A flash of bright hair, golden and shimmery, beneath last season’s tricorn hat. A slender figure, so much like my own that it might have been my own, clad in an Iruvian-style loose silk tunic and leggings under a heavy Akorosi cloak. Silhouetted for one brief moment in the doorway of the Iruvian Consulate, he slipped out the back way – exactly the way I would have slipped out, had I wanted to avoid Doskvolian eyes. I didn’t even need to see the curve of his cheek or the shape of his hand before I flung myself around the corner, heart thudding, knowing that the first place he’d check would be my dark corner – exactly the dark corner he would have chosen, had he wanted to spy on the comings and goings at the Consulate.

Because I knew him. Oh, how I knew him.

And because he knew me. Oh, how he knew me.

I fled.

Halfway across the district, I finally calmed down enough to slow to the brisk trot of a servant running errands, or perhaps a shopkeeper’s assistant delivering a late-night package to some lord or lady. Thanks to its wealthier population, the Bluecoats patrolled Brightstone more assiduously, meaning that they were less amenable to the level of bribes I could afford. (Of course, they had their price. Everyone had a price.) But luck was with me tonight, and I hit the bridge over the canal that separated the nobility from the sailors and dockers without getting accosted. As soon as I reached the Docks, I lengthened my stride again – not to the mug-me-please-mug-me-now scamper that drew all sorts of attention from the unsavory elements that hung around the taverns, brothels, and tattoo parlors, but to the purposeful I’m-busy-and-if-you-delay-me-my-boss-will-be-very-angry-and-trust-me-you-don’t-want-to-see-him-angry jog that sailors and dockers alike respected. Dodging a group of workmen who cursed and sweated as they lugged a huge wooden crate towards a looming warehouse, I cut straight for the bridge to Crow’s Foot.

Back in my home district at last, I flung myself into the shadowy alley behind a rickety boardinghouse and hunched over, gasping for breath. The most pressing question now was: Did I want to be a Lampblack or Red Sash tonight? Wracking my memory of recent gang fights, I tried to guess which streets belonged to which gangs at the moment, and which affiliation would be more likely to warn off petty criminals dumb enough to bother me. Unless something had gone seriously sideways during my surveillance shift, the Crows’ territory should still lie to my west, extending from the Crow’s Nest tower out to the river, so none of their followers would molest me on my way home. Thanks to the way my features looked either Skovlander or Iruvian depending on the lighting and the observer’s bias, the newer, dumber, or drunker Lampblacks and Red Sashes would consider me a fellow countrywoman and let me through – if I got my outfit right, that was. Of course, I could run through any interlopers with my sword, but that was messy and noisy and would annoy either Bazso Baz or Mylera Klev. Also, in the event of a death, it would attract the attention of the Spirit Wardens and of any Bluecoats hungry for a bribe. (Which they always were.) I was trying to conserve my rent money.

Oh, whatever. Yanking a red silk scarf – which looked more or less black on the unlit backstreets of Crow’s Foot anyway – out of a coat pocket, I wrapped it around my waist twice and knotted it securely on the right side, away from Grandfather’s hilt. Then, with the ends fluttering along behind me, I sauntered down quiet Hulliver Lane, with its crumbling stone manors that housed up to a dozen families each, and swung onto the wider Cinder Street, where taverns and brothels jockeyed for business while smithies and butcher houses catnapped for the last few hours until dawn. Here a prostitute giggled coquettishly at a docker passing her corner; there a tattooed tough handed a nervous young nobleman a packet of drugs; and in the distance a couple Bluecoats strode out of an inn, looking so smug that they must have extorted a significant sum from the innkeeper.

Onto Ash Way I turned, home to my tiny flat on the third floor of a ramshackle flophouse. As I puffed my way up the creaky wooden stairs – “Keeps those pretty legs of yours trim!” as old Madame Bell liked to cackle, which might offend me if she didn’t say it to all of her boarders, men and women alike – I finally got around to pressing question number two: What should I do now that he had tracked me to Doskvol? Maybe I should stow away on the next train to exit the lightning barrier. But I hated the idea of restricting my movements to the length of one train as we chugged through the deathlands.

And anyway, where could I go? As much as I missed the jet-black deserts and jagged mountain peaks of Iruvia, the entire isle was off limits. So, too, was cold, mountainous Skovlan – Mother came from a prominent family in Lockport, and not only did I resemble her right down to the pale-gold shade of my hair, but any half-Skovlander, half-Iruvian newcomer would remind the locals of the beautiful young woman who married the Iruvian nobleman and (suspected) spy. It made such a romantic tale and, if Mother’s endless store of sagas and skaldic poetry were any indication, the Skovlanders loved their romantic tales. My sudden appearance in Skovlan wouldn’t attract the attention of the Imperial authorities, always twitchy about another uprising, at all. Severos, unfortunately, was too sparsely populated for me to hide easily, and I barely knew anything about the Dagger Isles, except that they were all jungle. Black jungle. No thanks. And the final option – leaving the Imperium entirely and seeking asylum in Tycheros – was no option. The Tycherosi were part demon. If demons didn’t bother me, why would I have run away from home in the first place?

