Dhruva, servant of the palace, ground her teeth, wearing a sour expression as she drew the heavy bundles of silk out of the chest. The princess didn't want to wear her pretty clothes.

  Which didn't make Dhruva's work any less. The silk and wool finery still needed to be maintained, whether the princess decided to act like one or not.

  Dhruva frowned as she began laying the clothes out on reed mats in the shady courtyard to air them out, continuing the constant battle against moth and mildew.

  It wasn't fair. Her family had served the Sultanate for generations. Dhruva herself was handmaid to the princess. She should be dressed in silk finery and jewels, drawing the gaze of all the low folk. Every khāk, every peasant should be gazing up at her, dazzled by her beauty and fine clothes. And the princess too, of course.

  But the handmaid could never dress finer than her mistress. Even if her mistress was headstrong, muscular, and overbold. Even if she was a princess who only ever wore two or three plain outfits.

  Dhruva set heavy stones on the corners of the clothes to help stretch them out. It would save pressing them later. She fetched the scented oil to sprinkle over them.

  It was a great jest, that the gods saw fit to saddle her with a mistress that preferred using her fists to her using her perfumes. Who'd rather ride a horse and shoot a bow than to lounge in a palanquin. The gods must be laughing so to watch Dhruva dragged along after the princess as she jousted with smelly fish-sellers and bought her own vegetables instead of riding high over the heads of the people as she should have.

  Day by day, insult by insult, bitterness had corroded Dhruva's spirit. But she kept her smile and her mild tongue. She should do her duty, even when the princess would not.

  The king and queen of Laiqar, now, that was a couple who could dress. The last time they had come to Namar?n on a diplomatic visit, their outfits were elaborate, nearly ungainly. The malakeh of Laiqar wore a linen collar, crusted with jewels, a collar so tall that she couldn't even turn her head.

  Dhruva had looked on their servants with envy and sharp bitterness. A worm of rank jealousy had begun to writhe in her gut. The princess of Namar?n had larger and brighter jewels, finer silks, stiffer wools. The princess should have outshone the malakeh of Laiqar as the sun outshines the moon.

  And the queen's servants! Arrayed like a pen of peacocks, a riot of color and gemstones. Dressed one small step plainer than the malakeh, as was proper, but still rich with shining fashion, their beauty awing the khāk as they passed through Baradon.

  I could look like that, if only the princess would dress in a manner to allow it. I should look like that!

  Her expression darkened.

  She would look like that.

  Hadevar, the ragged thief, scurried through the dark street. The eye of the moon was closing, and her bright light was dimmed as only a slim sliver shined down on Baradon.

  He carried no torch or lamp, and moved quickly and silently. He dared not call any attention to himself. This was no time for him to be out on the street. The thieves and cutthroats would be prowling, as would Bayze Shab.

  For tonight's work, he could not afford to be seen by anyone. Not if he wanted to see the next promised half-brass. Not if he wanted to keep his skin whole.

  He crept through the darkness as he neared his target. He dropped to his haunches in an alleyway and huddled in the shadows, watching the street.

  One of the city guards walked by, dressed in his white tunic and carrying a short spear. His eyes roved up and down the street, but the night's shadows covered Hadevar, hiding him from view.

  He breathed a little easier now. This close to the granaries, there would be more guards, which meant fewer thieves, and made it less likely Bayze Shab would appear.

  Now he just had to finish his task.

  Once the guard was well past, he darted across the street into shadows on the other side. He pressed himself against the rough mud brick behind him, straining his ears for a cry of alarm, but the night stayed silent.

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  After a long, tense pause, he turned and looked up at the wall he'd been pressed against. It was uneven, with bricks that stuck out from the surface.

  He waited for a few minutes while the guard passed again. Then he felt along the wall, looking for a fingerhold.

  He kicked off his sandals and used his toes and fingertips to find purchase on the wall. He pulled himself off the ground. His fingers slid higher, feeling along the rough bricks, looking for a hold higher up. Finding one, he pulled himself up another few inches.

  Bit by bit, he crept up the wall. When he was ten feet off the ground, the guard came back by. Hadevar clung to the brick, his muscles screaming. Moving was torture, but holding still was worse.

  The guard passed without seeing him, his stony gaze fixed on the streets, not on the dark alleys. Hadevar resumed his climb.

