Qala had taken the lead. Spying the Qi’shathian galleons, she had decided to take a risk.

  “As you said, Ylia, we need to get off the streets, find somewhere quiet,” Qala explained. “I will declare myself. Soon, we will find out the loyalty of these men. Be ready for a fight.”

  Ylia had been tempted to just flee the city—but by what means and where to were questions that needed answers, and she could not answer them until she had a moment to think when she wasn’t looking over her shoulder. Already, men, women, and especially children were emerging from doorways, drawn by the sirensong of rumour, pointing at Jubal and the slinking felidae. Urgal growled when the gawkers drew too close—which did not help matters much.

  Qala led them back the way they had come and then down another path that sloped to the docks. They could have located the place without directions, such was the smell rising from it. Uncooked fish and male sweat and salt-soaked wood stung the nostrils with formidable potency. But there was something wholesome about it too. Something that spoke of more innocent times, before Emperor Darius had become obsessed by progress, before the Engines had become a new god for the Aurelian people. Ylia had witnessed that change, and it had been further motivation for leaving.

  They passed stalls of fishmongers and merchants hawking wares from one continent or another. Even though Qala was hooded and had her face-mask in place, Ylia could tell she disproved of the quality of the artefacts on show.

  Ylia spotted a few men and women wearing a blood red sash across their chests, with golden caps on their heads making them look like overdressed teapots—they eyed the proceedings with hawklike intensity. Some carried whips at their belts, others batons. Wagemasters. She shuddered. Even though they had no claim on her, and one could only be indentured to a Wagemaster through consent or parental decision, she still felt the lingering fear of youth, that somehow she could be drawn back into that powerless state. She hurried on and did not meet their eyes.

  After twenty minutes of slithering through the labyrinth of tables and awnings, and trying to stop Urgal from pinching fish, they saw the wharves—a hive of festering activity that more resembled a jungle than a city. Men and women scampered monkey-like up the rope-ladders leading to the crow’s nests of galleons. Gulls of multicoloured plumage squawked and dived for odd ends of food. Cargo boxes were carried up and down the docks. Most contained alcohol, Ylia noted. The smell of rum and Daimonwine was thick on the air. The Daimonwine, she knew, was being exported, for no one made more Daimonwine than the Aurelians. But the rum had been imported, maybe from Qi’shath.

  “That one,” Qala said, pointing to a huge ship made out of red wood. It was over 160 feet long, with billowing white topsails, an array black-powder cannons on the flanks of its bow, and a flag bearing the Jade Lotus of the Qi’shathian Empress. Sweat slicked Ylia’s palms. Qala’s plan seemed reckless to her, but then again, they were in fairly desperate straits. Gryll had abandoned Qala’s wares in Gorgosa, leaving them with nothing to sell and very little money indeed.

  Qala marched past a group of surly looking sailors—all of whom eyed their troop with disdain and confusion—and strode along the tops. Towards the end of the dock, and managing a team of labourers, stood a man even shorter than Telos had been. He wore an emerald robe and a black cape. A cap on his head was adorned with a lotus broach. His skin was sun-beaten but his eyes were pure crystal—the eyes of an adventurer who lived and died by the clarity of his long-range vision.

  He turned as they approached, one eyebrow raising quizzically.

  Qala bowed before him. Ylia was unsure if she should also bow. Worried it might be construed as patronising, she simply stood back and let Qala do the talking. Jubal seemed to have had a similar idea. The captain’s eyes flickered to the theront, then to Urgal, who had draped himself over the lip of the dock and was examining the water below with great mistrust. We really do stick out like a sore thumb. This can’t be helping Qala’s cause. Maybe that was another reason Qala had thrown caution to the wind. Luckily, the docks were full of travellers, some of them fairly outlandish, so they were not the sole attraction.

  “Xi’qi al’lay o dreyne’sen?”

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  Ylia was taken aback. She did not know why she had expected the captain to converse in Yarulian, but now she realised how stupid that assumption had been.

  “He’s asking if you’re my bodyguard, Jubal,” Qala said, lightly.

  Jubal made a snorting noise.

  Qala replied in Qi’shathian. Ylia had no idea what she was saying, but as the captain’s eyes widened slowly, she guessed Qala was explaining who she was and their plight. Finally, when Qala had finished, the captain stared at them.

  Then he burst out laughing. He had an irritating laugh, the captain, a sort of toadlike croak. He bent over double, slapping his leg.

  “Zanzi, zanzi! Ki’to mara amald’deron!” He pointed at her, cried up to the sailors gathering on the gantry of the galleon looming by their side, and laughed some more.

  Qala threw back her hood and removed the cloth from her face. Her hair—a violet so deep it was sunset—rippled on the seaborne wind. Her eyes were jacinth. Her face was white fury. The captain sobered and stared. Then he spat.

  “Quel’da, namida. Tor’los, xi’tan’gwuy!”

  “What did he say?” Ylia whispered.

  Qala’s expression had soured.

  “He says I am undoubtedly a beauty, but not the one I claim to be.”

  Qala opened her heavy cloak, revealing the secret inner lining of the robe. For the second time, Ylia saw the sorcerous light blazing. Instantly, the captain fell to his knees. Unlike the bouncer who had nearly denied them entry to The Drunken Dragon, the captain raised his hands as if to defend himself against the light, seemingly knowing what it was, and what one who knew how to use it might do. Light frothed and ran, escaping from an unseen source that Ylia suspected was Qala’s own being. It wreathed her, wrapping about her like a wedding garb. Ylia thought she saw spirits, faces, in the light, though the next moment they were serpents of yellow-gold.

  And then an instant later the light and its phantoms were shut off. Qala had deftly closed her robe with the slightest motion of her hand. The captain trembled, staring up at Qala with more terror that awe.

  “I had hoped not to make a spectacle,” Qala said, in Yarulian. “But you forced my hand.”

  “C-can it truly be? The Lost Daughter…”

  “My brother forced me to flee, to abandon all—but Qi’shath remains in my heart.”

  The captain spat.

  “Your brother Quen Yu? A pox on him!” He suddenly realised how frankly he had spoken. “Begging your pardon, your highness. But he is not well loved. His heart is black! He loves not the people.”

  Qala smiled darkly.

  “It is good to hear that his evil has shown itself, rather than remaining hidden, though my heart is saddened to hear of my people’s plight.”

  The captain lowered his voice to such a whisper it seemed the captain feared even the gods might hear.

  “But the Empress… she does not see it. She does nothing. Forgive my blasphemy.” He placed his forehead on the floor.

  Qala closed her eyes in silent acknowledgement.

  “He was always the favourite. She preferred boys.”

  The captain looked up sharply. He studied Qala’s face for a few moments, then burst out laughing again. He clambered to his feet, almost drunkenly, making Ylia wondered whether the stories about men with sea-legs were true.

  “Well, you had better come inside as requested. The guards will be looking for you, but their jurisdiction does not extend to the galleons, even when they are moored. But you know this already.” At long last, the captain turned to Ylia and Jubal. “I am Xheng, captain of the Dire Request.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ylia said.

  Jubal grunted.

  “I know nothing of you, but you have my thanks for watching over the Empress-to-be,” the captain went on. He cracked a sudden smile. “Come within. Are you hungry? You shall dine in my quarters! We have roasted pork!”

  Ylia smiled, but her relief was punctured by a sudden, silent blade—she thought of Telos, and how badly he would have liked to have eaten roast pork, and that he never got the chance before he died.

  Sighing, she followed the others up the gangplank, onto the deck of the Dire Request.