CHAPTER

2

The body in the handcart was heavy, but that wasn’t what caused Quarrah to stop for another break. Fear was what was slowing her down. Fear that the Moonsick figure sealed inside the long wooden box might leap up at any moment and start tearing into the arrogant Talumonian citizens that strutted these streets.

Ugh. Talumon was such a haughty island. Quarrah didn’t particularly enjoy being here, but it was nice to have employment options on all the islands, now that the war had ended. She’d done some of her best work on Talumon in the past. Jobs seemed to line themselves up, clustered together like the endless towns and cities that populated this island.

But she definitely preferred Beripent to this self-important place. There was a dirty hardiness to Beripent’s streets, where the cramped neighborhoods encouraged people to keep their heads down and mind their own business.

Quarrah continued forward, mindful of the storm clouds overhead and the wind that whipped her sand-colored hair. Good. The rain would give her an excuse to stay at Lord Dulith’s manor and find out what kind of “cure” he was talking about.

“Best find shelter, young lady,” called an old man, checking the knots on the canopy covering his front porch.

See… much too nosy for Quarrah Khai’s liking. She didn’t reply, knowing that if she engaged him, the next thing out of his mouth would probably be, “What’s in the box?”

She’d already answered that half a dozen times after smuggling it past harbor security—“Delivery for Lord Dulith.” But the shape of the box was a telltale coffin, and the Talumonians were gossipy enough that she’d had to offer some explanation. She’d settled on a shipment of Fielders, and the lie seemed to satisfy the passive curiosity around her.

Dulith’s manor was old and stately, red stone walls rising three stories. Quarrah had scouted it well before approaching. There was an east and a west wing, servants’ quarters, and a comfortable, open-air courtyard, ideal for entertaining if the weather was cooperating.

The rest of the property was nothing extravagant, with a graveled walkway leading to the front steps. A small stream meandered across the east side, diverted into a manmade lagoon, where refuse could be dumped through chutes from the east wing. Flowering bushes and a few stout trees were the only real hope for concealment on the grounds.

As simple as the manor was, its primary resident was much less so. Like all the wealthy nobles, Lord Dulith had the time and the means to pursue any number of interests. And while many squandered their fortunes on collecting useless furniture or gambling, this particular man was an aspiring healer. At first, Quarrah had guessed he was a Hegger. If he obtained the proper licensure to practice healing, it would be that much easier to get access to Health Grit.

But her opinion had changed the moment she’d met him.

Quarrah stopped her cart at the edge of Lord Dulith’s property. Letting go of the handle, she reached into her Grit belt, withdrawing a small glass vial full of orange liquid. Carefully, she pried up the corner of the coffin’s lid. At once, a misty Grit cloud escaped its confinement. It billowed around her hand, creating a spherical dome, which made it immovable.

She gagged at the stench that wafted from the long box. It was an odor ripe with awful memories of every Moonsick encounter she’d faced—including the most recent capture of this poor soul.

Holding her breath, she slipped the vial inside the coffin, propping it on a block of wood she had nailed inside to serve as a makeshift shelf. Then she slammed the cover shut, hearing the glass crunch against the lid, containing the detonation inside.

Quarrah stepped back, examining her work. It was a poor woman’s excuse for a Drift crate, but hauling one of those around surely would have led the Reggies to stop and search her load.

The cloud of Stasis Grit would keep the Moonsick man contained in a state of unconsciousness. Even his ragged breathing and heartbeat would be suspended—assuming the creature’s heart actually still beat at all. Despite all her encounters with Moonsick Bloodeyes, Quarrah still understood very little about them. Irrationally violent, their voices stolen, blinded by bloodstained eyes… It was a terminal condition. Only one person had ever survived Moonsickness, and Quarrah wouldn’t have called it a cure. Prime Isless Gloristar had transformed into something altogether different.

Quarrah picked up the cart’s handles, satisfied that the fresh Stasis cloud had been fully contained inside the coffin. She trundled up the gravel path toward the manor as the first raindrops fell. By the time she’d reached the bottom step, a well-dressed servant and four muscular laborers were waiting for her, the group framed by massive pillars that supported the front porch.

