Rhaif tried to imagine such a sight as he finished the climb out of the cooler depths of the dungeons and back into the swelter of the day. The air became smudged and reeked of burning oil. They passed a few gaolers heading down for their shift, but beyond a grunt or a nod, no one heeded anyone else.
At the top of the steps, Rhaif hissed back at Pratik, “Stay close to my back. Eyes down.”
Ahead, the main hall bustled with turnkeys coming and going, some leading chained prisoners. A handful of red-capped boys darted throughout the throng, whisking messages up and down the towers.
Perfect.
Rhaif led Pratik into the bedlam. He drew them into the flow of gaolers leaving for the day. In short order, the spikes of the portcullis appeared. All was going well until the crowd ahead eddied in confusion. A few shocked voices echoed back to them.
Rhaif shifted to the side to determine the cause of the commotion.
He groaned when he spotted a familiar figure in a gray robe who sported a noose of silver braids around his throat. Shrive Wryth scaled the steps toward the gaol. The rarity of such holy men, especially one traipsing into a prison, had stopped everyone, drawing all eyes. The sea of boys and gaolers parted before the Shrive, both out of respect and fear.
Worst of all, the divide seemed to be aiming straight for Rhaif.
He herded Pratik back, swearing under his breath.
The gods must hate me.
He grabbed the Chaaen’s arm and turned him away. What is Wryth doing here? The answer appeared directly ahead of them as a pair of turnkeys were shoved to either side. Two familiar figures strode forward, the same pair who had damned Rhaif to the mines of Chalk.
Only steps away from Rhaif, Archsheriff Laach waved an arm in greeting toward the gaol gate. “This way, Shrive Wryth!”
The sheriff, seemingly blind to his surroundings, had not even noted Rhaif standing there. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Laach’s companion. Little escaped the attention of Llyra hy March, the guildmaster of thieves. Her face froze for a breath in shock—then her lips thinned, and her eyes sparkled with dark amusement as she stared over at him.
Rhaif groaned.
The gods definitely hate me.
19
RHAIF’S VISION NARROWED as he struggled for a way to escape.
Llyra met his gaze in that strained moment. Her fingers rested at her wrist, where the edge of her sleeve hid a bracelet of sheathed throwing knives. He had once watched her impale three rats—to a wall, a rafter, and a keg—with one sweep of her arm. And she hadn’t even bothered to look in the vermin’s direction.
But that was not her truest threat. There was a reason she had been the guildmaster in Anvil for over a decade. He had learned long ago that her mind was as slippery as greased cobbles in the rain. Such cunning made it nearly impossible to keep one’s footing when pitted against her. Her skill was so daunting, he sometimes wondered if her talent was spyllcast or fueled by alchymies. In the past, he had often challenged her to a game of Knights n’ Knaves, but she trounced him every time, toppling his king on the board with nary a sign of effort.
So, what hope do I have now?
No doubt she was already thinking a dozen steps ahead of him, preparing to countermeasure any of his flight attempts. With every pound of his heart, he felt the iron jaws of a trap closing on him.
She narrowed the distance between them, her gaze never breaking from him—then she brushed past with a bump of her elbow. She spoke to the sheriff and nodded toward the commotion at the portcullis. “Laach, we should get that braided bastard up to the tower before all these gaolers start bending a knee and begging a blessing.”
The archsheriff grunted his acknowledgment and forged a quicker pace across the hall to meet Wryth.
Llyra cast one last glance back at Rhaif, but her features were inscrutable.
What new game is this?
Despite the danger, he was struck by the severity of her beauty. Her blond hair was cut straight at the shoulder. Her eyes glinted an icy copper, framed by sharp cheekbones. The only thing soft about her was the bud of her lips. And though she had taken him into her bed many times, she had never let him taste those lips.
As she turned and strode away, it was clear she had dressed to accent her curves. Her linens and leathers were corseted tight at the waist, her leggings hugged her like a second skin. And while she had the short stature of most Guld’guhlians, she was lithe of limb, sculpted of muscles so hard and wiry that he swore they were threaded through by steel. He especially remembered her strong legs wrapped around his buttocks, demanding he perform better.
But what does she want now? Why didn’t she raise an alarm?
All he knew for sure was that he could never outwit her in the past, let alone untie her elaborate plots. Instead, he took advantage of this mysterious reprieve to grab Pratik’s arm and guide him to the side. Rhaif picked a path that skirted the clot of onlookers around the Shrive, and once clear, he hurried under the portcullis and out into the open square.
He didn’t know if Llyra ever looked his way again.
He didn’t care.
As long as I’m still free.
He kept moving, forcing himself not to run. “Keep with me,” he warned Pratik. “We have a ways to go.”
And likely a trail of shadows to shake.
It was the only possible explanation. Llyra surely knew the value of what Rhaif had stolen and wanted it for herself. She must hope that he would guide her hounds to his hiding spot. As Llyra and Laach reached the portcullis ahead of Rhaif, she had likely already signaled lurkers out in the square. And she certainly had the entire breadth of the guild from which to choose the best trackers.
But not the very best, Rhaif thought with a matter of pride—which he prayed was not misplaced. As he headed toward the crossed hammers of the square’s main arch, he searched around him. He sought eyes that lingered too long, or bodies that shifted course in his direction. He identified a half dozen suspects, but he was equally sure there were more. Worst of all, he had no doubt that word of his sighting was rapidly spreading ahead of him.
With Pratik in tow, he did his best to navigate back to the port. He knew the city well. He chose the narrowest alleyways, empty of any others. He crossed into shops and out back patios. He sought crooked paths and backtracked often. He entered a smoke-choked smithy, where one could barely see the fingers of an outstretched arm. There, he tossed the blacksmith a silver eyrie and retrieved a pair of cloaks to hide their gaoler garb.
Back out on the streets, he continued his winding route homeward. Finally, the stinking air turned salty, and the squabbling screams of sea terns cut through the ever-present Grumble of Anvil.
“This way,” Rhaif urged.
By now, they had reached the Boils, a cramped dark warren in the shadow of the city’s largest chimneys. Here, the air was just soot and cinder, while underfoot, muck and shite coated the cobbles. In the Boils, all manner of ill repute found their home. He led Pratik into the maze of squeeze-thrus and narrows that made up the whoremongers’ yoke. He finally reached a door and shoved inside.
He paused long enough to remind Pratik, “Not a word.”
It was rare to have a Klashean—let alone a clipped Chaaen—in such a place. Rhaif dared not let the man’s lilting accent raise any suspicions.
As they entered, the stink of sour ale and piss greeted them. A heavyset matron heard the telltale creak of the door and began to stir a few languid forms draped about the room, most of whom were smoking snakeroot or stronger leaves. Rhaif waved leadenly at the matron, who scowled in recognition of her renter. She settled back over a tankard, likely already forgetting him.