The sea breeze that often cooled the coast at night was calm. The days of rain had passed. The streams and channels that had once spilled over their banks now returned to their beds. The earth was still wet and sticky. It had rained the night prior, but today the air was warm and the countryside was quiet. Firebugs danced through the air and small bats whizzed overhead to snatch them from the night. Small spirits joined the bats in the sport of catching the small insects, although with far less success. Along the dark roads beyond the city walls and far to the south, fast footsteps moved along the muddy path splashing water as they went. The bright crescent moon danced evasively through the heavy clouds above, casting rare shadows on the runners below. These soldiers were well trained and better paid. Tonight, they had a job to do.

A keen watcher might have heard their boots on the soft earth or have noticed the shapes of the soldiers’ shadows appear each time the moon peaked through the clouds. A keen observer might also have heard the light jingle of armour—real heavy armour of metal, rather than common leathers and salt-hardened cloth. The thieves in the small hut were not keen observers this night. Instead, they were drunk on success. They reveled in victory. Their watchman on the road had long abandoned post to join their comrades in drink. He had assumed, incorrectly, that they were far enough from the city to need for vigilance. They all had.

Yoharum stood gloriously amongst his closest friends and allies. Silver and gold coins were strewn about the table in triumph. This score had been big. The biggest he had ever seen or heard of. The small thatch-roofed hut displayed their plunder like a sword of legend wrapped in tattered cloth. Yoharum stared at the wealth, dumbfounded. All it had taken was the murder of some foreign prince, he mused.Even without the second half of the payment, there would be enough coin here to ensure none need work for several years. The wealth here was enough to purchase lands, build new houses, claw their way out of the bottom. For Yoharum, this would be his redemption. He could finally return home to the mountains, head held high. He would prove that he was a provider. A leader of the new generation. A man to be taken seriously. No common crook.

Zhenya would be elated. But the fact that still hadn’t arrived was becoming a cause for anxiety. She’s probably just laying low while things cool off. That’s what he told himself. It didn’t ease his worries. Her involvement was so separated from the rest. It seemed impossible that she would find trouble. More than that, she knew to steer clear if other Aginjigaade were nearby. But Yoharum had felt the effects of her sorcery. It was strange, unlike any he had felt from her before. More impactful and powerful. Distortion of shadows and light, hiding them from the soldiers in the street. Things he didn’t know she could do.

And yet, her attack on the Aginjigaade was ineffective. The princes’ Aginjigaade bodyguard seemed unincumbered by her attack. Perhaps he was simply that powerful. Yoharum replayed the memory of the silver-haired man catching the arrow out of mid flight with his bare hand and the moment the man’s blast of stone sorcery hit him square in the chest, knocking him hard to the ground. Even through his armour, it had hurt. We were warned.

She could explain better when next they met. Yoharum leaned back in his chair with the look of overwhelming satisfaction. We should rob more nobles leaving the Auction House, he delighted. His crew drank and celebrated in the small cramped two-room hovel they had occupied. The building was old and neglected. The walls were built of as much mud as they were stone. Bits of missing mortar and thatch hinted at years of abandonment and neglect. The floor was flattened earth with a black pit for a hearth. But more importantly, its was far from the city and known only to a few. It was the perfect place to disappear to. Yoharum’s chair was crude, but today it felt like a throne.

And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about how the younger prince had gotten away. They had killed the older one, the man Bartiin named Aramuk, but seeing how much wealth they had acrued made the regret at not having received the whole prize sting. He wished for that kind of wealth. He wished for that Aginjigaade’s power. The means to change things. The strength to dominate without fear of a knife in the back. Oh, what I could accomplish with that kind of power.

The door swung open and another member of his inner circle returned—the youngest—Darius. The crew swelled with excitement but Darius didn’t seem to hold the same enthusiasm. There was something on his mind, something wrong. Yoharum noticed it immediately. It was in his posture, the way he smiled through pain. Yoharum pulled the younger man close. He was small, not just because of his youth. Next to Yoharum, Darius was just a pup but he was keen and nimble. A capable thief. Between that and their shared hatred of the Casoyans, he was a good addition to the crew.

