the amulet into her pocket, she had found the nearest window, climbed to the roof and disappeared into the night.
If it had finished there, it would have been a strange enough event to remember for the rest of her life. The only other time she had encountered someone during a robbery, they had screamed loudly enough to set the dogs howling three streets away. Jeniche knew because they were doing just that as she ran past them.
But it hadn’t finished there.
Suspicious and unnerved, she had roamed across the city for most of what was left of darkness, doubling back on herself, using secret ways and rooftops, watching for pursuit. By the time she had crawled into her hidden room up in the roof space of the stables, she was exhausted and still jittery.
That was when she had first examined the amulet, playing with the liquid metal thong, studying the inscription and the slight, circular depression on the opposite face. Just as she studied it now.
She had hidden it with her other winnings and her own money, safe in the socket of the false roof beam. And for days she had looked over her shoulder, staying away from her usual haunts, watching strange faces with care. Then, with a depressing inevitability that probably earned someone the price of a meal, the day she returned to one of her regular eating places, a squad of the city guard had pushed its way into the café where she sat and, after a violent struggle, dragged her through the streets down to the prison in the Citadel.
No one had mentioned the amulet or the merchant’s house. No one had mentioned anything beyond the fact that she was a thief and would be tried as one at the next assize. Which meant, she knew, that she would be found guilty. Which, she had to concede, she was.
The amulet turned slowly in front of her eyes, mesmerizing in the hot gloom. Ill-fated it may be, but she knew then that she could not part with it, that for better or worse it had been given into her care. She frowned at the tenor of her thoughts, drifting on a sluggish current between depths of grief and fear and the rocky shore of the future.
Distant firecracker sounds broke into her reverie. She listened a moment and then retrieved a jeweller’s belt from her hiding place, stowing her winnings and her money with care before tying it in place around her waist. She got dressed and was lacing on a pair of heavy sandals when Trag knocked.
‘Why they doing fireworks in the day? You can’t see them in the day. And they’re too close. Odrin said they were only allowed in the Old City. It’s upsetting the horses.’
Jeniche stared at Trag. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’
‘What?’
‘The city is under siege.’ She sat on the bottom step watching as Trag digested the news.
‘So… What about the fireworks?’
Jeniche had wondered about that as well. She had heard them a lot. Perhaps people were throwing firecrackers at the invaders. She shrugged.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s a siege?’
She stopped herself from sighing. It wasn’t Trag’s fault he was slow. And she knew no one in the stables bothered talking with him. He was treated like a pack animal, albeit with a degree of respect since that incident in the tavern. Someone who can eject four over-muscled bullies through a closed door without breaking into a sweat or spilling his beer tends to be given a bit of personal space.
‘Soldiers. From another country. They are trying to take over the city. Our soldiers are trying to stop them.’
‘Why?’
It was a very good question. If you sat in a Makamban café for long enough, you heard all the gossip, news, and opinion you could ever wish to hear, and not just local stuff either. The city was a trading centre, a crossroads. People had travelled hundreds of miles through many different states and countries to get there and some had hundreds more miles to go. Yet not once in the last few weeks had she heard of war threatening, of conflict, of border skirmishes, of arguments between leaders. It’s true that everyone had been preoccupied by the visit of the Tunduri God-King, eating and getting drunk, but news still circulated.
‘I don’t know that, either,’ she admitted.
‘Don’t we have magicians and things to get rid of the soldiers? The ones from that other country?’
‘That’s just in stories, Trag.’
‘I like them. Especially about the old days.’ A frown contorted his face. ‘Will they hurt the horses?’
‘I don’t think so, Trag. And this place is safe enough.’
Odrin had built the stables to impress wealthy clients as much as to house their horses. A large complex of buildings, it sat on the edge of the merchants’ suburb, saving them the need to take up space in their fancy houses and employ staff. The perimeter wall was substantial and the main buildings had been designed to create a cool interior for the animals.
Because the piece of land on which the stables stood had been an unusual shape, there had been a number of nooks and crannies in the construction. Trag had made a home for Jeniche in one of them, up under the roof above the storerooms. The Old City might feel like her natural home, but she liked it up here. She liked it because of Trag. She liked it because it was hidden. She liked it because it was so close to her hunting ground.
She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Just stay out of trouble.’
For some reason, Trag found that funny and began laughing. Jeniche shook her head and climbed back up into the hot space where she lived.
Allowing her eyes to get used to the gloom again, she tidied around and finished putting her things ready. She did not believe in a sixth sense any more than she believed in luck, but something about the last few weeks made her feel uncomfortable. The siege and occupation added a whole new layer of discomfiture. And if she had to leave, she wanted to be prepared.
Trag’s laughter was cut short. Jeniche froze. A knocking brought her down the steps.
‘Soldiers,’ said Trag. ‘In the yard. You going to hide?’
She nodded. ‘Be careful, Trag.’
He reached out with one of his huge hands and tousled her short hair. She smiled and then pushed the panel into place. From the other side came the sound of a bench being moved against that section of wall.
Jeniche climbed quietly up into her room and, from a stack in one corner, began wedging bales of hay into the narrow stairwell. If anyone took it into their heads to start tapping for secret panels, a dull thud is all they would get for their trouble.
When she had finished, she stood a moment in the stifling heat and listened. Apart from the usual muffled sounds of the stable, all seemed calm. It was too hot to stay in there, however, so she packed what was left of the food, picked up her coat, and opened a panel into the ventilation system.
A short climb took her onto the roof.
With all the grace of a drunken dancer, the ghost teetered about the empty square. It would lean one way and move off in that direction, picking up speed until it righted itself. Spinning on the spot for a moment or two, faint in the painfully bright sunshine, it would then lean in another direction and be on its way again, sinuous, trailing pale peach wisps of nothingness, and a faint, teasing hiss.
Jeniche watched the erratic ballet from the deep shadow of a cellar doorway. Dust ghosts were rarely seen in the city. It was seldom quiet enough. Most people would be sitting or lying in a shaded room, waiting for the heat to abate, especially at this time of the year. But there were normally some people about, scurrying through the oven of the afternoon; luckless servants mostly, sent on the errands of the fools for whom they had to work.
The square and the