Four men in Patriot Guard sashes were struggling to haul the main door open on its sliding track. Two more, muskets in hand, stood peering into the darkness, but it was the figure beside them that drew Raesinia’s attention. It was a woman, old and gray-haired, walking with the aid of a long, knob-handled stick. The point of the stick must have been sheathed in metal, because it made a ting and threw a tiny spark every time it struck the flagstones.

She had one hand outstretched, and hovering above it was something like a miniature sun. It was a ball of flame, about the size of a man’s head, colors shifting and twisting under a perfectly smooth surface as though a roaring blaze was contained in a glass bowl. When the woman moved her hand, the flame followed, as though it were tethered to her finger by a string.

Raesinia had become very adept at leaping to certain kinds of conclusions. Nothing of this world could let someone hold a ball of fire in her hands, and that left only a few possibilities.

“It’s one of them,” she hissed. “The Penitents. We have to get out of here now.”

Marcus risked a glance of his own. “Balls of the fucking Beast,” he said. “You’re not serious.”

Raesinia waved to Andy, gesturing toward the back door. The girl nodded and slunk off, keeping to the shadows between the caissons. Marcus ducked back behind the desk, and Raesinia gave his shoulder a tug. She led him on hands and knees, threading their way among the piled implements of war.

“You are here,” the old woman said. Her voice was raspy and nearly unintelligible under a thick Murnskai accent. “I feel you. Do not hide.”

She raised her hand, and a portion of the ball of flame split off and rose toward the ceiling. It brightened as it did so, from the light of a bonfire to the light of the sun itself, throwing the whole warehouse into sudden, stark illumination. The shadows vanished.

“There!” one of the Patriot Guard shouted. Musket barrels swung around.

At the same time, the long shapes of Mierantai rifles came up over the boxes of muskets. The blasts were nearly simultaneous, muzzle flashes washed out in the brilliant light. Balls pinged and thoked among the stacked boxes, and one of the Guards fell backward with a cry and a spray of blood.

“So much for staying quiet,” Raesinia said.

“Back!” Marcus shouted, rising to a crouch and drawing his pistol. “Everybody back!”

Hayver and the Mierantai fell back from among the muskets, the riflemen running bent over to present smaller targets while Hayver stood up in full view of the Patriot Guards. The four who’d been wrestling with the door now raised their own muskets, but a shot from Andy sent them scattering for cover before they could fire. The old woman glanced at them scornfully.