“What’s on your mind?” Yoharum asked, hugging the lad with too tight a grip. Darius was the type of kid who needed reminding whom was in charge.

“There were fires in Mudtown” Darius said. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it up close but there was a lot of smoke. I could see it from the hills. It looked bad.”

“I’m sure it was nothing to worry about” Yoharum said. Nothing Darius need worry about a least. And nothing we should do about it.

“I don’t know, Yo” Darius continued. “My family’s in Mudtown. I’m concerned, that’s all. My brothers and sisters.” He pulled out the knife he kept close and stuck it into the table with all the coins. He leaned over, stressing.

“They’ll be alright” Yoharum promised. “Tonight is for celebrations. We drink to new riches and new opportunities. This money could support driving the Casoyan dogs from the mountains. Think of the army we could raise. We could unite the tribes and push the bastards from our lands. Take back what rightfully belongs to us.”

Darius smiled at that, “I just hope we didn’t kick the hornets nest.”

“We’ll hear the truth of things soon” Yoharum assured him. “Once things have calmed down, we can return to the city. Until then, we just have to wait for news to come to us.”

Darius excused himself and slipped out of the back door of the hovel. Unbeknownst to the crew, he had swiftly pocketed a few dozen of the silver coins on his way out of the room. The greatest thief amongst the greatest thieves, Darius boasted to himself. All it took was the slightest distraction. Yoharum hadn’t even noticed. It was a risk, of course. The last thing he wanted was the others to find out he was a thief. Well, a thief who stole from his fellow thieves. There was a difference, of course.

There were hard men in Yoharum’s group. Killers among them. Yoharum the scariest of them all. That’s why he was in charge. It was a risk, but one well calculated and well-worth taking.

The thief turned down and away from the hut and stumbled over a rock he couldn’t see in the darkness. He walked twenty paces past the overrun vegetable patch over to a large tree, looked over his shoulder, and then began removing the coins. When he was finished, he looked back, careful to remember this place for his return in the future.

He’d slipped out for a piss; an easy alibi. Darius turned, impressed with himself, and turned to walk back to the shack. He took three short steps and then found an extra coin in his pocket. He must have missed it. He stopped to turn around just in time to hear an object fly by his face, just an arms length from where he stood.

The whoosh surprised him, loosing a small yelp. Startled by a bat, he groaned. How pathetic. That was when a rustle of sounds made him turn. Shadows moved in the darkness. There was the muffled clinking of armour—of weapons. Several black-clad figures moved in the darkness. They were close. Too close. Darius moved to draw the small blade he kept on hand only to find it missing. Stuck in the table. He never got the chance to scream as a heavy hand muffled his cry and a slick blade found its way into his heart.

At the same moment, Yoharum sat soberly. He had seen them too and had chosen to ignore it. The flames that spread over Mudtown. Something had happened and he had chosen to ignore it. But now Darius’ words brought forth doubts. The wine, which had once been sweet now tasted like ash. He had expected drunken bravado and a brawl over posturing to end this night’s festivities, not his own conscience. It wasn’t even his home, but for so many in his crew it was home. It was home for thousands of men and women from the mountain tribes. From the scattered villages on cliffs to the north to the stilted homes across the swamps to the south. From distant Cabiya to his own home just outside Caso. So many came to the city looking for a better life only to end up in Mudtown—in squalor. Yoharum’s worries turned back to Zhenya. She was supposed to be here by now. She was his partner in this. Now he was concerned she hadn’t made it out of the city at all. That the Casoyan bastards had caught her. That they were torturing her. Had killed her. These were anxious thoughts, not steeped in certainty, yet he found he couldn’t suppress them.

It was at that moment the fire erupted. A burning object came through one of the small windows. Heads turned at the sudden bright light. It outshone the dim wax candles that lit the small room. It was there for only a flash. Quick enough that all eyes turned to see the burning pot. Then with a woosh, the pot crashed and flames exploded outwards. The smell of burning oil filled the room. Fire engulfed everything the burning liquid came into contact with. Yoharum leapt up onto the table in the center as fire spread across the floor, silver coils toppling from their towers and clattering into the flames.

