It was only several nights later that Rianos was able to close his eyes—all he could think about was his encounter with Jert at the tavern. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen him before.

They probably hadn’t crossed paths in Givoi. The only Ennians there were traders and their attendants, and Jert didn’t look like one or the other. The ship Rianos took away from Sifares didn’t have any copper-headed mercenaries on it, either. That left Sifares itself.

Rianos could feel something amiss. A sense of foreboding ate away at him, sank deep in his gut, twisted his stomach in knots. The runaway’s intuition rarely betrayed him, and he was used to trusting it—his entire life had been spent expecting retaliation for his audacious feat. The masters paid slave hunters well to return their property. For that kind of money, the hunters were willing to pay a visit to the Accursed himself in the furnace. And Jert the Ennian did, indeed, look like a slave hunter—the imperial visage that didn’t draw attention in those parts coupled with the training as a fighter. He had plenty of money, too, which made it strange that he was so eager to join the Hundred. Artanna nar Toll didn’t pay much, though the work tended to be quiet.

The healer decided not to share his suspicions with his commander for the time being. Artanna had been attracting too much attention from the authorities as it was, and he had no desire to spook the slave hunter, if that was who Jert really was. That would have just forced him to lie low for a while or send someone stealthier. Of course, accusing an honest man without evidence would have been awkward, as well. Rianos decided to get to work looking for that evidence on his own.

He noticed Jert when he was leaving the herbalist’s shop. The Ennian was walking along the busy street in the direction of the market square, the weather dark and cold, but at least dry. After grabbing his basket, the healer threw a hood over his head and set off in pursuit. He wasn’t going to make the evening meal as it was, and dinner at the Wicked Monk was as good a reason as any to spend some more time observing the Ennian.

Rianos was no spy, but years spent on the run had taught him how to hide and blend in with a crowd. Jert was making no such effort. He was walking briskly, his shoulders thrown back, a smile flashed at all the passing girls, and a copper coin tossed to a beggar woman. He even paused at a flower stall to pick out a nice bouquet he then gave to a large-chested prostitute peeking out of one of the brothel windows. It was as if he had just come to the city for a good time.

On the other hand, he could have been waiting for something, though that begged the question—waiting for what?

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

At just the last second, Rianos jumped back to avoid getting trampled by a horse. His basket banged against a nearby wall; some woman in a colorful dress hissed something at him in Gatson.

Keeping his distance while not losing his target turned out to be tricky. Rianos had to go against the flow of people, as most in the city were hurrying home. Shopkeepers were wrapping up their goods, while porters kept banging into him and threatening to scatter the contents of his basket. Still, he was lucky—Jert cut a distinct figure and was going nowhere in a hurry. Once he got to the market square, the Ennian turned into an adjacent street and headed toward the port quarter via the foundries. The healer picked up his pace to make sure he didn’t lose him in the labyrinthine alleys. It wasn’t the nicest area, and Rianos had no idea what Jert could want there, especially with nightfall approaching.

He was starting to enjoy the thrill of the chase—for the first time in his life, he was the hunter instead of the hunted. His heart pounded, blood pumped into his legs, and Rianos crouched, hound-like, ready to run. Without really knowing where the feeling was coming from, he realized that he was identifying with the spies Artanna’s warriors always talked about. They were people prepared to face all kinds of danger so long as they found the valuable information they were looking for.

Slipping along the walls, hiding behind barrels and piles of trash, and getting bogged down in the mud, he kept adjusting his hood to keep his eyes fixed on the back of the person who threatened to ruin his life. To his surprise, Rianos caught himself thinking that if Jert really were a slave hunter, he would do whatever he had to in order to ensure that Jert returned emptyhanded.

A raven cawed from a rooftop. Rianos turned to look for the bird and realized it had gotten dark—it was too expensive to keep the lanterns lit where he was. Even so, he kept going, squinting to see ahead of him. He stared down the gloomy alley. The Ennian was nowhere to be seen. Figuring he’d turned a corner, the healer also remembered that there was an underground den somewhere nearby that sold pashtara. He grunted. Jert, apparently, was looking to have some fun with the forbidden powder.

The basket was getting in the way. Leaving it next to a wall and making a mental note of the spot, he pressed onward. But just as he reached the turn, a shadow slipped out from behind a corner. Rianos was pulled into the narrow alleyway and thrown up against the wall before he knew what was happening. He coughed.

“Why are you following me?”

“I’m trying to figure out who you are.”

“I already introduced myself to your mistress.”

“Artanna isn’t my mistress. She’s my commander.”

Rianos jerked, but the Ennian’s grip was tight.

“Stop it.” Jert turned the healer’s disfigured cheek to the light. “Judging by the brand, you belonged to the Ufhag family before you ran away. My sympathies—they’re some nasty people. Especially the grandfather. The old bastard went completely crazy looking for immortality.”

“You know quite a bit about my old masters.”

“I know a lot about everyone.”

Rianos peered closer into his new acquaintance’s face. He was an imperial, pure-blooded, even from somewhere farther north than Beltera. Kanedan or Osvendis. His face was chiseled, if covered in stubble. Tired eyes were set in a network of wrinkles, and he looked between thirty and thirty-five.

The healer tried to imagine what he might have looked like ten years before.

Suddenly, it hit him.

“Wait, you’re…you’re… You’re really one of them? I saw you—you came when they… Oh, merciful god…”

Panic. He hated that feeling. It was a kind of fear that froze his legs and arms, keeping him from moving, even from blinking. Sticky sweat broke out on his back; icy fingers felt around under his ribs.

His inner voice, the one that had kept him out of danger for years, the one he owe his survival to, was screaming, shouting, begging him to run. But he couldn’t. All he could do was stare into the sad, tired, dead eyes of Jert the Ennian. He couldn’t even force himself to shout for help.

“Good memory,” Jert replied calmly. “I’ve been wondering if you’d remember me or not.”

***

When the dagger’s long blade slipped easily through the fabric of his tunic and buried itself in Rianos’ chest, all he did was gasp weakly. There was no cry, no plea for help, not even a blink. The blow was clean and right to the heart. Something gurgled in Rianos’ throat, and his body slowly sagged. Bewilderment froze in his eyes.

“Running away is punishable by death for slaves, and all Ennians are required to carry out that punishment by order of the Magistrate,” Jert hissed. “But if that were all, I would have let you go and sworn to keep your secret. The problem is that you know too much.”

He returned his knife to his sheath, carefully gripped the healer’s torso, and dragged him into a space between two houses that wasn’t even big enough for the two of them. The spot was dark and sparsely populated—it would be morning before the body was found.

All that was left were a few final strokes. Jert pulled his dagger out once more.