The midnight chime of the guildhall bell swept across the tangled dockside slums. An hour of ravens and spirits, of housebreakers and silent blades. No hour at all for the virtuous to be abroad, nor for the wealthy to take chances in Dregmeet’s shadows. But it had been a quiet night, and Apara welcomed the click of the latch and the creak of hinges. She set aside her stiletto and whetstone and waited to see what the Ash Wind had blown in from the south.

The supplicant picked her way through ruined pews. The shrine had no lantern, but shafts of silvered moonlight shining through the gaping roof left little to the imagination. Privacy was important to those who sought favours of the Crowmarket. It was certainly treasured by this woman, who held her grey hood gathered at the throat. Still, Apara had recognised her from the first. Her kind didn’t come to the sunken seaward streets – not willingly. No constabulary patrols in Dregmeet. No bright lights and glittering swords to protect the wealthy. Just hunger in the shadows, and favours both begged and borrowed.

The supplicant knelt before the altar. The scuffed and graffitied stone was older than the Republic. Older than the city that had grown up around it. Older than hidden Coventaj, the Vaults and the ruins of Strazyn Abbey. Older even than the Age of Kings, or so it was said. Apara didn’t know for certain, for tales changed in the telling. That was what gave them power.

“A late hour to be abroad, lady,” Apara whispered.

“I couldn’t sleep,” the woman answered softly. “I . . . I worry about my son.”

“As a mother should.”

“I had a dream, you see. A vivid dream.”

“Sometimes a dream is just a dream, lady.”

Hesitation. Second thoughts? Many had them. “He has fallen into bad company.”

“And you fear he will come to harm?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Apara nodded. “And your son? He is in Tressia?”

“On the road. Riding for Eskavord.”

“Then you are right to worry. The roads are dangerous. Does he have no one to watch out for him?”

“One companion. A friend. She’ll protect him with her life.”

“But you look to the Crowmarket for certainty?”

“Yes.”

Apara considered. It was an unusual request. Not in the broad scheme, but the detail . . . the detail was most unusual. Eskavord lay many leagues to the south, and it would require a rare talent to cover the distance in time. And rare was expensive. “It will cost.”

Gold coins spilled across the altar. “For my son, I will pay any price.”

Apara bit back the urge to ask for more. The supplicant could surely afford it. “Your petition is accepted. Your son will be taken care of.”

“One last favour. My son carries a ring. Its sapphires bound my mother to my father. I do not wish to lose it.”

“I’m certain you shall not.”