Perched on a gushing rainspout at a point where the street turned was the huddled shape of a very wet black heron. One of Dah’mir’s herons. If Ashi hadn’t drawn his attention to the banners and he hadn’t been looking up, Singe wouldn’t have seen it himself. Dandra drew a sharp breath, and Singe felt the pressure of her mind against his as she reached out in the mental link of kesh. He accepted the touch, and an awareness of her-and of Ashi and Natrac as well-blossomed in his thoughts.
Is it watching for us? Natrac asked.
Does it matter?
I think it does, said Dandra. Beyond that bend in the street is Fan Adar, the kalashtar neighborhood. I think the heron is watching the kalashtar.
Singe cursed silently and thought for a moment, then asked. Does anyone see any others?
The others scanned walls and rooftops. One by one, they shook their heads. Good, said Singe. He raised his hand, a spell forming on his lips. Dandra looked at him with alarm.
Singe, a spell will attract attention!
Not this one. Singe focused his will, crooked his fingers, and murmured a soft word of magic.
Fire magic might have been his strength, but they’d just spent weeks on a wooden ship. If the crew of the White Bull had turned on them, throwing flames around wouldn’t have been a good idea, so Singe had made certain he was ready to cast a different kind of spell if the need arose. Up on the rainspout, the heron seemed to shiver slightly, then to sag. Singe lowered his hand and stepped away from the wall. The heron didn’t move, not even when he walked right up and stood underneath it. He turned back and gestured for the others to join him. “It’s asleep,” he said. “It should stay that way for a while and wake up without even knowing we were here.”
Dandra released her hold on the kesh, and the mental link vanished. “Why don’t you use that spell more often?”
He spread his hands. “Not everything falls asleep so easily, but pretty much everything will burn.”
Dandra shook her head and led them around the corner.
It was almost as if they had entered another city. The crowds that had packed the other streets were gone, leaving only a few figures huddled here and there. Singe had a feeling that even if it hadn’t been raining, the streets in this neighborhood would have been quiet and nearly empty. The Thronehold banners, though still present, were subdued. The gray stone of Overlook remained, but the decorations that enlivened it elsewhere were different here: bright flowers in painted window boxes gave way to gray-green herbs in suspended trays, curtains in windows bore curious embroidery that Singe had only seen in Dandra’s clothing, doors carried strange signs and symbols.
“Welcome to Fan Adar,” said Dandra softly.
The few faces that regarded them from arches and stalls shared features distinct from the men and women of the Five Nations. Some had the distinct exotic beauty-long and thin with angular features-that marked a kalashtar. Others had the rounder, softer features of humans, though they and the kalashtar were alike enough that they might have been distant cousins.
In a way, Singe supposed, they were. The humans were Adarans; Dandra had said that the far-off nation of Adar had been the birthplace of kalashtar eighteen hundred years before and that kalashtar and Adarans still lived close together. All had dark hair and eyes, with bronzed skin tones that ranged from the same rich brown as Dandra’s to a pale duskiness. Most wore clothes and sandals similar to hers as well.
Dandra kept to the middle of the street, not returning the dark-eyed gazes. Singe thought he saw recognition in some of the faces they passed, but no one called out and as soon as a kalashtar or Adaran turned to him, Natrac, or Ashi, even the merest hint of curiosity vanished into blank solemnity.
“Real welcoming sorts, aren’t they?” said Natrac under his breath.
Dandra turned her head just enough to reply. “They’re insular, that’s all. Adar is a place of refuge. Kalashtar and Adarans don’t trust outsiders easily.”
“Even here in Sharn?” Singe asked her. “Dandra, if this was a village and we were passing through here during the war, I’d say the locals were scared of something.”
“If Dah’mir’s herons have been watching the neighborhood,” said Ashi, “maybe they are.”
Singe felt his skin crawl at the suggestion. “Let’s get to the apartment before we start speculating,” he said. “We may need to revise our-”
The shrill howl that erupted to his right stopped the words in his throat. Singe whirled to face a flash of movement and glimpsed a man-a kalashtar-as he leaped from behind a closed-up stall, his eyes wild, wet hair plastered against his head. Ashi’s sword flashed and Natrac’s knife-hand rose, but Singe was closest to the attacking man. He fell back a step, grabbing for his rapier.
The kalashtar was on him before he could draw it, hands outstretched. Singe twisted and one hand missed him, but the long fingers of the other grabbed at his sword arm. There was a silver-white flash, a crack like lightning striking close, and sharp pain burst through the wizard’s arm. He shouted, wrenched his arm free, and planted a kick in the kalashtar’s belly.
The man staggered but came surging back, hands reaching once more. There was no room for Singe to draw his sword, no time for him to cast a spell. Moving quickly, he pushed himself inside the kalashtar’s reach, grabbed his arms at the wrists, and forced his hands away. The kalashtar, however, fought with the strength of a madman. Singe yelped as he was heaved off his feet. Natrac, Ashi, and a glimpse of the street-kalashtar and Adarans alike staring in shock-blurred past him.
He ended up with his neck locked in the crook of the other man’s arm. The smell of his unwashed body was thick in Singe’s nose and mouth. The kalashtar screamed again, and his hand darted at Singe’s face. Silver-white light shimmered around his fingers.
“Ashi! Natrac! Get back!”
A sharp drone rose like a chorus. Out of the corner of his eye, Singe saw Dandra’s face tense with concentration.
Whitefire burst around him and the kalashtar man both, enveloping them in a heat so intense that took Singe’s breath away. He flinched, an automatic reaction and nothing more. The ring he had inherited from his grandfather consumed the magical fire that licked at him. The kalashtar, however, had no such protection. His howl turned into a gasp as the heat sucked the air from his lungs. The hand before Singe’s face fell away, the pressure on his throat eased. Singe tore himself free and the kalashtar swayed, then slumped to the ground. His wet clothes steamed, but the kalashtar was otherwise uninjured.
Singe bent over with his arms on his knees and breathed in cool air before glancing up at Dandra. “Thanks,” he began, but paused as he saw the expression on her face.
She was staring at the fallen man. Singe looked down at him as well. He was as dirty as he had smelled. The rain was making streaks in a face smudged with grime. His clothes were dirty and wet too, but otherwise in good repair. His features carried the slightly stretched look of someone who hadn’t eaten for several days. He had been living rough, Singe guessed, but not for very long. Probably less than a week.
“I know him,” said Dandra, “or at least Tetkashtai knew him. His name is Erimelk. He’s a scribe.” She knelt down beside him. “This isn’t like him.”
“There’s a surprise.” Singe straightened and twisted his arm to see where Erimelk had grabbed him. Blood stained the wet cloth in two big patches. “Twelve moons! He hits hard for a scribe.”