Farther along the balcony, the stairwell suddenly filled up with people. Turning, I caught a glimpse of Spunk being carried up the next flight. On his way to the medics, by the broken and bloodied look of him. He couldn’t walk without support and his left arm hung limp and twisted. But he was alive and already making a joke of it. The crowd trailed behind, offering help and encouragement. Jake and Rousseau watched up after him from the landing, then came down the hall toward the office.

For a guy claiming not to be a fighter, Jake looked to have put up a damn good one. He had a rag pressed to his head, still soaking up blood. The stocky woman beside him was mostly bruised and scraped. She and her clothing hadn’t seen a shower in a while.

“Give me the quick version,” said Rousseau.

Jenn and I leaned against the balcony rail, listening in.

“We got to the Souk,” Jake began dutifully. “We surveyed the remains, seeing who was still in business, what was still for sale. Answer is, not much. Selling to the dens is now prohibited, but a few of my old vendors were willing to share news. The families that control the Merchants’ Association are at each other tooth and nail in the boardroom, but the richest are building their security forces into standing armies.” He regarded his bloodied rag with concern. “Got me worse than I thought.”

“Head wounds bleed,” the woman murmured. “Not as bad as it looks.”

“Relieved to hear it.”

“The quick version,” Rousseau reminded.

“Right.” Jake turned the rag inside out and kept blotting. “Like Dan Nathan said, anyone who relied on the Souk is looking elsewhere for food. So Spunk and I were in the tent burbs, checking who had any livestock left. There’s a dust-up down the way, and we go to see. A couple of Stormies are trying to drag a live cat out of this kid’s arms. He’s maybe eight or nine, screaming and hanging on for dear life, and we don’t think this is cool, so we pitch in, and suddenly there are Stormies plunging in from everywhere, and we’re way outnumbered . . .”

“Seven of them, plus me,” the woman put in. “Two scouting parties.”

“Well, it felt like a shitload,” said Jake. “And Spunk was getting the worst of it. Cassie here blew her cover to help get us out of there.”

I studied the woman more closely. She wore a knee-length, loose-fitting tunic. Through layers of oily stains shone the vivid greens and blues favored by the Storm Worshippers.

She offered Rousseau her hand. “Cass Meyer. Empire Security.”

He shook it gratefully. “You’re Will’s undercover with the Stormies?”

“Was. For the last couple months. Scouting the new preacher girl.”

“Wish Will had mentioned it sooner.”

The woman’s shrug was unapologetic. “When you’re embedded, the fewer who know, the safer you are.”