Once the guards had passed, she slipped back through the smoke. A pillar of fire still clawed at the darkening heavens where the oil tent had stood. A few paces off, a Gull woman watched it burn, tears cutting tracks through the soot on her stricken face.

The lordlings appeared from the hazy alley and motioned for her to follow, then set off for the stairs to Fourth Market. Fie couldn’t say whether they knew the damage they’d done to get away; only that as they left Third Market behind, neither looked back, not even once.

They took a long, halting way through Fourth Market, veering from guards as the afternoon’s pack of bodies scattered into smaller crowds. Fog rose as night swallowed the sun, and a sluggish bay breeze wormed through Fie’s hair, damp and warm as a drunkard’s breath.

Tavin led them down through the market, pausing at each water-lift and drain chute, then finally stopped at a chute behind a shuttered stall. “Wait here.”

He hopped onto an empty barge moored near the stall, then pressed his hand to a tile on the canal’s far wall. It sank into its grout with a deliberate click. As he pulled his hand back, Fie caught the faint outline of a hammer engraved there.

The water cascading down the chute thinned to a trickle, then to a steady drip. Tavin pushed on the tiles below the chute’s spout. A citizen-size panel swung inward with a grinding, sandy grate, revealing pitch-black within. Tavin held up a hand—wait—and climbed inside.

“Maintenance tunnels,” Jasimir said. “Of course.”

Firelight sparked in the dark, and a moment later, Tavin motioned for them to follow. Fie hopped onto the barge and let him pull her into the tunnel, mindful of the sword and tooth bag still knotted secure at her hip. Once Jasimir joined them, Tavin pulled a chain dangling by the entrance. The ceramic panel slid back into place, and with it fell a brutal quiet.

Tavin plucked a burning torch from the wall and lit another that he passed to the prince. Then he led them down a corridor, emerging in a round room where broad terra-cotta banks bracketed a course of slow dark water.

“The reservoir drains into irrigation channels for the Fan,” Prince Jasimir said, swinging his torch about to survey the area. “They’ll look for us to make a break for the gates, not shelter in the city. We should be safe here.”

“That’s the idea.” Tavin dropped his torch into a sconce jutting from rumples of yellow fungi, let out a long, heavy breath, and then sank to the floor. A week ago, the prince might have turned up his nose at the slimy brick and suspicious puddles. Now he joined Fie and Tavin as one more exhausted heap, shoals in a sea of torch-lit gloom.

“May I?”