the Blackberry rivers, and its streets were bursting with commerce and the multiplicity of people who flowed with the money. They passed olive-skinned, strong-featured Sethi wearing short loose trousers and white tunics, red-haired Ceurans with their two swords and their odd fashion of braiding multicolored locks of hair into their own, a few Ladeshians, and even an almond-eyed Ymmuri. They made a game of it, surreptitiously pointing and trying to guess who was from where.
“How about him?” Uly asked, pointing at a nondescript man in plain woolens. Kylar scowled.
“Yes, let’s hear it, hotshot,” Elene said, wearing an impish grin. “And don’t point, Uly.” The man had no distinguishing characteristics. No tattoos, standard tunic and trousers for Caernarvon, brown hair cut short, no Modaini patrician nose, nothing distinctive; even his fairly tan skin that could have come from half a dozen countries. “Ah,” Kylar said. “Alitaeran.”
“Prove it,” Elene said.
“Only Alitaerans look that smug.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Ask him,” Kylar said.
Elene shook her head, sinking back, suddenly shy.
“Hey, master!” Uly shouted as their wagon rolled past him. “Where ya from?”
“Uly!” Elene said, mortified.
The man turned and drew himself to his full height. “I hail from Alitaera, by the grace of the God the greatest nation in all Midcyru.”
“The gods, you mean,” the Waeddryner he was bargaining with said.
“No, unlike you Waeddryner dogs, Alitaerans say what they mean,” the merchant said, and in a moment they were arguing about religion and politics and Uly was forgotten.
“I am pretty amazing,” Kylar said.
Elene groaned. “You’re probably Alitaeran yourself.”
Kylar laughed, but that “probably” soured in his mouth. Probably, because he was a guild rat, an orphan, maybe slaveborn. Like that Alitaeran, he couldn’t even guess where his parents had been from. He couldn’t guess why they’d abandoned him. Were they dead? Alive? Important somehow, like every orphan dreams? While Jarl had been busy saving pennies to get out of the guild, Kylar had been dreaming of why his noble parents might have been forced to abandon him. It was useless, foolish, and he thought he’d given it up long ago.
The closest thing he’d had to a father was Durzo—and Kylar had become what all men curse: a patricide. Now here he was, a loose string, tied to nothing before or behind.
No, that wasn’t true. He had Elene and Uly. And he had the freedom to love. That freedom cost something, but it was worth the price.
“Are you all right?” Elene asked him, her brown eyes concerned.
“No,” Kylar said. “As long as we’re together, I’m great.”
In a few minutes, they had left the northern markets and were getting deeper into the shipping district. Even here almost all the buildings were stone—a big change from Cenaria, where stone was so expensive that most of the houses were wood and rice paper. Local punks lounged in the stoops of houses and warehouses and mills, sullenly watching them go past with the universal expression of adolescents with something to prove.
“Are you sure this is the right road?” Kylar asked.
Elene winced. “No?”
Kylar kept the wagon moving, but it didn’t matter. Six of the teens stood and followed a black-toothed man with a mop of greasy black hair toward them. The youths reached under steps or beneath piles of trash to find weapons. They were street weapons, clubs and knives and a length of heavy chain. The man leading them stood in front of the wagon and grabbed the near horse’s bridle.
“Well, honey,” Kylar said, “time to meet our friendly neighborhood Sa’kagé.”
“Kylar, remember what you promised,” Elene said, taking his arm.
“You don’t really expect me to . . .” He let the question die as he saw the look in her eyes.
“Afternoon,” their leader said, slapping a club into his palm. He smiled broadly, showing off two black front teeth.
“Honey,” Kylar said, ignoring him. “This is different. You have to see that.”
“Other people get through this sort of thing without anybody dying.”
“Nobody will die if we do this my way,” Kylar said.
The black-toothed man cleared his throat. Dirt looked permanently tattooed into his visage and two protruding, crooked, and blackened front teeth dominated his face. “Excuse me, lovers. I don’t mean to interrupt—”
“You can wait,” Kylar said in a tone that brooked no argument. He turned back to Elene. “Honey.”
“Either do what you promised or do what you’ve always done,” Elene said.
“That’s not permission.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Excuse me,” the man said again. “This—”
“Let me guess,” Kylar said, mimicking the man’s swagger and accent. “This here’s a toll road, and we need to pay a