Order is a delicate thing. In one moment, it is law. In the next, it is lost. Anarchy erupted as each crew member reacted. The response to chaos is instinct. Some fled the conflagration. Others cast glances, seeking the source of their betrayal. Most, eyed the spilled coins in the center of the room. Yoharum was among the third group. He snarled. This was his bounty to dole out. And now a traitor seeks to betray the group and take the spoils for themself. It was the only explanation that Yoharum could fathom.

Those unburned fled towards their closest exit. Those burned by the pitch screamed in paid. Yoharum pulled his axe and snarled menacingly to ward off opportunists. This is my score. Who has betrayed me for it? Darius is missing. Was the boy capable of this kind of betrayal? Surely not. Zhenya was still gone. Yoharum buried that thought. A betrayal from Zhenya was more than he could stomach. Then who? A thousand thoughts raced through Yoharum’s head as the flames reached up from the floor below looking to swallow him whole. He looked around the room, expecting the traitor to appear.

The thatch roof lit up like a beacon in the night. The flames licked at his skin and the smoke began to fill the room at a dizzying speed. Yoharum coughed violently and brought his sleeve over his nose. It did little to help. The smoke stung his eyes and he crouched down from his position atop the table, still looking for his thief. Someone will make their move for the coins, he thought. No one came.

Soon, Yoharum was the only one left inside the burning hovel. The flames roared and crackled all around him. It was a sound that seemed to drown out everything else. Even the screams that should have pierced the cool night air. But then, that was what felt wrong. It wasn’t that they were drowned out, it was that they were absent. The roar of the fire was loud, but he should still hear the screams and shouts outside the building. Instead, he heard nothing.

In a flash, Yoharum’s understanding of the situation flipped. Everyone outside was already dead. The plan wasn’t to steal during the distraction, the ploy was to kill everyone and claim the prize from the dead.

One of the central beams holding up the roof cracked audibly and the entire roof sagged, showering sparks and embers. Yoharum grabbed handfuls of coins off the table and stuffed them in his pockets. The metal was hot and it burned at his skin. He looked for an appropriate exit and turned for the back door.

The beam holding up the roof collapsed bringing down a flaming shower of thatch. He narrowly avoided the falling beam, which crushed the table in its descent. The remainder of his treasure was scattered and Yoharum was showered in flames. They singed his hair and ate at his clothes and skin. Searing pain spread across his body. The hair on his arms was aflame, as was his clothing. It felt as if his skin were melting. Time was running thin. He rushed for the back door.

Stumbling into the back room, Yoharum found the rear doorway a portal of pure fire. His skin was boiling. The pain was making it difficult to concentrate. A desperate idea came and he rushed to the corner of the smaller room. In the corner sat a wooden pail of stale water. It reeked but Yoharum didn’t care as he dumped the dank water over his head to great relief. Even still, the heat felt near unbearable. It didn’t matter. It would have to do. Yoharum held his axe, closed his eyes, and leapt through the portal of flame.

The poor soldier on the other side had no time to react as the stocky axeman leapt through the doorway. Despite having her spear raised, the point missed the big man as Yoharum blindly barreled past the sharpened tip by sheer chance. He crashed into her, sending the two of them tumbling to the ground. Yoharum rolled and regained his feet like a cat. He opened his eyes, expecting to come face to face with whichever crew member had betrayed him. Instead, he locked eyes with a Casoyan soldier. Young, strong, and armoured—she carried the spear and shield of Casoyan heavy infantry. Elites. Butchers of the mountain.

The soldier yelled but Yoharum drove his still burning fist directly into her face, breaking her nose. Other Casoyan soldiers turned and rushed towards them. Among them was one man, larger and meaner than the rest. His face was illuminated by the burning hovel.

Yoharum felt fear for the first time. This was no heist. This was an execution. He was outnumbered, alone, and in excruciating pain. Terror spread through him. Not wishing to chance fate again, he took off with all the haste he could muster.

