The Sentinel

CHAPTER 3

It was almost too easy. by all rights, Kleef should have been dead by now. His boots were slipping in his own blood, his arms and legs ached with the ice-cold burn of shadow-inflicted slashes, and his shoulders had grown so weary he could barely swing his sword. Yet somehow, he was still holding the bridge, alone, against an endless stream of shades. It made no sense.

The enemy arrived in twos and threes, rushing in behind flurries of umbral magic and slashing blades, attacking so fiercely Kleef dared not look away. He had no idea what had become of the red-haired woman or the mysterious archer who had come to his aid, and he had long ago lost track of the Shadovar leader-the one with the steel-blue eyes. And yet, his foes never seemed to press so hard that he would be forced to flee, as though they wanted to kill him on Deepwater Bridge or not at all.

At first, Kleef had attributed their caution to Watcher. The agate on the sword’s crossguard continued to glow whenever Shadovar drew near, and they tended to cringe and dodge when it shined in their direction. But the blue light never seemed to cause any injury that would explain their reluctance to mount a full charge, and, he had eventually decided that his opponents were simply trying to keep him from seeing what was happening behind him.

Kleef retreated three quick steps, hoping to buy a moment to look behind him and see what had become of the red-haired woman. Another hissing disk came flying from the right and a cloud of black darts from the left. He ducked the darts and used Watcher to deflect the disk, and his latest trio of foes came rushing in behind a flurry of kicks and slashes.

Kleef stood his ground for two heartbeats, then blocked and pivoted, sending the middle shade flying with a knifehand to the throat. He brought Watcher around in a single-handed chop that buried the sword deep in the collar of the one on the left. He spun away, ripping the blade free and leading with a heel sweep that would prevent his last attacker from slipping in behind him.

Then Kleef glimpsed a yellow streak flying in from the south end of the bridge. He drew up short, just in time to see an arrow take the last shade in the side of the head. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying.

Kleef quickly beheaded all three of his downed foes, then was astonished to look up and find no more Shadovar charging in to attack. For the moment, at least, they had run out of warriors.

Kleef glanced behind him, toward the south end of the bridge.

Twenty paces away, a tall, fair-skinned woman was racing toward him, her blonde hair flying over the shoulders of her ornate hunting armor. She came to a stop ten paces away, nocking a fresh arrow and looking for another target. With pale blue eyes and a wide, full-lipped mouth, she looked vaguely familiar-and entirely out of place charging into battle against the Shadovar.

When she saw Kleef staring at her, the woman cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she called. “Did you want to kill all of them yourself?”

Kleef frowned. “What?” Then, recognizing her sarcasm, he quickly added, “No.”

Leaving it at that, he shifted his attention to the street behind her. The crowd was too dense and churning for him to spot the red-haired woman, or much of anything else. But at least he saw no obvious battle snarls to suggest the Shadovar had found her.

The blonde archer cried out, “Drop!”

Kleef obeyed instantly. He still hadn’t hit the ground when her arrow sizzled past, barely a hand’s width from his ear, and thudded into its target. He looked up to find another trio of shades almost upon him. A fourth lay behind them, clutching at the arrow in his chest and writhing in pain.

Kleef rose to one knee and swung his sword into the dark tangle of legs coming toward him, and the air erupted into screams. He switched to a one-handed grip and sprang back to his feet, then blocked, ducked, and shouldered forward between two of his attackers. He spun around behind the one on the left end and sent the shade’s head flying, then saw a geyser of dark blood erupt from the middle one as an arrow tore through his throat.

The one on the right end was already five paces past Kleef, halfway to the archer. Holding her bow in one hand, she drew a slender sword and blocked his initial attack, then brought the bow tip around to harry her attacker’s feet. The shade leaped back, then forward again, and only a timely pivot saved the archer from having her armor sorely tested.

By then, Kleef was within striking range. He brought Watcher around high and sent the shade’s head flying.

A gout of dark blood arced from the neck stump, spraying the woman’s golden hair and the left side of her face. Her blue eyes went wide.

“Uh, sorry,” Kleef said, kicking the body away before it could fall on her. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, forcing a smile between lips curled in revulsion. “You were only trying to help.”

Seeing her up close, Kleef felt even more certain he recognized the woman from somewhere-but now was hardly the time to figure it out. He merely nodded, then turned to see whether a fresh wave of attackers had arrived.