“Quarrah Khai,” the servant greeted her. “Lord Dulith awaits you in his study.” He gestured into the house. “Right this way.”

“I really shouldn’t leave this unattended,” Quarrah replied, jabbing a thumb at the long box. “It’s kind of a time-sensitive delivery.”

She didn’t mention that they had less than ten minutes before the package would wake up and start killing people. Honestly, she didn’t know how much information the manor staff knew about their master hiring a criminal. Quarrah’s contacts in Talumon said they’d never known Lord Dulith to go outside the law before.

“Lord Dulith understands that the goods are volatile,” replied the servant. “These men will make sure the package gets where it needs to be.”

Normally, she’d be happy to hand it over, get paid, and disappear. But something was different about this job. At the risk of seeming like Ardor Benn, Quarrah had an itch to know more about her employer’s plans. This man had quietly claimed to have a cure for Moonsickness. She certainly didn’t believe it was true. But what if he’d found something he didn’t fully understand?

What if he’d found Metamorphosis Grit?

As the broad-shouldered laborers surrounded the handcart, Quarrah followed the servant into the manor. It was quiet and dry inside, the wall sconces lit with little orbs of Light Grit to combat the early dusk brought on by the storm.

The servant led her down the wide corridor and introduced her at the doorway to the study. Lord Dulith stood from the soft chair where he’d been waiting. He wasn’t a very tall man. In fact, Quarrah had him by at least an inch. His thinning hair was starting to turn gray at the temples, and he sported a thick mustache. His jowls were disproportionately flabby for such a thin man, hinting at a successful reformation from years of gluttony.

“Come in,” he said. “Sit down.”

It was an invitation Quarrah Khai rarely accepted, but she obliged today, seating herself in the soft chair beside his.

“Did everything go as planned?” Dulith asked.

The lingering presence of the servant at the door made her think that the lord wasn’t keeping this job as tight-lipped as she’d originally suspected.

“It’s here,” she answered. That didn’t mean it had gone as planned. Things seldom did.

“Male or female?” Dulith asked.

“It was a man,” she replied. Was. Because that monster was hardly human anymore.

“How many were still in the compound?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t go to Strind.” Visiting the Moonsick compound would have been asking for certain death. It was a hole of misery created by King Pethredote in an effort to appear more humane. Instead of executing people with Moonsickness, he stuffed them all into a remote compound and let them waste away naturally, recovering their corpses to feed to the dragons for specialty Grit derived from human bones.

Quarrah had heard that the compound had been bursting to capacity during the war. Moonsickness had been spreading naturally, and it didn’t help that the Realm was farming Bloodeyes for their own purposes.

“I thought you’d steal one from the compound,” Lord Dulith pressed. “I was anxious to hear how many are still locked away, now that Moonsickness is on the decline—thank the Holy Torch.”

Quarrah masked an exasperated sigh. How could anyone believe in the Holy Torch anymore? Up until a year ago the Wayfarist torch had been mysteriously failing. Now it was working better than ever? Couldn’t everyone plainly see that the Torch’s effectiveness directly coincided with the population of dragons on Pekal?

The little bull, whose egg Quarrah herself had stolen from Pekal, was doing his job more effectively than anyone could have guessed. Just over a year ago, new dragons had started hatching all over Pekal. Reports claimed that the population was now at a record high. And thus, Moonsickness was on the decline…

“The compound seemed too dangerous,” she admitted. “I decided on a different method.”

Dulith furrowed his brow. “Is there another method? Don’t tell me luck ran out for those thrill-seekers tempting fate in New Vantage.”

“The colony is fine,” she replied. Although Quarrah thought anyone willing to live on Pekal during a Moon Passing seemed halfway crazy already.

“Then how did you acquire the specimen?” asked Dulith.

“New Vantage may be safe, but the Redeye line on Pekal is still a real threat,” she replied. “If people travel far enough up from the shoreline, they’ll still get Moonsick.”