Yoharum sprinted across the earthy terraced fields until he reached the tree-line. Shouts trailed after him. Whether it was one or many on the hunt behind him, he wasn’t certain. What he was certain of was that he didn’t plan to find out. He knew this enemy. He feared this enemy. He hated this enemy. The big man illuminated by the flame was none other than Burm the butcher. There were nasty stories of his violent campaigns deep inland in tribal lands. And now Yoharum’s vendetta against him was personal.

Yoharum ran into the darkness, despite the lasting blindness from the bright flames. The night, darker and more daunting now than he could ever have imagined it, seemed to swallow him whole. Behind him, the sounds of his pursuers echoed, following the sounds of desperation he made in his flight. Cracking of branches and twigs. The tumbling of stones. The sloshing of water and mud. Hard steps on soft earth.

Yoharum flew into a clearing. The moon appeared casting odd shadows across the grassy knoll. Yoharum ran, crossing the short clearing as a soldier stumbled in after him. A tremendous thud sounded, and Yoharum looked back to see that his hunter had tripped in his haste. He saw the soldier on the ground; dark features lit only by the bright moon. Dark hair, scar under his right eye. The two men stared at one another across the dark expanse for several heartbeats, neither wanting to be the first to move. That was the last glimpse the soldier got of him. Yoharum vanished into the night like the wink of a firefly.

The next morning, Yoharum awoke to the most excruciating pain he had felt in his entire life. The exhausted thief found himself half submerged in a babbling stream. He was covered from chin to ankle in caked-on mud. He sat upright abruptly, cracking his flaky earthen bandages. A wave of searing pain rolled up his body and he did everything in his power not to cry out. It didn’t help and tiny whimpers left his lips into the forest around him. He scanned the unfamiliar forest, fearful that his cry had given him away to his hunters. He feared they were still searching for him. He saw no motion through the trees and bushes. The babble of the creek and groaning of the trees were the only sounds nearby.

A crow cackled high overhead. Nothing about this place was familiar. All he could recall was the inferno and the Casoyan soldiers ready on the other side. The pretty face of the woman he’d punched. The demon eyes of Captain Burm and the outline of his figure bathed in firelight.

He had survived. He had survived an ambush from the most dangerous soldiers the bastard Patzaus and their guilds had at hand. He had escaped the butcher himself. How many of my people can say the same thing? How many weren’t as lucky as me? Corrupt bastards, he cursed. How many villages had Burm’s soldiers terrorized? They were the ones who setup checkpoints on key mountain passages and demanded tribute. The one who extorted and pillaged and destroyed for amusement. The very worst of Casoyans, personified. Yoharum swore his revenge.

It took over an hour to find some semblance of familiarity in the steep mountain jungles. General directions were obvious, but his own location remained a mystery. Downhill would lead seaward, west, and uphill would lead him deeper to the mountains, east. Even knowing that, it took a long time to exit the thick brush. He found a game trail and only following that did he stumble out onto an actual road. The path was bowed and muddy from use. It had rained at some point.

A thousand paces down the trail brought him in sight of a hamlet. The burnt husk of a building on the far side made it clear which hamlet it was. He hadn’t gotten far at all. Fear swelled, as did the pain. A shiver ran down his arms and the pain from his burnt flesh flared back up. He looked at his arms, covered in blisters and blood and dirt. He wiped his chin and aggravated a nasty gash where a wayward branch had fought back against his haste and won.

He had a decision to make. A gamble, really, on where to go from here. They will be looking for me, Yoharum realized. They know what I look like. They may even know who I am. That thought concerned him. And despite that knowledge, Yoharum made a decision.

His size and burns would give him away anywhere else so Yoharum started the long trek inland. He would head east into the mountains, away from the city. He followed the lesser trails that led between the stream-cut ravines. The terrain here had shaped the jungle-rich hills into claws that reached down towards the croplands and pastures below.

It was long trek and dusk began to set in as Yoharum finally reached his destination. He turned off the small sideroad and walked down a lonely path. Ahead, a man and a woman sat on the porch of their household. They watched him approach, weary and exhausted.

Yoharum hobbled, pushing through the pain as best as he could manage. He was almost there. He was almost back. The man on the porch stood and brought his hand to a knife he kept at his belt. The woman approached and saw Yoharum’s face and arms, dirty, scratched and painted with blackened blood from where the jungle had clawed at him. She saw the red and brown mud that covered him from head to toe. She saw the tattered clothes that reeked of fire and flesh. She saw the beaten and broken shell of a man, too exhausted to speak, and too weary to take another step.