  At twenty feet, he attained the top of the granary. After a quick look around, he pulled himself up into one of the vents, shoving aside the dried palm leaves that covered it.

  He balanced on the edge of the vent, looking down at the interior as his screaming muscles slowly recovered. Rows of giant clay jars filled the crude building. Dust filled the still air.

  Now that he was in the interior, Hadevar relaxed completely. No one could see him from outside, and unless he made too much racket, the guards wouldn't ever enter the granary itself.

  At least, that what he'd been told.

  After a rest, Hadevar began to climb carefully down the interior wall. It was harder to descend. Toe holds were harder to find, and the tension of holding himself up while carefully probing for the next grip was taxing. Fortunately, he only had to climb down about halfway. He dropped the rest of the way onto the dirt floor.

  After another short recovery, he moved to the center of the building to begin his work. His instructions had been clear; presented repeatedly and simply, to make sure the details soaked into his simple brain.

  He pulled a long wooden splinter from his belt--the closest thing to a knife that he could afford--and selected his target. The jars were sunk into the ground, yet still jutted up a yard or more; each the silent sentinels was filled hundreds and hundreds of sila of fine Namar?nian grain.

  He climbed to the top of one of the jars and drove his splinter through the wax-and-straw seal. He yanked and tore at it, opening the hole wide enough for him to get his hand in. Then he was able to pull the entire seal off.

  His eyes widened, and he ran his hands through the loose grain. He lifted a double handful--a day's wages' worth--and let the golden bounty cascade in a stream back into the jar.

  Hadevar glanced around, despite knowing he was along in the granary. He whipped out a small cloth and filled it with nearly four sila of grain, then tied it to his belt.

  A half-brass and two days' worth of grain. Good pay for a night's work. But time was slipping away. He needed to finish.

  He fetched a pair of the large scoops that leaned against the wall and returned to his jar. He stepped into the grain, reveling in the wild feeling of grain sifting between his toes, of sinking into food. His toothy grin stayed fixed to his face, as though he was a child at a festival.

  Bending, he dug the scoops into the grain, then flung them as high in the air as he could, precisely as he'd been instructed. The grain hissed as it fell to the floor, leaving a thick cloud of dust in the air. He flung again, and more dust filled the air.

  Hadevar had always been simple, struggling to follow directions, to understand what people were telling him to do, failing at so many tasks. But here, the work was easy, clear, and fun. He cast more grain into the air and nearly laughed with delight.

  With his wealthy new friend, it seemed he had finally found work he was good at.

  He spend nearly thirty minutes digging into the jar, flinging the grain high. There were only a few inches of grain left in this jar.

  Only a few inches. Probably enough grain to feed him for months. And the granary had hundreds of these jars. He giggled.

  The air was filled with grain dust, nearly to choking. He crouched at the bottom of the grain jar and pulled a slender bottle from his robes. He popped out the leather stopper and poured the cheap castor oil into the remaining grain at the bottom. He shook his head at the waste of it, but his instructions had been very clear.

  He fished a fire-steel out of his robe, along with a shard of flint. He waved a hand in front of his face, fruitlessly trying clear some of the hanging dust. He coughed a couple of times.

  Just a small flame in the bottom of the pot. Set the fire and leave, that was his final task.

  He positioned the fire-steel just above the soaked grain, and raised the flint high with his other hand, prepared to strike a spark.

  The streets around the granary were quiet and still. The dark night was slightly chill. The flicker of warm yellow lamplight filled the night, shining from hundreds of windows. All was peaceful and still.

  Suddenly the peace of the night was overridden by a monstrous roar as the granary erupted. A huge cloud of gray smoke rolled into the night sky, followed by a giant round bell of flame. The light roof of the granary disintegrated and its pieces were drawn up into the impossibly bright column of yellow fire. The night was lit as with an enormous lamp.

  The column of flame only lasted a few seconds, but it lit the entire sky, reflecting off the scattered clouds. Once the explosion settled, the granary was full aflame. Cries of alarm filled the street, and shouted commands were relayed from guard to guard as they tried to rally people to contain the fire.

  The street began filling as the guards started organizing teams to bring sand and dirt to fling on the fire, and to pull down neighboring buildings. But the flames within greedily ate the grain of the kingdom.