“Captain,” the merchant said as I approached. She blinked and smiled.

I stopped and watched a thin trickle of sweat run from her hairline to her brow. There was something too stiff about her manner.

My gaze went to the alleyway behind her. I couldn’t see anything but boxes and the wall, but I’d been known to make this mistake before. “Come out where I can see you,” I called out.

Philine, the Ioph Carn’s best tracker, rose from behind a stack of crates, a dagger in her hand. She took a step forward, touching the point of her dagger to the small of the merchant’s back. The woman grimaced. The lid on one of the pots rattled as it boiled over.

“You’ve certainly risen in the world since we last met – Jovis, Captain of the Imperial Guard.”

6

Nisong

The north-eastern reaches of the Empire

Wet houses were difficult to burn. Nisong found they couldn’t be torched from the outside; she had to send her constructs inside, where everything was still warm and dry. She didn’t enjoy the cries of the villagers as they watched their homes burn, but there was something satisfying in the flickering warmth, the pop of embers and the creak of wood as supports collapsed.

And still the governor of this island did not emerge.

He’d shut himself in his home, his guards cloistered inside with him. No walls around this palace; it was a small isle, insignificant compared to Imperial. It was more like a large house than a palace, really. But the shutters and doors were thick and hadn’t given way to even the war constructs hammering against them.

Behind her, Shell stood over a cooking station he’d set up in the street, his spear leaning against a table as he chopped spring onions. “We still need to eat during a siege,” he’d explained when she’d raised an eyebrow. A knife scraped against wood as he pushed the onions into the bubbling stewpot.

Coral had gathered herbs, Grass had found the table and the pot, Leaf had started the fire and Frond had picked up a piece of driftwood to carve. Nisong wondered what memories swirled in his mind. That one was a dreamer.

Shell waved her over. “Staring at the door won’t make it open sooner.” He lifted a bowl. “Come. Eat.”

It felt somewhat odd to take the bowl from his callused hands, to hold it over the stewpot, to wait as Coral ladled soup into it. They’d done this so many times on Maila while the mind-fog had a hold of them.

“Ack,” Leaf said, fanning a hand over his mouth. “Too hot! Do you need to use chili peppers in everything?”

“Do you need to have such a weak tongue?” Shell said.

Leaf tapped a long, thin finger to his chin. “I think I liked you better on Maila.”