And they had. This time, there were more than a dozen, standing in two murky ranks about two-thirds of the way across the bridge. When they did not advance, Kleef began to fear they were simply giving themselves enough room to unleash an onslaught of shadow magic.

Then he began to hear boots pounding up the bridge behind him, and he glanced back to find at least ten men-at-arms charging from the direction of House Seasilver. Their white tabards bore a pale purple wyvern-the sigil of Duke Farnig’s household guard-and they quickly began to gather around the blonde archer.

Kleef stepped over to a gray-bearded man wearing the crimson shoulder-braid of sergeant of the guard, then warned, “Don’t cluster-not against shadow magic.” He waved a hand across the width of the bridge. “Form a battle line here.”

The sergeant’s expression turned resentful, and his men-at-arms frowned.

Then the agate on Watcher’s crossguard flared to life again, and the gazes of all ten men-at-arms dropped to the blue stone. They began to stand a little straighter, their faces started to harden with determination, and Kleef found himself trying to hide his confusion. Clearly, there were a few things about Watcher his father had neglected to tell him.

Finally, the sergeant barked, “You heard the man. Single rank!” He glanced at Kleef, then added, “No one passes!”

The guards responded with a spirited cry and assumed their positions in front of Kleef, their hands filled with daggers and swords. The woman stepped to Kleef’s side, her sword back in its scabbard and a fresh arrow nocked on her bowstring.

Kleef stole one last glance over his shoulder, searching for any sign that more Shadovar might be emerging from the shadows to attack from behind them. At first, he didn’t see anything except the continued mayhem of too many people fleeing up High Bridge Road. But his eye was soon drawn to movement near the Bridge Gate of House Seasilver, and he glimpsed a flash of red hair as it disappeared through the narrow gap of the closing gate.

“The enemy is in front of us,” the archer said. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

It took Kleef a moment to catch her meaning. “Uh … right.” He looked back to the Shadovar and was alarmed to find them swirling their hands, creating shields of raw shadowstuff. “Thanks for your help.”

“Think nothing of it.” Given the sarcasm of a moment before, the woman sounded surprisingly sincere. “Your stand has been an inspiration to us all.”

As she spoke, the second rank of Shadovar began to rub their hands together, drawing wisps of darkness from their murky auras and packing them into pulsing balls of shadow. Unable to locate the steel-eyed leader, Kleef simply pointed at the middle of the second rank.

“That one. Second rank, center.”

“That one what?” asked the archer.

“Kill him,” Kleef said. “Now.”

The woman brought her bow up and loosed the arrow in the same smooth motion, and an eye blink later, her target went stumbling backward with an arrow sprouting from his chest. The ball of shadow seemed to melt in his grasp and began seeping through his fingers, dissolving everything it touched. By the time his body hit the bridge, his elbow was gone, and the rest of his arm was draining into the dark cracks between the cobblestones.

The warriors to either side of him raised their arms, preparing to hurl their balls of shadow. Kleef called for a charge and started forward, the archer and Duke Farnig’s men-at-arms running at his side.

The shadow orbs came flying.

The torsos of two guards melted into darkness as they took the hits full in the chest. Kleef brought Watcher around, Helm’s Eye flashing as he deflected two of the dark balls, sending them arcing over the canal. A third orb managed to slip past him, and he turned to see the archer trying to pivot away from it.

No time. Kleef kicked the back of her heels. Her feet flew out from beneath her-and her head dropped out of the shadow ball’s path half a heartbeat before it streaked past.

The woman landed on her backplate, and Kleef was glad to see she had the good training to tuck her chin to prevent her head from hitting. They had already fallen five paces behind the charge, so he grabbed her by her bow arm-and finally recalled where he had seen her face.

“I know you.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Though I hardly-”

“You’re that minstrel who used to sing at The Old Oak,” Kleef interrupted, yanking her to her feet. “Elver … Elberta …”

“Elbertina.” The woman’s tone was irritated. “But that was my stage-”

A tremendous battle cheer sounded behind the Shadovar, and it was quickly answered by Duke Farnig’s men-at-arms. Kleef looked up to see nearly a dozen halberds swaying in the air behind the Shadovar lines. The Marsember Watch had arrived.

“Reinforcements!” Elbertina raced after Farnig’s guards. “Now we have them!”