“I see,” said Dulith. “And the fellow you found for me?”

“He was part of a group that didn’t come down to the safety of New Vantage fast enough,” said Quarrah. “Five of them got Moonsick. Harbor Regulation realized that they were in the early stages and tried to detain them, but the sick ones had friends who caused a skirmish so they could get off the island.”

Dulith sat forward, his saggy cheeks jiggling. “Why would they do such a thing? They could endanger hundreds. A true friend would put a Roller ball through their heads.”

Not a very compassionate statement from an aspiring healer who claims to have a cure for Moonsickness, Quarrah thought.

“Don’t worry,” Quarrah said. “The group was detained in Beripent. The Moonsick victims were chained and shipped off to the compound on Strind. I managed to steal one and brought him to you.”

She made it sound a lot easier than it actually had been. She’d had to slip onto the transport ship before it left Beripent. Posing to be a friend of a friend, she freed one and led him out. By that point, he was approaching the second stage—already mute and losing his sight to a deep reddening of the eyes.

He’d been very cooperative until Quarrah had locked him in a box and slipped him onto a cargo ship headed for Talumon. The Prolonged Stasis Grit had kept him docile and slowed the decay a little, but by the time she met up with the coffin, he was well into the third stage and intent on murdering her when she’d opened the box. More Stasis Grit had put him down, subduing the insane creature long enough to haul him here.

Lord Dulith rose slowly. “Let us go inspect the monster. If I find everything to be satisfactory, I’ll deliver the payment and you can be on your way.”

If Lord Dulith was new to hiring criminals, he probably didn’t know her reputation well enough to realize that her work didn’t need inspection.

“Totshin, it’s time,” Dulith said to the servant. “Fetch my son.” With a nod, the attendant ducked out of the doorway, moving so quickly that Quarrah couldn’t see him by the time they’d reached the corridor.

“It’s time?” Quarrah repeated.

“To put my cure to the test,” Dulith answered.

“I’m intrigued,” she said cautiously. “Healers have been searching for a cure for Moonsickness since the beginning of time. You really think you’ve found it?”

“I know others have dedicated their entire lives to the healer’s art,” Dulith said, “but I’ve only been studying it since my wife passed away nearly three years ago.”

“Okay,” said Quarrah, puzzled by how a mere trio of years would give him advantage over the professionals. Dulith cast her a hurtful glance, and she suddenly realized how insensitive her reply had been. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” she added.

“I was holding her when she died,” said Dulith. “Pasic was there, too—just a lad of nine years, watching the life drain from his mother.”

Dulith paused before a set of tall double doors, the engraved wood inlaid with gold leafing. A servant was waiting with a long coat and hood. He held out the garb to dress his master, but Dulith paid him no mind, seeming lost in thought.

“It’s raining quite hard, sir,” the servant insisted, but Dulith merely raised a hand in dismissal and continued speaking to Quarrah.

“I’d never felt more helpless in all my life,” Dulith said. “I was filled with a hollowness after that. At times it gave way to rage. Eventually, I began to practice healing. Perhaps that way I would be more useful in the face of tragedy.”

Lord Dulith grabbed the large brass handle and pulled open one of the tall doors. Over his shoulder, Quarrah had a clear glimpse into the manor’s courtyard. It was paved with mossy bricks and abundantly adorned with greenery. Against the exterior wall of the west wing was a Heat Grit hearth surrounded by a handful of benches. On the right was a long stretch of sand, the stakes buried in place for a game of sailor’s folly.

And in the center of the courtyard was the Moonsick man, his rain-soaked clothes already ripped to tatters from his inane fury. He was bound to a wooden light post with thick chains, wrapped like an insect in a spider’s web so that only his head and his feet were showing. The lantern above him was glowing with Light Grit even though the dreary evening wasn’t yet fully dark.

The four large workers framed the Bloodeye—two on either side. Quarrah noticed one of them nursing a fresh wound on his arm. It was a miracle they were all still alive! Even if they’d known what they were dealing with, those men would have been surprised when the coffin’s lid came off, probably taking the motionless Bloodeye for dead until they moved his head outside the Grit cloud.

