With a shake of his head, Rhaif tugged the door closed and looked across the livery at the bronze woman. He then pounded on the front of the carriage, signaling the driver to set off for Eyr Rigg.
A whip snapped, and with a jerk, the livery rolled away.
Rhaif leaned back into his seat with a smile. I finally outwitted her. He pictured his finger tipping over a king on a board of Knights n’ Knaves—then more blasts and booms shook the carriage. Outside, the horses nickered and neighed in terror. The livery bobbled wildly until the driver could whip his charges back under control. Still, the frightened beasts sped at full gallop. The livery bounced and rattled behind their clattering hooves.
“What’s happening?” Pratik yelled.
Rhaif shifted to search out the small window, then out the other side. All around, fires erupted, choking smoke into the dark skies. Even as he watched, they grew and spread across the grease of the Boils. Rhaif gaped at the damage. He understood who had orchestrated this firestorm and how much he had underestimated her.
Clearly, Llyra was not content to just burn down one whorehouse to flush him out.
She’s willing to take down all of the Boils.
Outside, the driver hollered and cracked his whip, but his ponies needed little guidance to flee the smoke and fire. The carriage crashed back and forth, tilting on two wheels to round sharp corners. Still, more booms chased them.
Thick smoke, glowing with cinders, choked the streets now. The livery rushed past a flaming shop, the roof tiles popping and flying high from the heat.
To either side, people fled all around. Several of them tried to clamber onto the carriage, but the driver turned his whip upon them. He dared not let any added ballast weigh down the carriage. Several bumps and screams suggested an unfortunate few were trampled or ridden over.
Rhaif hunkered with the others. He had to trust the driver’s knowledge of the Boils to get them out in time. Unfortunately, the man was not the only one who knew this squalid corner of Anvil well.
“Ho now!” the driver screamed.
The carriage abruptly slowed, throwing them all forward. Rhaif twisted to get his head out of the open window. As the livery cleared the worst of the smoke, the street ahead was packed with a panicked crowd, which ran up against a line of men in armor and mail, carrying swords and axes. They were inspecting everyone who passed.
Rhaif cursed the woman behind all of this. Llyra had always been coldly clever. He knew her fires had not been haphazardly placed, but instead they had been ignited strategically, to force survivors to guarded chokepoints.
Like this one.
Rhaif struggled with what to do. He feared their disguises might not hold up to close inspection. A simple lift of either veil would expose the subterfuge beneath. Plus, he could not know for sure if Llyra had spotted Pratik standing beside him in the gaol’s main hall.
Still, he had no other choice. The fires raged behind him, and the wyndships would soon lift off Eyr Rigg. Worst of all, the bronze woman had grown ever more listless. They did not have the time to seek another way out of the Boils.
The driver leaned over and spotted Rhaif’s head poking out the window. “What to do?” he called down from his seat.
“Push ahead,” Rhaif ordered. “Whip a path through if you must. I’ll pay you another gold march if you get us to Eyr Rigg in time.”
The driver’s eyes widened. “Aye. That I’ll do.”
Rhaif settled back inside the carriage as it lurched faster again. He glanced to Shiya, who had not moved even with the jarring and rocking. He placed his palm atop her gloved hand, testing for any warmth. He discovered only a disconcerting coldness. He searched her face but could no longer discern any glow of her eyes behind the meshed veil.
He gave her unyielding hand a squeeze.
Hold on, Shiya.
Outside, the driver’s whip cracked over and over. Townspeople cursed and shouted. A few spat through the window as the carriage barged toward the line of armored men. Angry fists pounded on the livery’s sides and back.
Pratik shifted to the center of his bench across from Rhaif. “What do we do now?”
“I’m going to sit here quietly.” He pointed toward the line of men ahead, surely Llyra’s crew in borrowed armor or other well-paid brawlers. “You, on the other hand, get your first chance to impersonate an imri.”
Pratik visibly swallowed and ran his palms over his outer cloak.
Finally, the livery slowed, and the driver pulled his ponies to a stop at the guard line.
A gruff voice approached. “Out with ya!”
Rhaif nodded for Pratik to obey. The Chaaen scooted across his bench to the door and after two attempts got it open. He was immediately confronted by a barrel-chested larcener in rusty mail and balancing an ax on a shoulder.
He shoved his crook-nosed bullock head into the carriage. “Whatda we got here?”
Pratik leaned away, cringed, then tilted forward again. “How … How dare you?” he said with haughty ire. “This livery is Klashean territory as long as we are in it. Trespass and I will have your skin flogged from your bones at such an affront to the honor of the Imri-Ka.”
The bullock retreated from the storm of his arrogance and hauteur. From the door, the man glanced quickly throughout the carriage, his gaze lingering first on Shiya’s robed form, then over to Rhaif. Rhaif lifted a gloved hand and fingered the faux iron collar around his neck, feigning nervousness, but mostly to expose his status as an enslaved Chaaen.
“Your breath offends me,” Pratik continued, “and pollutes the sanctity of my private space. Be off before I get truly angry.”
The bullock’s face darkened, but he made no further effort to enter. Instead, he hollered to a pair of brawlers behind him, “Look about. Make sure there be no stowaways hitchin’ along here.”
As the two circled the carriage, Rhaif stared past the bullock’s shoulders. The frightened crowd pressed the line. Sweating and cursing, Llyra’s men fought to hold them off. They yanked back hoods, knocked wet rags from mouths and noses, and searched each face before shoving the person past the blockade.
Then the line of men shifted. Rhaif stiffened in his seat and cursed his luck.
Of course she’d be at this chokepoint.
He watched Llyra use a dagger to slice away a scarf from a hunched man. She tilted his chin up with the point of her blade, scowled at what she saw, and pushed the man behind her. Her lips moved in a silent curse as she grabbed the collar of the next man who looked a match to Rhaif’s build.
Rhaif’s hand balled into fists.
All of this because of me.
Finally, Llyra swiped a sooty brow as she let a woman and boy hurry past her. In that moment, her gaze swept to the carriage. She took a step toward it.
The bullock noted her interest as his men finished their inspection with shakes of their heads. He lifted an arm, waved to Llyra, and hollered, “Black Klashers!” He spit his distaste on the ground. “The lot of ’em. Nothing else.”
Llyra’s eyes squinted. For a moment, she stared straight at Rhaif’s masked face. Then the mob surged the line all around. A few desperate figures broke through and ran. With the fires spreading rapidly through the greasy Boils, the frightened crowd had begun to decide the flames were the greater danger than the swords. Llyra snatched the hood of a man who tried to bowl past her and dragged him back.