But the shades were in no mood to continue the fight. They broke toward both sides of the bridge, flinging lines of shadow around the balustrades. As their ranks parted, Kleef was surprised to see that the “reinforcements” were his own men, with Jang leading the troop.

The shades began to leap off the bridge, trailing their shadow lines behind them like ropes. As they hit the ends, they swung back and disappeared under the belly of the bridge. Kleef reached the balustrade half a step behind the last warrior, but by the time he leaned out to slash the dark line, the fellow was already dropping into the murk beneath the span. Kleef did not hear a splash.

Elbertina reached his side, leaning over the balustrade to peer into the empty waters. “Where did they go?”

“Good question,” Kleef said. He turned and looked back toward House Seasilver. “I have a feeling we won’t like the answer.”

Joelle Emmeline stood just inside a small carriage court, peering through a narrow gap between two barely open gates. She was looking back toward the bridge where the battle had been, studying the big watchman who had just saved her for the second time that day. With rugged features and dark hair curling out beneath his helm, he was as handsome as he was deadly, and she could not help thinking that the Lady had sent him to her. He certainly appeared capable of protecting her. And if he proved to be as talented in the gentler arts as he was in combat? Well, then-the long journey ahead might even become a pleasure.

“Have you gone mad?” demanded a nasal voice beside her. “You will let in the … shadows!”

The gates banged shut, and Joelle looked over to find her companion with his hands pressed to the oaken planks. Dressed in a drab gray robe and exuding a foul odor that seemed impossible to scrub off, the little round-headed man looked more like a beggar than one of her fellow Chosen. For the hundredth time, she found herself questioning whether he had truly been sent by the gods to help her save Toril.

“Aren’t you curious about him, Malik?” Joelle asked. She helped him slide the heavy crossbar back into place. “Not the least little bit?”

Malik’s face grayed with irritation. “About a big oaf with a big sword and a big thirst for using it?” he asked. “His type is as common as vermin in this vile place. I could stand on any corner of the city and hire a hundred just like him.”

Joelle flashed her radiant smile. She smiled often-and when she did, it was always radiant.

“How sweet,” she said. “You’re jealous.”

A pained look came to the little man’s face. “Why should I be jealous? You will never belong to someone like me-and I am wise enough to know it.”

“Belong?” Joelle chuckled, her voice gentle but chastising. “Love isn’t a yoke, Malik. It’s a gift to be shared freely-or not at all.”

“And it is one you will never share with me.”

“You’re wrong about that, Malik.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I have already given you my love. And you would see that, if only you would give yours to me.”

“I’m here, am I not?” Malik’s tone was resentful. “If joining you in this madness isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

“You’re here because your god commands it,” Joelle reminded him. “That’s obedience, not love.”

Malik looked away, as he always did when he did not wish her to see into his heart, then picked up the small woolen satchel he had stolen off a cart soon after the Shadovar began chasing them.

“Enough blather,” he said. “We have to move on. It’s not safe here.”

Joelle turned toward the interior of the cobblestone courtyard, where dozens of other refugees who had pushed through the gate milled about. Many had begun peering into the windows of the carriage house and into the arched doorways of the great house itself, nervously murmuring to one another. If any guards had remained behind when the archer led her company out to join the fight on the bridge, they were nowhere to be seen.

Joelle allowed Malik to take her arm and lead the way around the courtyard’s center monument-a grotesque statue of a diving wyvern. On the far side, he stopped suddenly and clutched the small satchel to his chest.

Joelle followed his gaze and immediately spotted the source of his alarm: a pair of steel-blue eyes shining out of the murk beneath one of the arched doorways. In a single fluid motion, she snatched a trio of throwing darts off her belt and whipped them toward the eyes.

The enchanted darts blazed with the all-consuming heat of Sune’s passion, and a chorus of alarmed cries filled the courtyard as panicked refugees raced for cover. Joelle kept her gaze fixed on the doorway, where the dusky silhouette of her target became visible. Swaddled in a dark cloak that blurred into murkiness at the edges, he was tall and lanky, with a long chin, gaunt cheeks, and the glowing, metal-colored eyes of a Prince of Shade.

Yder Tanthul, of course. He was one of the Shadovar’s greatest living warriors-and the bane of Joelle’s existence.