The common citizen of the Greater Chain didn’t know about Stasis Grit. That was a little something Quarrah had picked up from her time with the Realm. And she was lucky enough to have a supplier who knew how to re-create Portsend’s liquid Grit solutions.

Lord Dulith stepped into the courtyard, stopping just arm’s length from the Bloodeye. His wet face bore a steely expression that Quarrah couldn’t interpret. It certainly didn’t look like the face of a healer approaching a patient.

Something was obviously off, she’d sensed it from the moment she’d seen Dulith today. But she hadn’t been detained, or even disarmed, so Quarrah had no reason to think she was in any real danger.

“Father?” came a voice from the doorway behind them. Quarrah saw a pale-skinned boy with shaggy hair and dark circles under his eyes standing beside Totshin, the servant.

Dulith turned to his son, arms out in a warm gesture. His expression gave way to unabashed excitement. “The day has finally come, Pasic!”

“What day?” the boy asked from the shelter of the doorway. Quarrah didn’t think the lad had noticed the Moonsick man yet, despite the jangle of chains as he thrashed his head back and forth. “Father? Who are these people?”

“It’s all right, my boy.” Dulith beckoned. “Come. Come. Don’t be frightened.”

This statement seemed only to alert the boy that he should be frightened. With a gasp, Pasic finally noticed the Bloodeye and turned to run down the corridor. Totshin caught him by the shoulders, holding him fast.

Dulith hurried back to the doorway, and Quarrah tensed when she saw a Roller in the nobleman’s hand. “Take it. Take it.” He plunged the gun into his son’s grasp, pointing it toward the monster chained to the light post. “Your mother was the most caring woman I have ever known. Honor her now, son. Honor her memory!”

In horror, Quarrah watched the boy’s countenance darken. His youthful jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he stepped into the rain.

“There is the monster that took her from us!” coaxed Dulith, pointing wildly at the Bloodeye. “Hold nothing back! Make me proud, Pas!”

Quarrah’s feet were suddenly propelling her forward, driven by a sick feeling of familiarity in her stomach. She didn’t care if the Bloodeye died—sparks, he needed to die in this courtyard. But not by the hand of a grief-stricken twelve-year-old boy.

“What is this, Dulith?” she cried, stepping between the boy and the Bloodeye. “You said you had a cure.”

“This is the cure!” he shouted, rain finding the lines in his droopy cheeks, coursing to stream off his chin. “My son will finally be healed. No more sleepless nights, filling the manor with his screams. We’ll have vengeance. It will heal us both!”

She pointed at the Bloodeye. “He can’t possibly be the man who killed her!”

“They’re all the same,” yelled Dulith. “This one, the ones in the compound, the one in the market that day…”

Quarrah felt her heart sink. A Bloodeye in a Talumonian marketplace, three years ago? That had to have been a creature farmed and released by the Realm. Designed to sow chaos and panic so the bulk of the Wayfarist population would grow fearful enough to sail away from the Greater Chain forever.

Lady Dulith was a wholly unnecessary casualty in the Realm’s private war. But as much as the boy had to be hurting, this wasn’t the answer.

“Listen to me.” Quarrah turned to the lad. “Killing that Bloodeye won’t make you miss your mother any less.”

“Don’t you ever speak about my mother!” shrieked the boy. He was crying, tears mingling with the rain. For a moment, she saw her own youthful face reflected there. Confused. Afraid. Manipulated into doing something terrible for a deranged parent. Not murder, but Jalisa Khailar had demanded other crimes of her young daughter that still stung if Quarrah wasn’t quick to dismiss the memories.

The Bloodeye in the courtyard was already dead inside. And if Pasic Dulith pulled that trigger, he would be, too.

Quarrah lunged forward, seizing the boy’s wrist and angling the gun downward. The hammer must have been cocked, because it went off with a deafening puff of smoke. She wrenched the Roller away, splashing through a puddle as she stumbled a few steps backward.

