‘The slumber has been rich of late. Full of potency.’ Thul smiles, his teeth pinked by the wine. ‘It damaged some of my stock. I have replaced them, of course, with better dreamers. Stronger sleepers. I am sure that whatever it is you seek, we can provide it. For a cost, of course.’

I smile back at him. That too is an act.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘What I seek is a stormy sky. A great darkness.’ I take a breath. ‘And an eagle, ablaze.’

Dagra Thul puts his cup of wine down slowly. In that moment, I see his careful composure flicker. His confidence. He looks as old as he must be under all of that rejuve.

He looks afraid.

‘An eagle, ablaze,’ he says. ‘Is that what you said?’

I smile, demure. ‘That’s what I said.’

Thul’s throat works, and he glances down at his choir. ‘That is a particular dream indeed,’ he says. ‘Very particular.’

His mouth becomes a thin line. No more smiling.

‘I fear the cost of such a dream is too great for you, Madame Ravara.’

‘No cost is too great,’ I reply, and it feels like the first truth I have spoken since entering the Reverie. ‘Name your price.’

Thul considers it a moment, his dark eyes flooding with an ugly, obvious greed. For a moment I think he will succumb to it and yield, but he doesn’t.

‘No,’ Thul says, waving his hand at me, dismissively. ‘Some things are beyond simple wealth, even for a man such as myself. Take your companions, and take your leave, Madame Ravara.’

Ordinarily, perhaps I would. I have a myriad contacts, after all. A dozen ways or more to find the eagle, ablaze. But not this time. I made a vow to Sofika Vorros that I would do whatever it takes. That she would survive to see the dream fulfilled.

And I do not break vows.

‘I will not ask again,’ I say, firmer now. ‘Show me the eagle, ablaze.’

‘I have given you my answer,’ Thul replies sourly. ‘So now I am afraid I must bid you farewell.’

He clicks his fingers, and the veiled guardians on either side of him raise their swords and move, swift and silent. I don’t move. I just sigh.

‘Yumia,’ I say.

My bladeward darts past me, shrugging the ropes from around her wrists with deft movements of her arms. Each rope is three times as long as Yumia is tall, and made of strong, flexible Illithian killcord tipped with a pointed blade smaller than the flat of my hand. Yumia leaps, the twin ropes cutting the air around her as she spins and loops them with nothing but her own bodyweight. Yumia slits the throat of one of Thul’s guardians in the same moment that she plants her second dart in another’s chest. Neat little clouds of blood huff into the air, scattering over Thul.

Yumia lands on the deck, silent as a mountain-cat. The third guardian lunges for her, swinging and missing as Yumia ducks under the sword blade by arching her body backwards. Too close for the full length of the rope, she uses her dart like a dagger, punching it up under the guardian’s silk veil and into his lower jaw. The guardian goes over with Yumia on top of him.