Blast it all, how does one breathe under all of this?
“Calm yourself,” Pratik scolded.
The Chaaen reached over and tucked the helmet’s loose drape under the faux iron collar around Rhaif’s neck, drawing the linen tauter so it no longer suffocated him.
“Thank the gods,” Rhaif gasped out as he turned to inspect the others.
Beside him, the bronze woman was similarly attired in a Klashean byor-ga. The embroidered length covered her entire body, outfitted with a matching pair of thin gloves. The only difference from Rhaif’s attire was the silver collar around her neck, mostly hidden by the high collar of her robe.
Pratik shifted over and tucked her headgear’s drape into her collar, then stepped back and nodded. “We’re not allowed to speak to another when shadowing a master on the streets, so her reticence will not be a difficulty.”
“And what about everything else?” Rhaif asked. He waved to the woman. “Do you think we can pass as a pair of chaaen-bound?”
Pratik shrugged. “Few in the Klashe pay any heed to the chaaen-bound. I fear my role will be the most challenging—and dangerous.”
Rhaif eyed the Chaaen. Pratik had stripped out of his gaoler garb, showing a surprising shyness in the presence of the bronze woman. He had hurriedly donned the final raiment purchased by Rhaif at a Klashean dressmaker. The boots were polished snakeskin. His tight breeches and sleeveless tunic were a crimson silk stitched in a zigzag of gold along the seams. Over it all hung a white robe—what the Klasheans called a gerygoud—that reached his knees and splayed out wide at the sleeves. A cap of gold finished the outfit.
Except for the thin scarf that hid the man’s collar, it was the typical raiment for an imri trader of the Southern Klashe. The habiliment alone had cost Rhaif nearly all of the coins he had pilfered over the past fortnight. But for the ruse to work, only Pratik—with his dark features and violet eyes—could pass as a member of the ruling caste. Rhaif and the bronze woman would remain fully hidden away until they reached their cabin aboard the wyndship, which was due to rise with the last bell of Eventoll.
With the fourth bell having already sounded a moment ago, there was little time for mistakes or interruptions. They still needed to cross Anvil to reach Eyr Rigg, where the wyndships were moored. If they missed their ship, they would have to wait until the next day—which Rhaif knew they could not risk.
Not with Llyra’s nose on our scent.
While short-haul wyndships traversed the territories throughout the day, those scheduled to travel farther left only at Eventoll, due to some vagaries of pressures, winds, and magnes energies that were beyond Rhaif’s understanding. All he knew for certain was that they needed to be on that ship before the last bell.
He gave the group one final glance, noting the thin coiled chains in Pratik’s hands. When their livery reached Eyr Rigg, those lengths would connect their collars to the bands around the Chaaen’s boots.
Pratik shifted those coils from one hand to the other, nervously jangling their links. If the Chaaen was exposed before he could bring the bronze treasure to the foot of the god-emperor’s throne, his impersonation of a royal trader would likely end with his death.
“Are you ready?” Rhaif asked.
The answer did not come from Pratik. A muffled crash drew their eyes to the secret door in the far wall. They all froze as shouts reached them, followed by one blood-edged scream.
Pratik turned wide eyes toward Rhaif.
Llyra …
Rhaif pushed the Chaaen toward the door, then swung to the bronze figure. He took her gloved hand, fearful that she might have already returned to her sluggish slumber. But her palm was still warm through the thin silk. Soft fingers closed over his.
“We must go, Shiya,” he whispered, using the name he had given her.
He didn’t know if it meant anything to her, but to him, it ran back to his mother, or rather to her homelands that she often told stories about. The shiya were small birds in the greenwood of Cloudreach. They were plumed in shimmering shades of copper and gold and piped sweetly in the dark depths of the endless forests. But they were also savage—like most creatures who survived those misty highlands—defending their nests with sharp talons and hooked beaks.
He thought it a fitting name.
She turned to him, her eyes softly glowing through the meshed drape of her mask. She gave him a small nod and followed after him as he guided her to the door. Pratik had already lifted the bar and set it aside.
“Hurry,” the Chaaen urged, cringing as more crashing and shouts echoed to them.
“No.” Rhaif pictured Llyra and her crew smashing through the rooms, searching for him. He cautioned Pratik, “We move as if nothing concerns us.”
He waved the Chaaen out, knowing even now Pratik must play his part by leading them. Not the other way around. With one last shudder, the man headed through the door and out into the hall. As they traversed toward the stairs, Pratik’s pace quickened, likely fired by his apprehension.
“Slower,” Rhaif warned him.
The man obeyed.
They reached the stairs. As they set off down, the steps creaked under the weight of the bronze woman. Rhaif feared they might break. But they safely arrived in the commons, which was better appointed with pillowed couches and tint-shaded lamps that cast a rosy glow all about. The wenches here sat straighter, with bosoms pinched higher. The matron of this establishment noted their arrival. She showed not even a hint of astonishment at the sudden appearance of a trader and his pair of chaaen-bound. Rhaif was not surprised. Curiosity did not serve one well in the Boils.
Without a word, Pratik led them out the main door and onto the street. A closed livery carriage awaited them, already arranged by Rhaif.
The driver rushed toward them from his post beside a pair of stout Aglerolarpok ponies. “Right here with ya,” he said, and hurried to open the carriage door.
Pratik played his role well, refusing the man’s proffered hand to help him into the livery. Instead, he cast the driver a look of lofty disdain. No one dared touch an imri.
“’Course, ’course,” the man mumbled.
Pratik ducked inside, scooting over to allow them to join him.
Rhaif guided Shiya to follow. She craned her neck, taking everything in as she approached the carriage. As she climbed inside, the livery tilted under her weight, but the driver didn’t seem to notice.
The man was still scolding himself under his breath. “You’re a daft gudgeon, that’s what you are.”
Rhaif took an extra moment to survey the narrow street. He allowed a heavy breath to escape, fluttering his mask. There was no sign of Llyra or any of her crew. Satisfied, he clambered aboard.
As he leaned back to pull the livery door shut, a chest-bumping boom erupted, fierce enough to knock a few slate tiles from atop the whorehouse. They shattered to the cobbles. Overhead, the clouds brightened as flames spiraled up from beyond the roof ridge.
Rhaif pictured the establishment on the other side blasted and burning.
He knew all too well that Llyra had a temper, as fiery and explosive as any combustible. If she thought she’d been thwarted of her target—unable to find Rhaif—it was easy enough to imagine her exacting her revenge. But he knew better. Llyra’s actions always had twice the purpose. Besides venting her frustration, she was trying to flush him out of where he might be hiding. It was a judicious ploy. Even if Rhaif died in the fire, she must know she could always sift through the building’s ashes for a treasure that would not burn.