Only ten short steps from the front steps of the place he once called home, Yoharum blacked out. He collapsed in exhaustion. The old man approached cautiously, the woman following an arm’s reach behind. They turned him over and found, through all the blood and dirt, the face of their only son.  

Rain dripped from the ceiling above the cold and dark holding pen. The floor, like the rest of the room was wet. The roof on the old warehouse did little to fend off the rain. Worse, even after the rain stopped outside, water seeped down the weathered roof into the interior. The warehouse was filled with animals. The smell alone could confirm it. Their cell was little more than an adapted animal pen. For what kind of massive beast, Bartiin couldn’t guess. Bartiin and his men were confined for their second night in the dim forgotten room. They sat in miserable discomfort, contemplating their fate. Between the bells that rang most of the first night, and the lack of victors the entire next day, all six men bled hope.

When Bartiin had surrendered, he had expected to be brought somewhere more befitting of his station. It seemed now, sitting in this damp cage with an aching back and soiled clothes, that something must have gone awry. Perhaps, more chaos had erupted than predicted. Bartiin held onto the slim hope that it was a sign of tides in their favour. After all, Aramuk Krimas and his nephew should be dead. Only, the crowd would remember what his men had done.

The fact that he had not swung a blade, made Bartiin confident that he could argue his way out of any trial should the need arise. Unlike his men, he was innocent. Of a sort. Still, this was a grim fate. Far worse than he had expected, all things considered. They had been so close. So close to making it to the ship, ready to flee if necessary. But, if Bartiin had learned anything in the years spent chasing those self-centred princes across the seas, it was that patience is necessary in all things. Patience and readiness. I have no plans on dying here.

Dawn broke. The wind picked up and whistled loudly through cracks in the warehouse walls. Bartiin drew his cloak over himself, grateful that the guards who stripped him of his weapons and armour left him with this last shield against the cold. He envied the soldier, Gaalbin, who had taken the crossbow bolt to the shoulder. He was the only one taken away to a place, Bartiin could only presume, was better than this. Perhaps fed a proper meal in a dry bed away from the smell. He knew it was ridiculous. He didn’t really believe those thoughts. Yet they came and he humoured them.

It was mid-morning on the second day when the first Casoyan soldier appeared to check on them. They had taken to drinking drops from a steady leak in the roof. When that petered out, only the dirty puddles on the ground remained. By that second morning, Bartiin shuddered because the once-disgusting pools were starting to look appealing to parched throats. Thankfully, the soldier came with stale bread and a well-worn waterskin. He left them alone to sit and eat in silence.

The five other men still left no longer eyed him favourably. They blamed him for their predicament. The established order was destroyed once they entered the pen together. Bartiin the leader was gone. The dirty looks they gave proved it. The group had barely exchanged words since being thrown in the cell together. A sourness persisted. He could feel their displeasure. Perhaps he even mirrored it, seeing as he was the only one who hadn’t killed anyone and yet shared their fate. He presumed that only his seniority and a fear of confrontation kept the other men silent. It turned out he was wrong.

“Three years” Kellan said, quietly at first. “Three years!” he repeated, louder. The other men shared knowing glances.

So, this isn’t new for them, Bartiin realized. “Is there a problem, Kel?”

“I’ve spent three years. Three years away from home, away from my family. Three years under your insane leadership only to wind up rotting in some animal pen on the way to be tried for a man’s murder.”

“If I recall correctly, it was you who led the butchering of old lord Krimas” Bartiin said. “Don’t act like I alone did this to us.”

“If I recall correctly, that was because he threw an axe at me” Kellen answered.

“Yeah, and it hit me!” the soldier behind him added angrily. “My ribs still ache.”

“Piss on that” Kellan said, turning back to Bartiin, “You surrendered!” Kellen reasoned, pointing a finger at his leader. “We could have fought our way through and out of the city.”

