Jars as tall as my thigh are lined up along the floor. I break the seal off one and the sweet smell of lamp oil floats up to my nostrils. I take two of them, one in each hand, and stagger under their weight. Scars, these are heavy—those slave girls are stronger than they look.

Slicewing hovers around me as I stumble out the door, as if she’s wondering why it’s taking me so long. I shoot her a dirty look—I’d like to see her carry one of these—then stash one of the jars behind a bush. That one, I’ll use to burn the food stores, but first I’ll deal with the supply wagons and chariots.

The better vehicles are stored in a giant warehouse past the training fields. I carry the remaining jar until I’m almost in view of the building. Carefully, I peer around the corner. There are two soldiers standing guard by the door—I recognize them from my time in the third battalion. They shouldn’t be much trouble, though it’d be better if I can get them one at a time.

Very carefully, I put down the jar and tie a scarf over my face. I have two other scarves, which I give to each of the crows. Then I remove the jar’s lid and dash it against the ground. It breaks into three pieces.

Voices drift around the corner. “What was that?”

As footsteps come my way, I shrink into the shadow of a doorframe. One guard steps around the corner and accidentally kicks one of the broken pottery shards. He watches it skid across the ground, puzzled, then scans the ground for more.

The soldier doesn’t see me until I’m on him. His mouth drops open. A punch in the ribs doubles him over before he can talk, and then I follow up with a knife hilt to the base of his skull. As he sinks to the ground, I scratch him with the blade so he gets a dose of Zivah’s sleep potion. Never hurts to be careful.

“Baran?” a new voice calls, and more footsteps head toward me. The steps are measured, more cautious this time. I retreat back into the doorframe.

There’s the slink of a sword being drawn as he nears. This guard won’t be as easy to surprise. I whistle low under my breath.

The soldier steps around the corner. He sees his comrade on the ground, then looks up and sees me. His eyes widen.

“Attack,” I hiss.

A flutter of wings, then Slicewing drops a scarf onto the soldier’s head. He grabs at it, and I close the distance. My sword opens a shallow scratch across his chest. He swears and clutches at the wound as Preener drops his scarf. As the soldier bats at the second cloth, he sinks to his knees, then falls to the ground unconscious.