drunks. Almost there, almost gone. An alley ahead gaped, a gullet to swallow her to safety.

Then the light struck her.

That was all, only light, no Craft to it, but the light was enough. Red and bright, like a poisoned sun. She knew this light, its color and texture, knew the sharp shadows it cast. She knew better than to look left, toward its source, but did anyway, couldn’t help herself. Ruby eyes shone from the apex of a towering stone statue made in mockery of a man. A massive head swiveled to face her. Rock ground rock. And beneath that gravel-grind, she heard a woman weep.

The Penitent took a step toward Izza. Inside, its prisoner screamed.

Try to help people, and look where it gets you.

No. Don’t accept this. Move, she commanded her legs, her body. Feet, fly. Don’t stand here. Don’t wait for them to come for you with the knives and hot irons. This isn’t fate. There’s no such thing. Go. Now!

Izza fled down the alley, and the Penitent followed her with earthquake strides.

Chapter 11

11

The night wind outside the Rest cooled Kai’s brow and her world stop spinning. Tourists splashed in the ocean under the Penitents’ watchful gaze—tourists, or else pilgrims enjoying a night off. Islanders knew better than to swim this late. The sun watched the sea by day, but after dark monsters emerged. Mainlanders ignored local superstition and riptide warnings both to swim naked in the surf, and acted surprised when a gallowglass dragged one off to eat. Kept lifeguards in business, Kai supposed. Not to mention the men the Watch hired to dredge the harbor.

She hadn’t been thrown out of the Rest, she told herself. Not quite.

It made a difference.

She knew what she had heard in the pool, in the idol’s cry, in the poem. She thought she knew. Maybe the words had not come from the idol, but from her—heard in passing and projected into the idol’s mouth. How much did a person read in a day and ignore? Newspaper headlines and magazine quips and menu items and shop signs and graffiti and manuals and comic books and gossip columns and upbeat slogans sponge-printed on cafe walls, not to mention conversation overheard and misheard: small talk, street corner buskers’ music, and the small talk of cashiers.

Gods, but she was drunk.