Outside, Amtullah was a city on the brink of change. Whether that was civil war or not, he wasn’t certain. There were large protests in the main square, and the night before, no one had obeyed the curfew. The word at the taverns he stopped in was that Hamza Habib had finally communicated with his people, and negotiations with the new government would continue in his name by a man he had designated.

“God the compassionate, the merciful, has willed that another be my voice in the movement during these months of my exile,” his recorded voice said over the radio—Ahmed was shocked the government channels were covering it—“and until my return to Nasheen I designate Dawud al Bassem as leader of the men’s initiative to restore Nasheen to its former bounty, God willing.”

Ahmed had never heard of Dawud al Bassem, but he expected he would be hearing a good deal more of him in the future.

He went back into the gear room and set out what he had left. Two pistols. One that seemed to be forever clogged with sand. A broken knife. He had kept it for the metal. It might be worth selling. He had no plan, no purpose. He half hoped Nyx would keep him as a part of her new team. Would she open up the storefront and take up bounties again? It wasn’t great work, but it was work, and the only sort he seemed to be good at.

As he cleaned his weapons, he became aware of a faint sound in the outer room. He paused to listen. Nothing. There was a good deal of noise on the street, and it was bleeding into the storefront.

He turned.

A woman stood three paces from him, a long dagger drawn. She was young, perhaps twenty, and she wore loose crimson trousers and a dark burnous.

Ahmed had already emptied his weapons to clean them. The dagger was broken. He could wield it if he must, but not well. He had never been good with knives. He preferred words. And looks.

They regarded one another for a long moment. He pressed his hands to the table.

“There’s no life for a man in Nasheen, is there?” he said.

“Plenty of room for men,” she said. “Just not criminals.”

“And we’re all criminals to you, aren’t we?”

She stepped forward.

Bel dames never gave up, no matter how far you ran or how many politicians you saved.

“Make it quick,” he said.

“Let’s not make it at all,” Nyx said. She entered from the back door. Her face was haggard. She watched the little bel dame.

“How long have you had the note?” Nyx asked.

“A month. Another sister passed it to me.”