Lord Dulith screamed in fury, spittle flying with the rain. “You will not deny my son this chance to heal! That Bloodeye must die!”

Well, at least they agreed on something. Quarrah swiveled, pulling back the Slagstone hammer and sending a ball straight through the Bloodeye’s face. She knew a single shot wouldn’t kill him. People with Moonsickness had a terrifying ability to regenerate. She’d have to deal so much damage that death would claim him before he could heal himself.

She snapped off two more shots, one of them striking the chains across his chest, and the other biting into the man’s neck. Then Lord Dulith tackled her and they both went sprawling on the wet brick courtyard.

Quarrah had spent much of her life learning to weasel out of an enemy’s grasp, and she did so quickly, landing a kick between Dulith’s legs and rolling into a crouch. Through the downpour, she saw one of the laborers drawing a Grit pot from his belt. She aimed and fired, putting the Roller ball into his leg.

With a grunt, the man went down beside the light post, his Grit pot shattering on the bricks. Quarrah had expected it to be a Barrier cloud meant to entrap her, but a Void cloud sprang up, flinging the fallen worker across the courtyard. He tumbled to a stop against the wall of the west wing and lay motionless.

Quarrah heard a crack of timber, and her attention returned to the Bloodeye. He was caught in the edge of the Void cloud, the outward rush of wind almost uprooting the light post and causing any slack in his chains to strain sideways. In the chaos, the Bloodeye had managed to free one of his arms. He was clawing frantically at his restraints, his body lurching against the push of the Void Grit.

The light post cracked again, this time separating from its base, the Void cloud hurtling it toward the east wing. No one moved for a moment, and then the Bloodeye slowly rose to his feet, tangled chains hanging from his shoulders while still attached to the post.

He opened his mouth in a scream, but no sound came out. Yellowish foam had clotted his gunshot wounds and the man’s face looked broken and inhuman. He lunged at the nearest worker, but the chains pulled tight against the post, dropping him to the ground. In a fit of rage, he began to yank on his confines, shaking and tugging with a measure of strength enhanced by his horrible condition.

Quarrah scrambled back to where Lord Dulith was lying on the ground, propped on one elbow to witness the Bloodeye’s escape. There was a cut on Dulith’s forehead from his struggle with Quarrah. The rain had washed the blood across his face, giving him a wild visage not unlike the Moonsick man.

“Get your son out of here!” Quarrah shouted at him. “Take him inside and barricade the door.” Pasic was standing as still as a statue, his sunken eyes wide as the three remaining laborers kept their distance from the Bloodeye, stout swords brandished. Totshin was nowhere to be found.

Dulith shoved Quarrah back and rose to his knees. “Don’t kill it!” he shouted at the workers. “That honor must go to my son!”

As he barked his demands, the Moonsick man finally broke away from the post. A length of chain whipped around in his raw hands, the end catching one of the laborers across the face, dropping him, writhing.

Quarrah fired the Roller again, the ball striking the Bloodeye’s shoulder. She pulled the trigger once more, but the Slagstone hammer sent a sizzle of sparks into an empty chamber. Those six shots had gone much too quickly.

She tossed aside the Roller as the Bloodeye made a reckless charge across the courtyard. Wisely disregarding Dulith’s instructions, one of the laborers took a swing at the passing man. His sword cleaved into the monster’s left arm, severing it just above the elbow.

The heavy blow sent the Bloodeye reeling sideways, landing facedown on the bricks. Dulith hurled something and Quarrah heard the clay pot shatter. In response to the sparks, a dome of Barrier Grit sprang up behind the Moonsick man, enclosing only his legs and making it impossible for him to wriggle free.

“Pasic,” his father cried, jolting his son from a horrified reverie. Dulith ran to him, somehow holding a fresh Roller. “Now!” He shoved the gun into the lad’s hand. “Your mother would want this. Finish him.”

The boy stepped closer to the Bloodeye. His thumb was too weak to pull back the Slagstone hammer, so he used the palm of his other hand to do it.