“You would have us kill Careyago soldiers like enemies on the battlefield?” Bartiin laughed. “You’re a fool if you believe that. It took the lot of you to kill the old man and he didn’t even have armour. We could never have fought our way out of the city and lived.”

“You’re the fool for surrendering” Kellen argued. The other men nodded in agreement. “Look at where your plan got us.”

“Your not dead yet, are you? And it’s the bastard lord’s death that has landed us in this cell, not my leadership or planning” Bartiin said, speaking over the other men. “If you take issue with where we sit, take it up with your reflection, not me.”

“Piss off, Bartiin” Kellen said dismissively. “You’ve made it very clear that we don’t matter to you. It’s always about the damned mission and the glory you think you’ll receive when you return home. But let me tell you a damned secret, now that we’ve been successful, they don’t need us anymore. Even if you go free, which we wont, you’ll go home, get your little reward and then be tossed aside same as you’d have done with us.”

“I’ll go free” Bartiin said. “I have no doubts about that.”

“You sound far too confident for a man covered in shit in an animal’s cage.” Kellen said.

“Now, now” a strange voice said from the shadows, “what seems to be all the commotion?” Bartiin and Kellan both shut up. The room was dim, but their eyes had adjusted. Two silhouetted figures moved through the darkness. Birds fluttered about their cages in protest as the figures walked through the dark warehouse. “You sounded particularly angry, or does your foreign tongue naturally sound angry?” the voice said. “I’m not really sure.”

A man walked into view, followed by another man who seemed to be in somewhat of a stupor. Bartiin watched, confused as the two men approached. He didn’t recognise either of them. The man who spoke appeared to be a city soldier, while the other man looked like he was drunk.

“Who are you?” Kellen asked in Tralang.

“A friend of a friend… perhaps” the man added. “Are you Bartiin?” he asked, looking around the dirty faces inside the cage.

“I am” Bartiin said, rising to his feet.

“I’m here on behalf of Patzau Yanata Ashill, Patzau of the Soldier’s Guild” the man said, “You are to come with me at once. This vagabond,” he added, patting the stranger on the shoulder, “is to join the rest of you in there for the time being. Be nice to him. Now, all of you. Turn around and face the back wall. Hands above your heads” he ordered. “I’ll cut you down in a heartbeat if you try me. Am I understood.”

Bartiin and the four men followed the soldier’s orders, turning around as the keys jingled and the lock clicked. The groan of metal sounded behind them and for a split second, Bartiin thought of trying for the escape. He tried to glance over his shoulder but received a stern shout from the soldier, prompting obedience.

“Alright, Bartiin of Gaag.” The soldier said, “Without turning around, take three steps backwards.” Bartiin complied. “Now, turn and exit the cage. Keep your hands on your head.” As Bartiin exited, the other man grunted loudly as he was pushed inside the cage, hitting the cold floor with a thud followed by a loud moan. Who is that? Why does this feel… wrong.

Bartiin stood, confused, as the soldier grabbed him and turned him around. He drew close, closer than he would a normal prisoner, and made to whisper in Bartiin’s ear, “It seems you have powerful friends. You’re to be spared from what’s to come.” Bartiin turned and stared, concerned by the haunting message. “Good luck, gentlemen” the soldier said. “They’ll come for you soon.”

The stranger led Bartiin, still unchained, back through the dark warehouse. He looked down at his hands and found himself perplexed by the lack of decorum, the oddity of it all. They walked together, but not in the way a soldier leads a prisoner. The soldier said nothing more. Only the chitter of caged bird and the scuttling of dozens of pigs in tiny cages sounded as the walked.

“You’re not here on behalf of Patzau Ashill” Bartiin said, breaking the silence.

“Of course not” the soldier said, leading them down a new row of cages and boxes piled high.

“Who are you?” Bartiin asked.

“Doesn’t matter” the soldier said in a gruff voice. “I owe a favour and I’m repaying my debts.”

“To whom?”

He was met with silence. The two of them rounded the corner and the soldier handed him a set of new clothes. “Here, change into these” the man ordered, handing him some clothes.

“What’s going on?” Bartiin asked. The clothes were very Casoyan and very oversized.

