Two nights later, Shade rode into a small town, tired to the bone but certain he finally slipped out of the net. He’d not seen the trappers for forty-three hours nor slept during that time, but he was finally free of the chase. It was time for good food and a proper bed, perhaps even a bath, to clean off the grime. Despite the years he spent on the road, he’d never grown used to feeling dirty.

Yes, a bath would be nice. Shade felt like he had three weeks of dirt caked under his nails and in unmentionable places.

Maybe there’d even be hot water.

Wordlessly, he dismounted and tossed the stable boy a quartet of brozen sestertii for his trouble. The kid’s eyes widened, and Shade gave him a nod before moving toward the hospitia door. Generally, Vic was more mischievous than friendly, but after two long days on the road, he got touchy.

It wouldn’t do for Vic to bite the boy, which he’d do if the boy tried to muscle him around. That’d probably make the kid kick the horse, and then Vic would trample him. With money in his pocket, the boy would be more indulgent and probably wouldn’t get bitten in the first place. And then Shade wouldn’t have to deal with irate parents or employers, either.

Striding out of the barn, warm wind kissed his cheeks. It was unusually warm for fall, even here near the equator. But it also smelled like rain was coming; the storm clouds on the horizon were closing in fast. A good time to stop.

Habit brought Shade’s right hand up to pull the hood up of his dark gray cloak as his left reached for the hospitia’s worn door. Keeping his sword hand free was as necessary as pulling up the hood was in this business. Even if most people couldn’t tell two Night Riders apart, anonymity had its advantages. He wanted rest tonight, not a fight with some idiot hoping to earn the price off his head.

The hospitia’s interior was musty but cheerily enough lighted in the areas most of the patrons frequented. The back left corner was darker, however, with just one lamp; just how Night Riders liked it.

Weltil was once a large and thriving town at the eastern foot of the Bridge, the narrow strip of land connecting the continents of North and South Sarin. However, invading Olorian armies rampaged through after the Battle of the Bridge. After the last of the great army of Evendar fell and the tide turned, Weltil was pillaged, raped, and burned.

Overnight, the town transformed from a prosperous trading city to a ghost town. Little was rebuilt since then. The citizens not sold into slavery sought their new beginnings elsewhere, some running north to the mountains or the small, independent nations as yet outside Olorian grasp. Only the hardiest and most dedicated remained.

Olorians moved into half of the remaining structures, at least for a while. After a few years, most of them drifted west to Bridgetown, which was larger, and poor Evendarians trickled back in when the Olorians left. Most didn’t have money to rebuild, so they cobbled together what they could, frequently building one house out of the remnants of two.

The tragedy of Weltil made it an appropriate place for Night Riders to meet. They, too, were relics of a bygone age. The chance of finding at least one Night Rider on any night in Gunstrum’s Hospitia was high. You’d always find them at the same table, sitting with their back against the wall, hooded and cloaked, eyes missing nothing.

Gunstrum’s was a large hotel, a holdover from when Weltil was bigger and safer. The building was a tall, four-story inn and tavern, with guest rooms stacked over the ground floor dining room. It wasn’t a high-end hospitia—before the war, the rich would’ve shunned it as low class—lacking a garden or formal atrium. It did have a central bar area, with a u-shaped marble bar and a large dining area, but the two were separated by pillars instead of the wall a nicer establishment would have.

Still, Gunstrum’s was safe. Or what passed for safe for Night Riders on the road. That was hard to find these days, particularly with their own countrymen hunting them.

That thought still left Shade angry enough to make nausea churn in his gut.

He paused at the bar, his eyes flicking right. There was someone at the table already, a silhouette he recognized by the way one shoulder sat higher than the other. Shade laid a coin upon the stained and sanded bar.

“Ale.” He nodded to the approaching bartender.

It was a busy night. Gunstrum was tending the bar himself. To the right, in the dining area, patrons clumped together, laughing and eating, with nary an Olorian in sight. A group around one round table played dice; another pair arm-wrestled. Something twisted in Shade’s chest before he forced himself to look away.

Focus. He was too tired for this.

Food, drink, and then that bath. Maybe then he could sleep. Gunstrum’s had a bathing area, usually with hot water. That sounded something like paradise.

There was a storm brewing outside, and inclement weather always made for good business, especially at either end of the Bridge. No one wanted to be out there during a powerful storm, even a Night Rider. Parts of the Bridge causeway, weathered and neglected since the fall of the Empire, were halfway underwater even during dry months, now.

Years ago, there were breakwaters built into both sides of the Bridge, but those fell into disrepair after a major battle and Olorian neglect. If the season was wet, as this summer was, fording your way across the narrower parts of the Bridge was common.

“No wine?” Gunstrum cocked his head, speaking up to be heard over the crowd. “I’ve got your favorite.”

“Not tonight.” Shade shook his head.

Two years ago, the hospitia keeper’s youngest daughter was accosted by a gang of ruffians who hauled her off to an Olorian slave market when they finished with her. After Gunstrom gave her up for lost—having no choice, lest he end up in a slave market himself—Shade stumbled upon her when wrecking said slave market, then brought her home.

