“Take heart, Sigil. The Amhara would rather kill me themselves then let a northern queen do it,” she said lightly. “But yes, we should be moving. Almasad is not Ascal. Criminals are not so easily overlooked.” She bit her lip. “Mirrors on the sand, eh, Valtik? Any ideas on what that could mean?”
The witch had no more to give. She ran her fingers over the dirt floor, scooping the bones back into her purse.
Charlie watched, bright-eyed even in the dim light. He kissed both palms as he had in the crossroads tavern. “Strangeness follows Spindles. It clings to their locations, before they open and even after they close. Scripture calls it the shadow of the gods. It’s how the Spindletouched are born, brushed with magic,” he said, gesturing to the old woman scrabbling on the floor. She seemed anything but magical. “If there were a Spindle open in this land, there would be a sign.”
“But some of us can’t exactly walk all over Almasad eavesdropping and looking for such signs.” Corayne said.
“It’s not my face on those posters,” Sigil offered. “I can make the rounds, see what I hear. Hopefully bring back something the rest of you can piece together.”
Sorasa offered her a rare, true smile. “Thank you, Sigil.”
“I’m a simple woman, Sarn,” the bounty hunter said with a shrug. “I serve the highest bidder. That’s currently you.”
The assassin took it in stride. “The ruins of Haroun, on the outskirts. Dusk,” she declared. “Charlie, you can walk free too. Can you get us horses? Ready by the Moon Gate?”
Before the fallen priest could acquiesce, Dom shook his head, still braced against the wall. “And what if they abandon us?” he said, eyeing both Sigil and Charlie.
It isn’t a foolish thing to wonder. Corayne bit her lip, trying to fight down her own trepidation. Across the floor, Andry frowned. We’ve made enough mistakes so far. Will trusting two criminal strangers be another?
Sorasa’s eyes flashed, a warning. “Then they abandon the Ward to ruin, and themselves to doom.”
“Cheerful to the last, Sarn,” Charlie said, wrenching open the door. It spilled light so bright Corayne winced. Sigil’s silhouette flared across the floor, a giant behind her.
“Either way,” Corayne muttered, “we don’t have much choice in the matter.”
Sorasa slammed the door behind them, scowling. “That’s the spirit.”
They wouldn’t last much longer in the cellar. Sigil was right: it was only a matter of time before the Ibal patrols or some criminal element discovered their ragtag band. Even a common thief wouldn’t balk at turning them in, should he manage to escape Sorasa’s blade. So Sorasa led them east, through a damp, muddy passage that surfaced in an overlooked alleyway strewn with hung laundry. To Corayne’s dismay, Sorasa was jumpier than a rabbit, double-checking every corner, avoiding alcoves and sewers like they might snap shut on her body.
“Is it just me, or is Sorasa Sarn scared?” Andry murmured.
“Terrified,” she answered.
“There’s an entire sea between us and Taristan, his army, the other Spindle.” He adjusted his steps, matching her stride. “What could she fear?”
“Her own,” Corayne said, coming to realization even as she spoke.
A fallen Amhara, forsaken, broken. Osara. It must also mean doomed.
Corayne’s blood chilled, her skin prickling even in the dry, desert heat of Ibal. She licked her lips, tasting sweat and salt. Not long now. Dusk approached, the sky overhead going hazy pink. We’ll meet Charlie and Sigil. We’ll have horses. We can leave this place and those posters behind. There aren’t any patrols in the dunes. There isn’t anyone at all.
Sorasa’s caution got them through the alleys without trouble, her internal compass winding them away from the hustle and bustle. It took hours of careful navigation, avoiding patrols and crowded markets, but eventually the buildings grew sparse. The causeway overhead sloped downward, its arches lower and lower until it ran into an avenue of paved stone. Almasad bordered the Great Sands and had no use for walls beyond the port. No army could assault the city from the desert. The roads and streets simply disappeared, swallowed by ever-shifting dunes. Even the scent of flowers grew weak, replaced by the smell of hot, dusty sand and the underlying drift of some herb Corayne couldn’t name.
The ruins of Haroun were not a temple, as Corayne had suspected, but a massive tower at the edge of the city, fallen like a tree broken in half. All that was left was a hollow column, a single spiral stair reaching up the middle like a spine, leading to nothing. The crown of the fallen tower was missing, torn from the rough sandstone.