Quarrah moved to intercept, but Pasic saw her coming. He spun, leveling the gun at her. In the adrenaline of the moment, she had little doubt that he’d pull the trigger if she continued to provoke him. She stood still, raising her hands innocently.

“Father knows what’s best,” the boy said. Then he turned and fired the Roller at the Bloodeye’s head. Quarrah winced at the spray of carnage, knowing that he’d found his mark.

“Again!” Lord Dulith bellowed, his hands clasped together as he watched.

Pasic fired once more, his aim as true as the first.

“Again! Again! Again!” Dulith was screaming, his face seized with the bitter throes of vengeance. His son unloaded the entire Roller into the Bloodeye’s head until the skull was broken open and the corpse lay still. Rivulets of blood flowed with the rain, finding channels between bricks in a grid of gore.

“How did it feel, my boy?” Lord Dulith took a halting step forward, hands still clasped like a servant checking to make sure the food was satisfactory. “Do you remember her? Do you remember how much she loved you?”

Pasic looked up slowly through the haze of Blast smoke, his young face spattered with the Moonsick man’s blood. His hollow eyes looked more sunken and hopeless than before, but there was a new spark of darkness in his gaze.

“I want another.”

“Yes,” the twisted man whispered. Then Dulith’s eyes flicked to Quarrah. “Hold her!” he bellowed to the two remaining laborers.

Was Quarrah intended to be the boy’s next victim? Or did Lord Dulith think she could get him more Bloodeyes? Either way, she didn’t plan to stick around and find out.

She bolted for the doorway into the manor, but Totshin had finally reappeared with a gun in his hand. No problem. Quarrah had already surveyed the courtyard for every potential route of escape. At this point, her best option was to leap from one of those benches and Drift Jump to that second-story window.

Careening away from Totshin, Quarrah moved toward the benches, only to find her route blocked by one of the laborers who had taken up position in front of the sand pit.

Her hand flashed to her belt, plucking out a vial of purple liquid. She pitched it at the worker in a soft arc, watching him bring up his sword to deflect. The glass shattered against the broad blade and a cloud of Gather Grit sprung up, with him at the center. It wasn’t Compounded enough to break his bones, but the inward pull—the reverse effect of Void Grit—would keep him contained.

The wet sand from the sailor’s folly pit was drawn by the Gather Grit, glomming on to the worker until only his hands were visible, swiping desperately to clear the sand from his face. A few loose bricks from the courtyard also pelted into him, but he probably couldn’t even feel them through his new coat of sand.

The distraction was exactly what Quarrah had hoped for. She skirted the perimeter of the Gather cloud, slipping a pot of Drift Grit from her belt. She hurled it ahead of her, sparking the Slagstone against the wall of the east wing. Leaping onto the bench, she sprinted two steps down its length before launching herself into the Drift cloud.

Weightlessness surrounded her, momentum carrying her upward until she hit the wall, her hands gripping the second-story windowsill with practiced precision.

She never felt as refined, performing stunts like these in her regular clothing. Her black thief’s garb was much sleeker, and her Grit teabags were far less bulky than the wide leather Grit belt she currently wore.

Quarrah hoisted herself up, shoulder pushing the foggy glass open so she could roll into the room. This was clearly a bedroom, gratefully unoccupied. She crossed to the door, but her eye caught a silver hair comb on the stand beside the bed. A three-step detour, and she had the item in hand. Now that she was here, she realized that the painted vase would fetch a decent price, too. And that scarf was pure silk, with tiny gemstones embroidered along its length.

This was more than fair, considering it was unlikely that Lord Dulith was going to pay her now. With the comb in her belt pouch, the vase under one arm, and the scarf flung about her neck, Quarrah moved into the corridor. She was almost to the stairs when crescendoing shouts rose to meet her.

She doubled back, taking a moment to scan the great room she had previously blown past. She didn’t see a suitable place to hide, but that old jeweled broadsword hanging above the mantel might be worth something…

Getting the sword down proved more difficult than expected. When it finally came free, the lump of steel turned out to be surprisingly heavy. The sword clanged to the floor, narrowly missing the vase she’d set down. A little adjusting and she’d probably be able to carry everything. But that gold sconce on the opposite wall looked mighty tempting.