He refused payment, as he always did. Ever since Gunstrum paid particular care of the man who he called King of the Road and tried to keep a bottle of his favorite in reserve. Tonight, however, was not an evening for relaxation.

“I won’t accept payment from you, you know.” Gunstrum slid him a mug of house ale and crossed his arms.

“Take it anyway.” He left the coin on the bar. “The Olorian I took it from has no further need of money.” That one was a rapist. Shade couldn’t get them all, but he’d never regret removing that particular head from its assigned set of shoulders.

Ignoring Gunstrom’s protest, Shade walked to the table in the dark corner, setting his mug down and sliding into the chair across from his compatriot.

“Shade.” The other man’s voice was soft.

“Instance.” Shade sipped his ale. It was surprisingly good.

Instance was a short and stocky man with graying red hair and bright green eyes. Once, those eyes were framed by laugh lines and freckles. Now, the lines were etched in by age and hardship, and the smiles were more rare.

Greetings between Night Riders never included true names, not even between old friends. It wasn’t worth the risk. If the Olorians knew who you were, they’d go after your family—and kill everyone.

Or worse.

“What brings you this way? I thought you were further north. Reckoning said he saw you up by New Lotell.” Instance fiddled with his sleeve, shoving it out of the way to scratch his arm. The movement revealed the tattoo of the Wolf, the Moon, and the Sword, a twin to the one Shade still had on his left forearm.

Sometimes he thought he should scrape the thing off. One more identifying marker he didn’t need, a symbol of a dead past…but he’d never do it. Nor would Instance. They fought together back when their country was more than ashes.

Never mind the thirteen tick marks around the tattoo. No one remembered what those meant, not these days.

“I was.” Shade sat back in his chair, muscles aching.

With luck, the trappers were stuck on the north side of the Bridge tonight. Either they’d give up the chase or think him not stupid enough to cross continents in foul weather. They’re not wrong.

Gambler though he was, Shade was no fool; he crossed the Bridge in daylight, hours ahead of those chasing him.

Instance perked up. “Was?”

Shade scrubbed a tired hand over his face before stopping himself and yanking it away. It made his scars itch. “I was pursued from Median two days ago,” he said. “It seems some of our countrymen answered Olor’s call for Night Rider trappers.”

“They what?”

“They’re calling themselves venatores.” Shade scowled.

“Fuckers.” Instance pushed his food away. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Tell others you see on the road,” Shade continued, his voice clipped and short. “They’re more skilled than the Olorians.”

“I will.” Instance’s brow furrowed beneath his own hood. He was silent for a long moment, and Shade left him to think, idly listening to the hospitia’s background noise.

He heard a familiar female voice behind him but did not turn. That was Allesa, Gunstrum’s daughter. Ever since he’d rescued her, Allesa thought herself in love with him, dreaming up stories about why they couldn’t be together. Gunstrum tried to gently dissuade her, but like most parents, he failed.

Shade avoided her. Making connections that could be used against them was dangerous for a Night Rider…and she was almost two decades his junior.

“Shade! It’s so good to see you.” And now Allesa, gorgeous, buxom, and blonde, leaned over their table. “Can I get you anything?”

“Your house special, please.” He met her gaze, ignored her smile.

“Anything else special tonight?” She batted her eyes.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure, Shade? You know I’ll always make time for you, if you know what I mean.” Allesa reached out to touch his arm; Shade shifted away.

“Quite.” He narrowed his eyes, wishing she’d get the hint.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” One more smile, and she finally retreated, leaving the tension to slowly eek out of Shade’s body.

Beneath his cloak, he eased his fingers off the dagger tucked into the right side of his belt. He’d barely noticed his hand finding it.

Instance watched her go with a smile. “Wish she’d look at me like that.”

Shade snorted. “You’re welcome to her.”

“So long as I have your blessing.” Instance laughed before sobering and lowering his voice. “Do you think they went for you first on purpose?”

Instance knew. He remembered.

“Perhaps.” Shade shook away Allesa’s presence. It wasn’t her fault. She was young enough to think him glamorous, and he was old and worn enough to just want her gone. “I would say it was chance, but I no longer believe in coincidence.”

“Do they know?” Instance’s eyes went wide.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Shade met his gaze and saw a bit of shame there, in with the fear. “If they knew, it would be Olorians hunting for my head, not Evendarians.”

Instance choked out a laugh. “Or maybe you’re just the easiest to recognize.”

“Perhaps.” Shade flashed his teeth in a sneer. It made him look cruel, with twin scars framing his right eye and mouth and running diagonally down his face. Shade knew he looked the part a killer. “Or they noticed the price on my head. It’s hard for Evendarians to find a profit these days.”

“Do they think that by stopping you, they’d stop the rest of us?” Instance frowned thoughtfully.

“I doubt it.” Shade shook his head. “Except—” Suddenly, Instance sat up straight, and Shade’s instincts lit on fire. “What is it?”

“Nine men just walked in,” Instance replied, shifting his weight and loosening his sword in its scabbard. “They’re all hooded, but not Night Riders. One’s moving to the bar, speaking to Gunstrum.”

A wave of cold trickled down Shade’s spine. “Nine? You’re certain?”