And then he was through, sucking in smoke instead of flame, racing headlong, in order to get as far ahead of it as possible, knowing that if he lost the protection of his magical armor, he’d be little more than fuel. When he finally looked back, he saw nothing but flame and smoke. It seemed unlikely that anything could survive. He sent up a prayer for all the families penned up in the temple.

By now he couldn’t be that far from the river. Down on the right was Pilfer Alley and the tiny kingdom Han had built—his sanctuary, housing Dancer’s metalshop. He resisted the temptation to turn aside and try to save what he could. It was a building. Buildings could be replaced.

And suddenly he was there, at the edge of the river, surrounded by grim-faced firefighters. Dedicates, fancies, bluejackets, and even some Highlander soldiers—clearing away shacks and Ragmarket rubble, trying to make a firebreak, wetting down buildings, struggling to hold back the flames.

Two large pumps were set up on the riverbank, raising the Dyrnnewater so the crews could fill buckets and barrels. One even had a leather hose attached, spewing water out the end and into the flames. It was a trickle, though, against an inferno; like spitting on it.

Han searched through the firefighters for Raisa. Here was Speaker Jemson looking like a tall blackened crow, striding up and down the riverbank, directing dedicates and ’prentices at their work. Han heard Captain Byrne, his voice hoarse from shouting. He looked well roasted already.

There were even a handful of Demonai, Night Bird included, whose talismans offered them some protection. They moved like spirits through the smoke and flame.

He spotted Micah, posted prominently on the riverbank, driving back the encroaching flames with blasts of power, setting competing fire lines with carefully placed wizard flame. How had Micah made it there before him? Did he know some kind of a shortcut?

He didn’t see Raisa.

As Han watched, Micah put his shoulder to the wheeled pump, helping four others move it to a better location. As Micah stepped back from the pump, he turned and spotted Han. It was as if he’d been watching out for him. He strode toward him, visibly agitated, and Han instinctively took hold of his amulet.

“Where have you been?” Micah hissed. “Waiting for the entire town to burn down before you made an appearance?” He was smudged over with soot, his finely tailored clothes scorched and burned through in places.

Han could only stare at him.

“No doubt you can’t wait to tell the queen that this is my fault,” Micah said, all but shedding sparks himself.

“It is your fault,” Han said, cocking up his chin. “How can you say it’s not? And that’s exactly what I’m going to say.”