Staying in Doskvol it was, then. After all, if I couldn’t lose myself in the seedy underbelly of one of the largest and most densely packed cities in the entire Imperium, where could I possibly hide? And if I couldn’t manage to stay one step ahead of him, then maybe I deserved to be caught and dragged back to U’Duasha.

Maybe, after two years of jumping at shadows, I wouldn’t mind being caught and dragged home to U’Duasha.

Lost in thought, I completely forgot to check my door for signs of entry. Mechanically, I disabled my trap, jiggled my key just the right way to turn the finicky lock, shouldered open the door, which had a tendency to stick, especially on damp nights like this, and stepped into my room.

“I got it right this time, did I?” asked an amused voice, faintly inflected with Skovic tones, from the battered wooden desk by the window.

I dropped the key and drew Grandfather, whose steel blade flashed with excitement. Yeeesss!

Limned by the pale moonlight, a tall man with light brown hair sprawled out in my chair held up both hands slowly but casually. “Easy there, Isha. You wouldn’t want to stab me by accident, would you?”

“Bazso!” I hissed, ramming Grandfather back into its scabbard and heaving my door shut. “What in the names of all the forgotten gods are you doing in my bedroom?”

Instead of answering, he conjured up a bottle of whiskey and three small, somewhat smudged glasses from his coat pockets. “Wrong choice of costume, Isha dear, if you were coming from the Docks,” he advised, nodding at the sash. “Some of my newer recruits might have gotten the wrong idea.”

Now that I was home and safe, all of my exhaustion caught up with me. Unbuckling my sword belt, I laid Grandfather reverently across the foot of my bed, then untied the sash and tossed it at a bedpost. It missed and pooled silkily on the bare floorboards. I left it there and kicked off my boots.

In stockinged feet, I crossed the room and hopped up to sit on my desk. “Good evening for the gang, then?” I asked the head of the Lampblacks conversationally. I didn’t bother to ask how he’d known which direction I’d come from. Like as not, his lookouts had warned him as soon as I paused for breath behind that boardinghouse by the bridge to the Docks.

“Indeed.” With a ceremonial flourish, he set one of the glasses on the desk, a little ways from us. Only then did he pour whiskey into the two other glasses. Like a gentleman, he offered me one before holding up the last in front of the window, swirling the liquid around and admiring its color, and inhaling deeply. “I came here to celebrate with you. Since you didn’t answer, I let myself in. Either I reset your trap right – or you were careless when you returned. Which was it?” For all the harshness of his words, his voice sounded concerned.

“Which do you think it was?” I retorted, in no mood for a lecture. Even at the best of times, spying on the Consulate for Lady Irimina ranked near the bottom of my preferred nighttime activities. It definitely hit rock bottom when he showed up. He shouldn’t have found me so quickly, I thought in despair, closing my eyes and downing the whiskey in one gulp. The sheer quantity of false trails I’d sown in Bright Harbor should have kept him and his minions busy for a decade. What had I missed? What had I done wrong?

Warm fingers took the glass from my hand. Liquid splashed softly, and then the glass pressed back against my fingers. “Isha. What’s wrong?”

On any other night, Bazso’s accent might have comforted me because it reminded me of Mother and home. But not tonight. Because it reminded me of Mother and home. Opening my eyes again, I forced a little chuckle. “Nothing much.” I even managed a dismissive shrug. My traitorous tongue kept blabbing, though. “I thought I saw – someone – I knew. At the Consulate.”

After two years, Bazso knew better than to pry into my past. Mostly because I’d told him, over and over, that it was safer for him and his people not to know – but also because I lost my temper when he pushed too hard.

“I wish you’d trust me,” he said soberly. “Two years, and you still won’t tell me your real name.”

Holding my glass, I just stared at him blankly.

“Glass for a street name, Isha Yara for a fake real name – my dear, what are you hiding from? Why did you come here?”

I downed the whiskey and held out the glass for more. “Mother always told me Doskvolian whiskey was the best in the world. I had to find out for myself.”

With a deliberate chuckle of his own, he dropped the interrogation and admonished me teasingly, “Your mother would never have said that, my dear. Skovlander whiskey is the best in the world. Drink it more slowly, Isha. Smell it. Taste it. Savor it.”

I obeyed, letting it burn its way down my throat and sear away my fears. I’d figure out what to do about him tomorrow, I promised myself. There was nothing I could do right now anyway. Sipping his own drink, Bazso smiled contentedly up at me, and I slid off the desk and into his lap, taking care not to upset either of our glasses or to knock over the empty one on the table. Tonight, just for tonight, I’d let myself savor the present – my lover’s arms tight around my back, his shoulder warm beneath my cheek, the best whiskey in the world gleaming in its bottle, and, above us, the hard white moonlight spilling over the rooftops and streaming through my crooked shutters.