She had just finished prying it loose with her sword when the voices reached her. Six armed staffers led by Totshin, who had donned a Grit belt to accompany his Roller. Quarrah was standing on the far side of the great room when they entered, laden with spoils that earned a loud curse from Totshin.

“Halt!” the attendant ordered. No one immediately opened fire, which reminded Quarrah that Lord Dulith still had plans for her.

If she’d had a free hand, a single detonation of Barrier Grit could have plugged the corridor between them. Instead, she’d have to settle for a footrace.

Quarrah turned and bolted back in the direction of the bedroom where she’d found the comb. According to her surveillance, she was headed in the direction of the servants’ quarters. But there wouldn’t be access to that area from the second floor.

Sparks! This was a dead end.

Wait. She’d seen a waste lagoon on the east side of the property. There were access chutes from this wing! If her spatial judgment was right—and it almost always was—the next door on the right would get her there. Now, if only she had a free hand to open it.

Taking a deep breath, Quarrah tossed the vase into the air, pushed open the door, and caught the fragile pottery against her chest as it came down. Ha! That was a fine trick. She kicked the door shut behind her and threw her back against it as she examined the room.

This was little more than a closet stocked with chamber pots and cleaning supplies. The foul odor of human waste filled the space and she quickly identified its source. Rising from floor to ceiling was the waste chute. It looked like a metal chimney with a hinged wooden door covering an opening on the side. Only about two feet square, but Quarrah had squeezed through many a tight space in her day.

She shuffled the vase into the crook of her arm so she could reach a pot of Barrier Grit on her belt. She’d need a little time to work her way down the chute, and if her enemies caught up to her before she reached the bottom, finishing her off would be as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. And conveniently for her attackers, Quarrah’s body would be deposited in the refuse lagoon below.

Her hand had just found the pot she was looking for when the door bucked against her back. She lurched forward, the fragile vase slipping from her arm. She flinched as it shattered, the sound of lost Ashings clattering around her feet. But glancing down, she saw that it hadn’t been empty. There was a folded piece of paper among the shards.

A grin touched her face as the door heaved against her back again. Noble folks were always stashing valuable documents inside other valuable items—gold-trimmed boxes, musical instruments, painted vases.

She kicked the broken pieces across the small room, the paper carried along with it. Then she leapt from the door, hurling the Barrier pot behind her. The door swung inward, stopping just a foot or two ajar as the Grit detonated, creating an impassible block. These people wouldn’t know about Null Grit, so she had no reason to rush.

Stooping, she flicked aside pieces of the shattered vase and plucked up the folded paper. Unable to put off her curiosity, she unfolded it for a quick glance.

The sounds of the men struggling at the door faded as Quarrah’s heartbeat seemed to fill the room. She forgot about the danger. She forgot about escape.

She reread the note.

Quarrah Khai—Tofar’s Salts. 8th of 3rd. Noon. Ask to see the Be’Igoth.

She turned to the door and saw Totshin shoving helplessly against the transparent shell of the Barrier cloud.

Quarrah held up the note, her eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. “Did you know…” But she trailed off on her own. Of course Totshin didn’t know about the note in the vase. How could anyone have known she was going to flee through that particular bedroom, steal that particular item…

She tucked the note into a vacant pouch on her Grit belt, returning to the matter of her escape. Taking the final steps, she lifted the cover to gain access to the chute. The rising stench choked her, and she turned away to cough. Holding her breath, Quarrah stuck her head inside to examine her last-ditch escape route.

The chute rose vertically to the third floor and dropped straight down about fifteen feet. At the bottom, she could see that the metal was bent at an angle, directing any dumped refuse outward to the waiting lagoon.

She had to admit, this wasn’t the most desirable way to leave a manor. But she was committed to the plan now. Nothing to do but slide down the refuse chute.

Flames, Quarrah thought. This sword better be worth a lot of Ashings.

We have all seen terrible things. But the memories that haunt me the most are of the mistakes I could have avoided.