He caught her first dart on a shield of shadow, which dissolved instantly into magical flame. Unfazed, Yder pivoted aside, allowing the next pair to thunk into the door behind him. He smiled and extended a hand.

Joelle tensed her legs, gathering herself to spring away, but it was Malik who cried out in alarm.

“Help me!” He began to lurch forward, fighting to keep the satchel clutched to his chest. “The Eye! He has the Eye!”

Joelle drew her slender sword and, praying for Sune’s help, stepped between Malik and Yder. Instantly, her long red hair began to emit a faint aura of fiery light. All eyes swung in her direction, and the panic in the courtyard waned as refugees stopped to gape at her divinely enhanced beauty. When she smiled, gasps of awe rippled through the crowd.

Only Yder seemed immune. He emerged from the doorway, hissing and cursing, his hand spraying a beam of shadow in her direction. Joelle spun away and dived into a forward roll, then heard a cold sizzle as the shadow beam grazed the statue behind her. An instant later, the entire courtyard shook as the stone wyvern crashed down and shattered against the cobblestones.

The shadow beam reached the gate and crackled through the heavy oak planks. Cries of alarm and anger echoed across the courtyard. The refugees whirled on Yder in a rage, their hands filled with daggers or clubs or anything else they could use as a weapon. By the time Joelle had returned to her feet, the shadow prince had been swallowed by a screaming mob.

Malik was gone, too, of course. His god, Myrkul, had bestowed on him the ability to vanish like a ghost, and he practiced it often-especially when danger threatened. That left Joelle to handle Yder alone, and when she looked toward the courtyard entrance, she found several of his shadow warriors already climbing through the shattered remains of the gate.

Knowing that Malik would try to conceal his odor by hiding in the worst-smelling place possible, she turned toward the carriage house annex and raced inside. At the near end, a trio of expensive coaches sat side by side. A line of open stalls stood along the back wall, still lined with hay and manure, but otherwise empty. A ladder between two stalls led up into the hayloft. At the end closest to the main house were two large doors, one marked “Tack Room” and the other “Clean Shoes Only.”

Joelle glanced back into the courtyard and found the Shadovar still busy trying to fight off the enraged mob. She felt genuine remorse to see so many felled by the glassy black blades, but their sacrifice was necessary. If she and Malik did not survive to complete their mission, those same people would suffer a fate much worse than death-as would all of Toril.

She barred the carriage house doors, then turned to look for her companion.

“Malik?” She grabbed a pitchfork and began to stir the piles of hay and manure in the stalls. “Malik, we have to hurry!”

Joelle was on her third stall when she heard a soft clunking from the far end of the annex. Her companion emerged from the tack room, one hand holding his curved short sword, the other clutching the gray satchel hung over his shoulder.

“Is it safe?”

“For the moment,” Joelle said. “But we need to move, and quickly.”

Malik frowned. “I have only been waiting on you,” he said. “Next time, I will not be so gallant.”

Malik left the tack room, then led the way through the adjacent door into a long service corridor that ran along the back side of the mansion. The passage had limestone floors and iron candle sconces on the walls, and it was littered down its entire length with abandoned furniture and trunks of discarded clothing. Ahead, several exhausted servants stood in the mouths of intersecting hallways, leaning against doorframes and eyeing the cast-off goods with expressions of shock and resentment.

Malik closed the door to the stable and pressed his palm to it, calling upon the god of the dead to hold it fast. Then he turned and led the way into the house. If any of the servants raised a brow, Malik returned their gaze with a bulging-eyed glare that made most recipients blanch and turn away.

The strategy worked until they had advanced roughly halfway through the house. There, an imperious looking man in velvet robes stepped out to block their path. He had an arched nose and close-set eyes, and his velvet robes bore the same wyvern sigil as the guards’ tabards. He was obviously a high-ranking member of the household staff-probably the majordomo himself. The man eyed them up and down, then spoke in a plummy voice.

“Do I know you?”

“No, and you are safer for it,” Malik answered. He brandished the gray satchel slung over his shoulder. “But have no worries. We are not here to take your master’s cast-off belongings, only to deliver to him a most marvelous gift that has been sent by the gods themselves.”

The man stared down at Malik’s soiled clothes and the grimy satchel, then wrinkled his nose and turned to call over his shoulder.

“Kegwell, come here,” he said. “And bring your men. I have a job for you.”

