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Chapters (61)
  1. Publisher’s Notice
  2. Map of Crache
  3. Dedication
  4. PART ONE THREE SIDES OF A COIN
  5. THE MOURNING AFTER
  6. THE KNIGHT BEFORE
  7. WHERE ONLY STONE STEPS ASCEND
  8. A THOUSAND FACES AND NONE
  9. BLOOD COINS AND BLOOD COIN HUNTERS
  10. FALLING STARS
  11. CITIES BUILT IN BOXES
  12. STEEL FIELDS OF RUST AND ROT
  13. RESOLVE IS THE FORGED BLADE THAT CANNOT BE QUENCHED
  14. THE DEAD WHO REVEL IN LIFE
  15. SHAHEEN
  16. THE FIRST WEAPON WAS A STORY TOLD BY LIARS
  17. HOME STUDIES
  18. REQUITAL IS THE REVENGE OF THE WELL-READ
  19. BURIED ON THE BATTLEFIELD
  20. ON AND OFF
  21. SAVAGERY PAYS A CALL
  22. WHEN GHOSTS SPEAK YOUR REAL NAME
  23. PART TWO UNRAVELING THE EDGES
  24. THE BLACK EAGLE
  25. THE MESSENGER
  26. A PEBBLE IN A MAZE
  27. THIRTY TONGUES AND NOT A WORD SPOKEN
  28. TEARS MADE OF FIRE
  29. LATE-NIGHT CALLERS
  30. THE MATING CALL OF THE CRACHIAN WIND DRAGON
  31. ONLY FIRE AND ICE GROW IN CHARNEL HOUSE GARDENS
  32. SCATTERING THE ASHES
  33. THE JEOPARDY ROOM
  34. HEAVEN’S HOSTESS IS HELL’S HANDMAIDEN
  35. THE BONES OF THE WORLD
  36. THE GOD RUNG
  37. KNIVES SPEAK LOUDEST IN THE DARK
  38. THE INTEREST PAID IN BLOOD
  39. RIDDLES SHAPED IN STONE
  40. THE CALLING HOUR
  41. WE BURIED OUR STORIES IN THE EARTH
  42. PART THREE REVELATIONS OF THE THROAT
  43. FORMLESS, SHAPELESS, IT CAN FLOW OR IT CAN CRASH
  44. THE SPARROW GENERAL
  45. THOUGH IT BE HARSH, COME BACK TO THE LIGHT
  46. THE NEW DEVOURING THE OLD
  47. A PLOT OF CORPSES
  48. THE BLACK TURTLE
  49. MARCHING TO A HEADLESS DRUM
  50. SEEK NOT THE EAVES AT MIDNIGHT
  51. REUNION
  52. SLEEP, AND HIS BROTHER DEATH
  53. MISSIO INTERRUPTUS
  54. BORN ON THE BATTLEFIELD
  55. IN THE HOUSE OF THE IGNOBLE
  56. THE ONES WE KEEP CLOSE
  57. DAWN IS THE MOMENT YOU WAKE
  58. THE GRAY AFTER THE STORM
  59. FINAL SELECTION
  60. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  61. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“To the steamer’s,” Lexi says. “To formally request catering.”

THE FIRST WEAPON WAS A STORY TOLD BY LIARS

“I’M DONE WITH THIS, TAKE it back to the archives.”

Dyeawan thinks the man’s name is Yilik, though she’s not certain. She’s delivered to him only once or twice, but it was enough for her to understand there’s no malice in his curtness. He just seems perpetually preoccupied and oblivious to anything that isn’t vibrantly colored oil with which he can paint parchment or canvas.

From what she’s seen, he must be one of the finest artists on the drafting level, where the ideas, designs, and inventions of Edger and his kind are given their first real form. It’s also where the Planning Cadre’s architects create plans for new buildings and edifices to be erected in the Capitol. Yilik’s drafting room is covered in hand-painted images representing all these things, and each one, to Dyeawan’s eyes, is a masterpiece of color and form.

As he hands her what looks and feels like a tablet wrapped in oiled cloth, Dyeawan spies the painting on which Yilik (if that is indeed his name) is currently working.

It appears to be a new gated archway intended for the port. The ships and ocean have been intricately painted in behind it. The archway itself is composed of colorful koi fish of different patterns, all swimming upstream against an overwhelming current. It’s a very Crachian symbol and message, matching that of the hardworking, supremely efficient national ant.

“That’s beautiful,” Dyeawan remarks.

Yilik only grunts, filling in the scales of one of the fish to be rendered in stone.

A new thought distracts her from the painting, recognition of a word she’s yet to hear in the Cadre.

“The archives?”

Yilik grunts his assent.

It’s not hard to narrow down where that must be located. There’s only one level Dyeawan has yet to have occasion to visit.

“Is that at the very top of the Cadre?” she asks.

Yilik’s hands stop their intricate motions for the first time, and he looks up at her as if she’s dimmer than a lamp whose luminescent insects are nearing the end of their life cycles.

“Yes, the archives are still located on level twelve,” he says, drawing his words out slowly.

“The painting really is beautiful,” Dyeawan repeats, and proceeds to turn her wheels toward the door.

It’s a hard slog up several levels’ worth of ramps, even in her tender. Dyeawan realizes her arms have actually weakened a great deal since she began working in the Cadre. The ease of the tender’s paddles is nothing to dragging herself around by rocks on the bare street.

As she wheels herself toward the final staircase leading up to level twelve, a harsh voice calls to her from behind.

“You there, girl! Stop right now!”