Gwin paused at the edge of Midnight Square, hitching up the hem of her cloak to avoid the layer of ash and rubble still littering the ground. Residents of the Bard’s Quarter, side by side with Armoria’s finest carpenters and masons, had been working day and night to clear the remains of the charred buildings and begin to repair the damage, but the process was slow. The Bard’s Rest was still a sad pile of gently smouldering wood and shattered glass.

  She squinted at a group of people working to load a section of the ruined stage onto a cart. The man standing above the rest and issuing impassioned instructions looked familiar.

  “Barlo, is that you? I have been wondering how you fared.”

  Barlo looked up at the sound of his name and smiled warmly, jumping down from his lofty position on an upended crate.

  “The fair lady, Gwin. How soothing it is to behold your beautiful face amid this brutal destruction.”

  “Must you always greet me like that?”

  “Your radiance makes it hard not to.” When Gwin looked away he reached for the fat burlap sack she was holding. “Please, allow me to carry this. Where are you going?”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I can manage. Besides,” she added, her nose wrinkling as she took in his dusty clothes and soot-smeared hands, “I fear you would dirty anything you touched.”

  “A fair point, succinctly made.”

  “I am to meet Gulpe at his shop. I just wanted to ask after Tamsin and Neave. And yourself, of course.”

  “We are all well. As well as can be expected, at any rate.”

  His face fell and when he moved closer, Gwin caught a rare, fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the mask—vulnerable and frightened. “I have never seen a creature like that before. Many changelings are leaving the city to seek new homes in Nymed or Kaelunis. Some even plan on making the long journey to Jonick. They fear that monster was unleashed with the sole purpose of destroying them.” He lowered his voice. “You will likely struggle to form any defence against Lord Dewer now, Gwin. The changelings have no fight left in them. You must not blame them, they simply wish to make a life for themselves. One unburdened by fear.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of blaming them.”

  “And what do you believe? Do you think that creature was Dewer’s living weapon? A demon sent to crush what is left of the changeling community?” His voice carried an oddly urgent tone.

  Gwin placed a hand on his arm. Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, she could feel him shaking. “I do not know for certain. All I know is that somehow, it was connected to Lord Dewer.”

  “Please let me know if I can be of any assistance at all.”

  He grinned unexpectedly and bowed low before her, sweeping one arm high into the air. “It is always a pleasure to see you, lovely lady.” Any hint of fear or worry was once again carefully hidden beneath his wide smile. “When might I see you again? You really must come to our next show. We will be performing the Lament of Suki Sidhe. It promises to be spectacularly moving.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “I’m glad to hear your Players haven’t decided to leave the city. Many of them are changelings, aren’t they?”

  “They are indeed. Neave is playing the titular role of Suki. I know she would be deeply flattered if you were to attend.”

  “Where will you be performing? Surely the stage won’t be back to its former splendour for some time?” She cast a doubtful look at the blackened planks of wood and the tattered remnants of what had once been handsome curtains, stacked in two swaying bundles on the back of the groaning cart.

  “Marya of the Mermaid’s Purse has kindly offered us a home at her rather quaint establishment. We are used to a larger performance space, of course, but we must not complain. What the people of this quarter need in these dark days is the finest entertainment, and the Barlo Players are duty-bound to provide it.”

  After promising she would attend his play, Gwin left Barlo to his group of sullen-faced workers and turned into Midnight Lane. The narrow street had been left largely untouched by the destruction, but a fine sifting of ash and brick dust stirred from the rooftops whenever the wind swept past, casting a grey pall across the usually warm glow of the shop fronts.

  Gulpe was standing behind the counter in his shop, head bent over a thick, brittle-looking book. He looked up sharply when Gwin entered and closed it with a loud thump.

  “Well, if it isn’t Armoria’s resident monster slayer. How does the morning find you, Mrs?”

  Gwin couldn’t be sure if the hobgoblin was being surly or if he was genuinely pleased to see her.

  “The morning finds me well. But I’m hardly a monster slayer, Gulpe. Vanth was the one who felled the beast.”

  “So I hear. She’s a strange sort, for a Salt Sword. Perhaps that’s why I like her; all the best people are a little strange.” He eyed the burlap bundle still clasped in Gwin’s arms, one bushy eyebrow raised. “What do you have there, Mrs? Travelling supplies? Are you leaving town already?”

  In a small glass jar on a shelf behind him, something blue and green emitted a low croak.

  “Quite the opposite.” Gwin drew herself up to her full height and drew a deep breath, ruffled by the suggestion she would turn tail and run home.

  “What is it then?”

  With a triumphant flourish, Gwin pulled a long white robe from the sack and held it up to the ashy light falling through the shop window. She expected Gulpe to be impressed but he grimaced, taking a firm hold of her arm and pulling her further back into the shop.

  “What in Thetia’s name are you doing flashing that ugly thing around in here?”

  Gwin looked at the robe draped over her arm, confused. She believed it to be rather handsome. The robes of Armoria’s druids were made from the thickest cotton, finely stitched and embroidered with subtle sigils. A thick, tasselled belt was threaded through loops at the waist—a deep purple colour that blazed against the stiff white cotton.

  “Surely you don’t believe this is ugly?”

  “It’s not the garb itself that’s ugly, but what it represents. The folk around here don’t take kindly to the druids, as you well know, Mrs. I certainly don’t want you displaying it for all to see in my bloody window.” Gulpe shook his head, clearly exasperated.

  “You still plan to join the ranks of the Crimson Order. Either that, or you’ve inadvertently killed the hapless soul those robes belonged to and you need help disposing of the body. Stripping the wretch naked would certainly have been a prudent move. Less evidence for the Salt Swords to find.”

  “I have not stripped anyone naked.” The thought of doing so was vaguely nauseating. “And I certainly haven’t killed a druid. I bought these at a reputable shop on the Crimson Mile.”

  “Exactly what kind of reputable shop sells druid’s robes to any old crumb-bum off the street?” Gulpe crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Gwin. “Especially to a crumb-bum with bright blue hair and a changeling’s eyes? What fib are you spinning, Mrs?”