“There aren’t many passes through the mountains between Yor and Jorat,” Janel explained, “but one is in Tolamer. Indeed, we have a mountain pass and a sea route, besides the Gatestone itself. Since I’d dismissed Kovinglass, there was no Gatekeeper on staff to warn anyone about unauthorized Gatestone usage. Just as no one in Mereina would have warned House D’Aramarin or the imperial army about unauthorized Gatestone usage there. If you’re going to invade a place, wouldn’t you desire as many approaches open to your forces as possible?”

“That’s not the only reason Relos Var would have chosen Tolamer,” Qown said. “Duke Kaen wanted your canton for that, but I doubt it was Relos Var’s only motivation.”

“That’s true,” Janel agreed. She met Kihrin’s eyes. “It’s what you said about Xaltorath seeking me out. Relos Var was hunting the ‘volunteers,’ the people who’d agreed to help the Eight. He was looking for me.” She smiled. “I should thank Taja you ended up on that auction block in Kishna-Farriga. It meant Relos Var had no time to deal with me in Barsine.”

“Hmm. That’s an unexpected blessing I hadn’t considered,” Kihrin agreed.

“Anyway, I should finish this next part,” Janel continued. “It’s not my favorite.”

Janel’s Turn. Atrine, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

I have never been comfortable in cities.

I admit this is due to unfamiliarity; Tolamer is a rural canton. The closest equivalent to a city I had ever known were the tournaments. A city as western Quuros sees it—a large concentration of permanent residents—lay outside my understanding or notions of comfort.

Still, it turned out cities are like forests in one important regard; they both come stocked with thieves.

We hadn’t walked for more than a few minutes before we ran into them.

“All right, then,” the lead man said as he stepped from an alley. “Lovely evening for a walk, ain’t it?”

The man had hidden in ambush, his intentions anything but pleasant. He wore a patchwork mask over his face and a dark gray cloak over beaten, worn leathers. I couldn’t tell if he was Joratese, Marakori, or some other more exotic fare. I recognized the loaded crossbow easily enough.

As well as the crossbows of his friends.

I sighed as I stepped forward.

“It is indeed a lovely evening. We don’t wish for trouble, so let us pass.”

I thought the odds he’d take my offer slim; he didn’t disappoint.

“That ain’t up to you, girlie,” the man said, “and there’s a toll to pay to come this way. Figure you owe us five thrones each for the lot of ya, and that ought to do it.”

He was Marakori. A Joratese would not have called me “girlie.”