the lamplight casting harsh shadows across her face, undaunted. She wore a plain tunic and carried only her walking stick. With her shorn head and the dirt she’d smudged over her face, she looked convincingly like a slave girl—except for that flesh-eating smile. “If it bothers you to answer the question, then maybe your resolve isn’t there.”
Ibolya glared at her. “Maybe some of us have enough resolve that we don’t need to constantly revisit it.” She felt instant remorse as Sondra’s smile dimmed. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”
Sondra held up hand to stop her. “Hey, it was a fair point. Don’t muck up a well-aimed retort with an apology.” She turned to lean on the rail, giving the high walls of the citadel a dour stare. “And yeah, I’m asking myself the same question. Fuck me, but I hate this place. You’re right, though: The decision has been made.” She scanned the busy harbor. “Not like any of us can stay aboard the boat with this level of activity. And there won’t be any coming back to it.”
“There certainly won’t,” Ambrose replied. “As if Lord Ryder would allow his servants to shirk their duties.” He sniffed with convincing arrogance, posing in his fancy clothing, the emerald-topped staff looking like an elegant cane. “I see you’re bringing your prize along, Sondra.”
She twirled her knobby, ugly walking stick. “Yep. Can’t carry a blade in this outfit, and this is at least a weapon.”
“One you don’t know how to use,” Ambrose pointed out.
“Well, you taught me how to not use it, so I figure if things go south, I’ll stop being careful with it.”
Ambrose looked pained but said nothing more. The ship came to a halt at anchor in a darker and quieter part of the harbor. Brenda and Agatha joined them. “This is where you get off,” Brenda announced. “Take the skiff to wherever looks like a reasonable spot for Lord Ryder to appear with his servants, then it’s up to you. Any word from Merle?”
“Yes,” Ambrose replied. “All is quiet within, and he’s confirmed the current location of the captives.”
Brenda nodded and pulled down her sailor’s cap to shade her face. She looked scruffy enough to blend in with the other dockworkers. “Kara and I will shop for a ship to steal. Send Merle to us in a few hours to find out which one we picked out. Good luck, all.”
They climbed down the rope ladder to the skiff, and Sondra rowed them to the dock. Then Ambrose took the lead, strolling with arrogant purpose along the dock, Ibolya and Agatha just behind him, and Sondra humbly bringing up the rear—and carrying their bags, her stick strapped to one.
They earned curious glances that turned into dull disinterest when Ambrose glanced their way, and made it to the harbor Slave Gate with little trouble. As predicted, entrants to the citadel were stopped and questioned, and Ambrose gave a convincing display of impatient boredom at the delay.
When they reached the head of the line, the guard blinked at Ambrose, confusion turning to suspicion. “And who are—?”
“Lord Ryder,” Ambrose replied haughtily, “and servants. I’ll have your name for impeding my progress.”
“Papers, syr,” the other guard inserted, “no matter who ye are. Orders of His Imperial Majesty.”
Ambrose sighed mightily but flicked his fingers at Ibolya, who pulled the faked documents from her skirt pocket, curtsying deeply as she handed them over. Agatha kept her face well shaded by the hood of her cloak while the guards scrutinized the papers long enough that Ambrose had to snap at Sondra to quit her restless stomping.
“We don’t have a Lord Ryder on our list of guests or residents,” the first guard finally said.
“Are you certain?” Ambrose asked. “Look again. You likely spelled it wrong. It’s right there, before Lady Rysong.”
“Oh, huh. Go figure. Sorry, syr.”
“Why is a fancy lord like you coming through the Slave Gate?” the other guard asked, not at all convinced.
Ambrose flipped back his curls, considerably longer, glossier, and more golden than usual. “Have you seen the mob at the main gates?” He shuddered delicately. “Besides,” he added in a conspiratorial tone, “I don’t wish for a certain lover to know I’ve been out tomcatting. Iris, darling, give the gentlemen a gift for their service.”
Ibolya had the coins ready and slipped them into the guards’ palms with smooth sleight of hand as if she’d been giving and taking bribes for years. Perhaps she had.
Ambrose produced an elaborate yawn. “I’m exhausted. May I go to