“Don’t look back,” she hissed, winding toward a glassblack vendor. The woman’s tent glittered with samples of her work, strings of discs fluttering in the breeze. Glassblack only showed through on one side, reflecting the other in nigh every hue imaginable. Fie had seen whole panes of the stuff in the windows of the wealthy. Crows just dealt with the plainest kind, black, to cover the eyeholes in their masks.

The discs spun lazy on their wires as Fie neared, flashing fragments of the marketplace: a reflected tapestry, a slip of an Owl scholar, a brass lamp perched on a windowsill. A blue disc twirled and showed her the two guards, still watching from the water-lift. She stopped, reaching for a disc of black.

“Keep your filthy little hands off,” the vendor spat.

Fie flashed her empty palms and stepped back. “Just looking.”

The black disc spun to show her the guards again. They’d been distracted by the water-lift’s wheels churning into motion.

“Come on.” Fie jerked her head toward a signpost. To her annoyance, once they reached it, she found that any Crow signs had long since worn away, if they’d been there at all. Her ears burned. “Can … does it say where—”

“This way.” Tavin set off across the market.

This time, the steps rose past grand mosaics, their vivid tiles painting the deeds of dead gods and heroes. In one, Lovely Rhensa danced above a field of vanquished foes; in another, Ambra, Queen of Day and Night, stood astride the sun, wreathed in gold Phoenix fire. Jasimir grimaced at that one for a breath before moving on. Most of Cheparok fell below them once they reached the top of the stairs, dropping tier by tier until the last plateau bled into docks and canals. Smaller barges flocked in the shallow bay like litters of puppies, their mothers the great trade ships moored at a crest of islands between Cheparok and the sea.

Fie didn’t realize she’d stopped until Tavin tugged at her shoulder. “The view’s even better from the fortress.”

Second Market was quieter than Third. Fie hesitated to even tread on the flat sandstone slabs, the nails in her sandals grinding in protest. A few stalls flapped banners for imported rarities and the crests of renowned Crane merchant houses, but for the most part actual storefronts made up the tranquil street. Posh silk-gauze billowed everywhere in the breeze, from layered wraps sported by Cranes and Peacocks to drapes tacked over windows and tent frames. Swan courtesans of every shade and gender drifted by in head-to-toe white, trailing filmy veils of their own from wide-brimmed hats meant to hide their faces from the jealous sun. Heads swiveled as they passed. Swans commanded the Birthright of desire, and even the plainest could gather attention like folds of silk, wielding charisma sure as Hawk steel.