The clamor of steel and boots echoed down the hallway. Joelle silently cursed Malik’s love of the lie. Sometimes, it seemed that he would rather invent an implausible story than tell a convincing truth. She grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back, then stepped into his place.

“Please accept my apologies, my good man.” Joelle smiled, and the majordomo’s expression quickly softened. “My traveling companion can be quite inventive when he’s frightened.”

Malik huffed in indignation, but the man ignored him and turned to Joelle. “I don’t believe I know you, either, my lady.”

“Lady Emmeline, of Berdusk.” Joelle did not present her hand, aware that no noblewoman of Cormyr would grant such liberties to a mere servant. “I do hope you’ll be good enough to let us pass. The fighting in the streets is quite ferocious.”

As Joelle spoke, five men in white tabards over chain mail emerged from the hallway behind the proud-looking man. She smiled at them, and their countenances immediately changed from bellicose to friendly. Her smile almost always had that effect on people. The lead guard, a grim-faced man with a drooping mustache, allowed his gaze to linger on Joelle as he spoke to the man who had summoned his team.

“You called for us, Master Greymace?”

“Yes, Kegwell, I did.”

Greymace frowned at Joelle and Malik, his gaze sliding back and forth between the two as he tried to make sense of the apparent differences in their social rank. Finally, his gaze settled on Malik.

“The rabble is beginning to make its way into the house,” he said. “Escort these two from-”

Greymace was interrupted when a muffled boom reverberated from the carriage house annex. Malik glanced back, then removed the satchel from his shoulder and astonished Joelle by shoving it into Kegwell’s arms.

“You must take that to your master’s ship!” His voice had assumed a commanding urgency. “It will protect him from the shadow fiends!”

“Shadow fiends?” Kegwell looked up the corridor toward the boom. “Here?”

“Who do you think that was?” Joelle asked, starting to see where Malik was going with this particular lie. She turned to Greymace and shooed him down the corridor. “We must hurry. I think your master has been their target all along!”

Greymace studied the satchel and frowned doubtfully-until another boom rumbled from inside the carriage house. Eyes lighting in alarm, he motioned for Kegwell and the guards to follow, then started down the corridor at a brisk pace.

“The duke cannot wait for his daughter any longer,” he said. “The Wyvern must depart at once.”

They had barely taken five steps before a tremendous crackle-and-clatter sounded behind them. Joelle glanced back to see a long blade of shadow cleaving the stone wall that separated the stables from the main house.

“Run!” she yelled. “They’re coming!”

The guards did not need to be told twice. Two of them grabbed Greymace by the arms and broke into a full sprint, pulling the majordomo down the corridor with them. Kegwell followed close on their heels, clutching the heavy satchel under his arm and commanding his men to run faster, and soon they were all racing out of the passage into a large courtyard strewn with crates of unwanted books, draperies, and porcelain.

On the far side of the yard, a hundred-and-fifty foot galleass was docked at a private quay, its deck rails lined by men-at-arms wearing the white tabards of the house guard. On the raised quarterdeck stood a tall, handsome figure in golden scale mail-undoubtedly the master of the house. He had long coppery hair and a pointed beard, and he was using a magnificent sword in a bejeweled scabbard to point and gesture as he bellowed orders to the crew on the main deck.

A thunderous crack echoed out of the service corridor. Joelle returned to the door and looked up the length of the passage to where the dark form of Prince Yder Tanthul was just stepping through the remnants of the carriage house wall. She pulled a trio of darts from her belt and sent them sailing down the hall, then spun back toward the galleass … and felt Malik’s hand close around her elbow.

“Let the fools go,” he said, pulling her aside. “They’re doomed anyway.”

Joelle frowned and-watching Kegwell race up the gangplank with Malik’s satchel-tried to pull free. “But the Eye-”

“Will never be aboard that ship.” Malik pulled her toward the front of the mansion. “And neither will we.”

Arietta stepped onto her father’s private quay and could scarcely believe what she saw. The Wave Wyvern was already two hundred yards up the canal, with all oars pulling and dozens of archers at the rails. She could barely make out her father-a copper-haired figure in gold armor-standing on the quarterdeck, peering at something being held by another figure in robes-probably his majordomo, Greymace. After a moment, he reached toward Greymace, then raised what appeared to be a large hammer. He studied the hammer for a moment, then cocked his head in confusion and looked back at the majordomo.