“You and your men are about to be brought to the northern barracks for a trial. The judge is less-than impartial at the moment” the soldier explained. “Justice is in short supply right now. Our mutual friend thinks they’re going to hang the lot of you. And so you need to die. At least, the ledges need to say you died. Easier to smuggle you out that way.”

“I don’t understand” Bartiin huffed.

“As I said, you’re being spared a most gruesome fate” the stranger said, still waiting for him to dress. “And hurry up. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“What do you mean? They’re going to hang us?” Bartiin hissed.

“After that assassination attempt on Patzau Yohati, the whole city’s gone mad. There was a crackdown on Mudtown two nights ago. Hundreds dead. Hundreds more arrested. The whole city is begging for blood. Cells are full beyond their limits. The lines to see judges are so long that they’re expediting murder cases. If you’re charged, you’re guilty. And you lot were charged with murder.”

“In self defense” Bartiin argued, “we were attacked in the street!”

“Shh,” the man said, “keep your voice down. And hurry up!”

Bartiin looked down at the clothes he had been given. One piece appeared to be a warn checkerboard patterned towel and the other was a loose-fitting tunic. “How am I supposed to wear these?” Bartiin hissed, turning the blanket-like fabric over in his hands, looking for a place for his legs.

“Spirits of hell, man,” he said, “find the loops. They go on the top. Wrap it twice around you, like a skirt, and use the wrap to tie it. Then put the shirt on over top.”

Bartiin removed his shirt and replaced it with the loose tunic. The idea, in his mind, was that the new tunic would cover his bits enough for him to replace his soiled soldiers’ pants with the skirt. A man’s sarong, as the soldier had called it. What he hadn’t accounted for was that the shirt was oversized and yet barely reached his navel, completely exposing him as he removed his trousers. Bloody brilliant, he thought, realizing the miscalculation. The soldier turned away and Bartiin caught the hint of a mocking smile on his face.

The sarong fit poorly. Stupid design for clothing, Bartiin chastised. He felt constricted at the waist, and far too unrestricted below that. The soldier came over and helped him adjust the tie around the midsection, “better I re-tie that then you expose yourself to some poor lady on the street. You’ll be back in a cell and all my hard work will have been for nothing.”

It was a joke. Bartiin didn’t laugh. But, after the soldier retied his waist, Bartiin had to admit the fit improved. He looked like a Casoyan in all but face.

“Tie your hair back” the man ordered. “The long unkept hair is very obvious as foreign. I’d cut it–”

“You’ll do no such thing” Bartiin warned. The soldier put his hands up defensively. “Who was that stranger, the man you threw in the cell?” Bartiin asked while putting his long hair into a tail. He replaced his heavy soldiering boots with a pair of sandals; a choice he would come to regret in short order

“You haven’t figure that out yet?” the soldier scoffed. “Come on, let’s go” he said, leading the pair of them through a wooden doorway. They emerged onto the main quay wall that hugged the bay. Bartiin looked back over the bay but could barely make out a dozen of the hundreds of ships that were moored out there. Bartiin recognized the area. He saw just how close he was to his ship. He considered running for it. Instead, the soldier led him down an unfamiliar street. People milled about, but far more cautiously than before. They eyed him with new distrust.

As they walked on, they turned to the right and entered a neighbourhood Bartiin realized he recognised. The Spires. The jagged rooftops adorned with finials pierced high like spears raised against the heavens. After I return home to Gaag, I’m going to retire to a beautiful home outside the city. An orchard or a vineyard. And I’ll get Belvaas to make me a local lord so my family can live off the levies in peace. Anything to escape this place, he thought. Anything to make it home and see my girls, is what he meant. 

Bartiin paused, realizing the soldier who had been leading him stopped. He followed the man’s gaze and looked upon a familiar site. It was the Careyago Embassy. His friend was the Careyago ambassador. She must have used her influence to spare him. He mourned the men he had left behind, all except Kellen. But it was his leadership and his actions that had saved him. Not theirs. Had they possessed the brains or will to lead, he might be the one still rotting in that cage. The soldier pushed him forward, checking both sides of the streets for unwanted eyes. The door opened, and beckoning him inward stood the ambassador, Hina Durali.