“If this keeps up, we’re going to own Melengar,” Hadrian mentioned.

“What’s this we stuff?” Royce asked. “You’re retired, remember?”

“Oh? So you’ll be leading the Nationalist advance, will you?”

“Sixty-forty?” Royce proposed.

Despite the recent rain, the public stable on Lords Row caught fire just after dark. More than two dozen horses ran through the streets. The city’s inhabitants responded with a bucket brigade. Those unable to find a place in line stood in awe as the vast wooden building burned with flames reaching high into the night’s sky.

With no chance of saving the stable, the town fought to save the butcher’s shop next door. Men climbed on the roof and, braving the rain of sparks, soaked the shake shingles. Bucket after bucket doused the little shop as the butcher’s wife watched from the street, terrified. Her face glowed in the horrific light. The townsfolk, and even some imperial guards, fought the fire for hours, until, at last, deprived of the shop next door, it burned itself out. The stable was gone. All that remained of it was charred and smoking rubble, but the butcher’s shop survived with one blackened wall to mark its brush with disaster. The townsfolk, covered in soot and ash, congratulated themselves on a job well done. The Gnome filled with patrons toasting their success. They clapped their neighbors on the back and told jokes and stories of near death.

No one noticed Emery Dorn was missing.

The next morning, the city bell rang with the news. A stuffed dummy hung in his place. Guards swore they had not left their stations, but had no explanation. Sheriff Vigan, the judge, and various other city officials were furious. They stood in Central Square, shouting and pointing fingers at the guards, then at each other. Even Viceroy Androus interrupted his busy schedule to emerge from City Hall and personally witness the scene.

By midmorning, the Gnome filled with gossipers and happy customers, as if the town had declared a holiday, and Ayers was happily working up a sweat filling drinks.

“He was still breathing at sunset!” the cooper declared.

“He’s definitely alive. Why free him if he was dead?” the grocer put forth.

“Who did it?”

“What makes you think anyone did it? That boy likely got away himself. Emery is a sly one, he is. We shoulda known the Imps couldn’t kill the likes of him.”

“He’s likely down in the sewers.”

“Naw, he’s left the city. Nothing for him here now.”

“Knowing Emery, he’s in the viceroy’s house right now, drinking the old man’s brandy!”

This brought laughter to go with the round of ales Ayers dispensed. Ayers had his own thoughts on the matter—he guessed the guards had freed him. Emery was a great talker. Ayers had heard him giving speeches in the Gnome dozens of times, and the lad had always won over the crowd. He could easily imagine the boy talking all night to the men who were charged to watch him and convincing them to let him go. He wanted to mention his idea, but the keg was nearly empty and he was running low on mugs. He did not care much for the Imps personally, but they were great for business.