A ROCKET drew a thread of smoke from Sulane’s prow up across the cloudless blue and then down in a lovely parabola to strike the stone gables of the observatory tower, tumble in sparks, and fall into the gardens.

“We’ve been ranged.” Baru wanted to laugh of fear and wonder. She’d seen Ormsment’s ships take the range before: she’d watched them burn two pirates to their warped keels. It had been so beautiful. “The navy’s going to burn us out.”

“Now?” Hesychast barked. “That’s mad! Why would they act here?”

Xate Yawa stroked her brother’s wretched burnt scalp. He whimpered into her gown. “Farrier, is this your doing?”

“Oh, enough chicanery, Cosgrad.” Farrier was cutting meat to wrap up in a little takeaway bundle. He hardly looked up at the sound of the rocket. “If you detain me, I won’t send my passwords, and then my agents open your bottled failures in front of Parliament. Call off your ships. I’m not amused.”

Hesychast’s whole lean might seemed to twitch in shock. “My ships?”

“Yes, your ships out there—”

“But wait now. I thought those were your ships.”

Farrier collected his waxpaper full of meats. “Why would I do that? Why would I need two shiploads of brute force?”

The two men looked at each other. Farrier swore. Hesychast said, “Do you think she planned this?”

Apparitor sat beside Yawa with poor fainted Iraji’s head in his lap. Now he looked up at the two men with exquisite relish. “You’re not in control now, you dismal fucks! Ormsment’s here to avenge herself on Baru, and she doesn’t give a tiller’s stink for your lives.” His voice rose triumphantly. “If you want to escape on Helbride, then I demand a writ of pardon for Lindon, and all the money you’ve denied me for my—”

Down in the harbor, the navy ships made a sound like ripping wool.

Baru seized Farrier. With her free hand she cupped the bottom of the dinner table, grunted, and tossed it on its side. Gravy and butter and wine splashed across cuts of overturned meat. “Down!” Baru roared, as everyone stared at her, “You idiots, get down!”

Apparitor leapt on top of Iraji. Yawa drew her catatonic twin to her breast.

Baru experienced a fear-fueled episode of technical history.

Rocket-powder was an Oriati invention, used to celebrate holidays. But in old royalist Falcrest, a more dismal land, the rocket-powder was turned to the destruction of armies. Put a rocket engine on an arrow, put hundreds of those arrows on a rack, and now you had a hwacha. You didn’t have to pay or train or feed it, and it could beat a company of longbowmen barrage for barrage.