The quay drummed with the sound of running boots as her companions caught up to her. The big watchman-he had introduced himself as Kleef Kenric-took a position at her side and began to issue orders, dispatching men to murky corners and dim alcoves to watch for any sign of Shadovar. The sergeant of her father’s guard joined them on her other side, then gaped at the departing galleass in disbelief.

“The Wyvern left without you,” Carlton said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe the duke would do that!”

“Why not?” asked one of Kleef’s subordinates-a heavy-jawed brute who was half a head taller than most of his fellows, but still half a head shorter than his superior. “He’s a noble, ain’t he? There’s not a one of ’em that ain’t a coward-”

“That’s enough, Tanner,” interrupted Kleef. “Why aren’t you looking for Shadovar, like I ordered?”

Tanner eyed his superior with open resentment for a moment, and Arietta saw in his face a bitter hopelessness that was all too frequent in Marsember. It was the sour recognition that the local nobility would do nothing to protect the common people or see to their welfare, that the city’s rulers were little better than tyrants who used their power and wealth only for their own benefit.

After a moment, Tanner finally seemed to find the courage to speak what was on his mind: “You haven’t given us what you promised for clearing the square, Topsword. I hope you’re not thinking of holding out-”

“Your gold is right here.” Kleef pulled out a purse and jingled it in his palm. “I’ll divide it after we’re finished with the Shadovar.”

Tanner looked as though he would object for a moment, then his eye dropped to the agate on the crossguard of Kleef’s sword. He seemed transfixed for a moment, then finally nodded.

“Fair enough. You’ve always been a man of your word.” A cynical grin crossed his face, and he added, “Otherwise, you’d be a blade-master by now.”

He turned to leave, and Arietta scowled at the purse in Kleef’s hand. “You must bribe your men for every task? With gold?”

Kleef looked embarrassed. “Never have before,” he said, tucking the purse back beneath his breastplate. “But these are strange times.”

“Strange indeed,” Arietta said. She abhorred the corruption of the Watch-but who was she to judge, when her own father was abandoning Marsember with a quarter of the city’s wealth stowed below his decks. “I’m sure they have earned every coin.”

As she spoke, a sudden outcry echoed across the water from the direction of the Wave Wyvern. Arietta looked up the canal to find the tall, bright-eyed silhouette of the Shadovar leader looming over her father, menacing him with a dark blade. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she saw that the archers had disappeared from the rails.

“There are your Shadovar!” Carlton gasped. “How did they cross-”

“Walked through shadows,” Kleef explained. He stepped to the edge of the quay and peered over the edge. “Is there another boat?”

“Not one that can get us there in time,” Arietta said.

As she spoke, bodies and parts of bodies were already tumbling over the Wyvern’s deck rails. She nocked an arrow and drew the string back-only to have Kleef’s big hand grab her arm.

“Hold,” he said. “You might hit the grand duke.”

Arietta looked to him in surprise. “You would care?”

“About Farnig the Feckless?” Kleef snorted and shook his head. “But I have my duty. I must do what I can to protect him.”

Continuing to hold Arietta’s arm, he looked back toward the Wyvern. When her father finally summoned the courage to attempt drawing his sword, Kleef sighed and released her arm.

“Now you can loose your arrow,” he said. “The man is as good as dead already.”

A cold hollow formed in her stomach, and Arietta raised her bow again and let fly. The shade’s blade swung, and her father’s body hit the deck while her arrow was still in the air.

“My lady!” Carlton gasped.

Arietta ignored him and watched in disappointment as her arrow barely cleared the taffrail and dropped out of sight. If the shade noticed the attack at all, he gave no sign of it.

Carlton reached for her arm. “My lady, are you-”

“I’m fine,” Arietta said, cutting him off. The watchmen still seemed to think she was a minstrel, and the last thing she wanted right now was to reveal her true identity to Kleef Kenric or his men. “We’ll say nothing more about it.”

She pulled free of his grasp and turned away from the canal, only to find Tanner marching the red-haired gentlewoman toward the quay. Next to him, two more watchmen had the red-haired woman’s manservant by the arms, dragging him along as he kicked and struggled.

“Are you mad or daft?” the little man exclaimed. “We must be gone before the fiends discover we are not aboard. Your lives will depend on it!”