Her Shapeshifter Potion was not quite right, and the solution would surely be found in one of these old tomes. She had become distracted by a page in The Suratic Notebooks of Tilrakim Thala; margin notes scribbled some thousand years earlier claimed that the addition of hoof dust from a female reindeer would produce the Pathfinder’s Balm. Rubbed on the feet of camels, the substance allowed the beasts to travel the Dream Roads.

Unlikely, Meranne thought.

These old books were riddled with inaccuracies, both accidental and deliberate, and such an unguent would surely have been used by every commander of the old Vasran empire, preventing its fall from power. Most unlikely indeed. All the same, she scratched out a copy for herself. She’d learned much from a willingness to experiment. The Suratic Arts, popular in years past, had all but dried out as the Blight withered dreams, but Meranne’s stubbornness—methodically performing one failed experiment after another—had produced results not seen by the few others who still practiced the dying craft.

A glow of light moved between the stacks. An attendant approached and held a note outstretched, then retreated when she took it from his hand. The missive had been hastily sealed with colorless wax. She broke it open.

Getting drunker each moment you delay. ~W&G

The words were scrawled in a sloppy hand that gave proof to their meaning.

She muttered a curse under her breath. Vasran women of the Old Houses did not curse, of course, but Meranne found that unfair. When she’d agreed to an evening with Percy and the rest of her friends—a rare break from her Householder duties—she hadn’t accounted for the lure of the library. She slammed the leather-bound cover of Tilrakim Thala, thinking to leave it on the table. But then, checking that she wasn’t seen, she slipped the book into her bag. It wasn’t likely to be missed, given the dust she’d been obliged to brush from its cover upon discovery in the darkest, moldiest corner of the stacks. She gathered her belongings and hurried up the worn stone steps to the main floor, collecting her cloak and walking stick at the front desk.

Another attendant held the door. “Good evening, Sir.”

Meranne faltered at the address, then remembered she had dressed that day in her brother’s clothes, tying her hair into a young man’s top knot. Other women might wander the streets of Mamadi unchaperoned, but Meranne Alibar—heir to Calea Fen, dressed in bright traditional Vasran woman’s garb—would have drawn unwanted attention. She forced her shoulders back and smoothed her motions, nodding briskly at the attendant, and imagined something of her brother’s spirit animating her limbs.

She had been a child when her elder brother died at thirteen. That morning, overtaken by a sudden pang of missing him, she had donned one of his coats and liked the feel of it on her shoulders. She rummaged his old room and found a wardrobe that, all these years later, fit Meranne—now twenty-three—to perfection. She was slight, with the soft brown skin so celebrated in Vasran women, but with her hair tied back and her brother’s wool tunic and breeches—his curved dagger tucked into the belt—something about the cut of her jaw and gravity of her gaze let her pass as a teenage boy of the Old Houses. She was meant to join her friends at a bawdy tavern in Fish Town. And why not dress in his clothes, she had thought. Vasran House lords went slumming sometimes, and the rest of her friends went disguised without thinking twice. Not quite believing her own audacity, she had ridden into the city without a chaperone and entered the library without challenge, free to study as she pleased until time came to meet the others.

Stepping outside, she was assaulted by scents of churned seaweed and tar from the shipyards far below. A few flakes of snow hung suspended in the air. She hurried to the stable where she had left Keeper, her camel. The stable boy was thin, his collarbones sharp enough to cut the cloth of his threadbare tunic, but he spoke kindly to Keeper as he coaxed the beast from his stall, and the camel’s two shaggy humps had been lovingly brushed. She pressed a whole purity ingot into the boy’s grimy palm, and his eyes went wide.

Keeper grumbled his displeasure at Meranne when she scratched his furry cheeks and pressed her head to his. He was a magnificent creature, tallest and best of the Alibar Siwabs, bred for the cold and open air, and he did not care for the indignity of a public stable.

“I’m sorry boy,” she said. “Just one more stop.”

He accepted the carrot she produced from her pocket, then lowered to his knees. She tossed her things into the saddlebags and mounted the seat between his humps. When he rocked to his feet again, still grunting a few complaints, Meranne felt the same exhilaration she always felt when lifted to Keeper’s full height. She was small, even for a Vasran woman, and the vantage from his back filled her with a confidence she did not often feel in other circumstances. With a few clicks of her tongue, she turned him down a steep side street then joined the flow of traffic on the Mamadi Road.

The city had been built on a hill, straddling the cataracts of the Madi River as they tumbled into the Sea of Altan Jilath. As the road crossed the bridge in Midton, Meranne could spy the lighted span of Nunvut’s Bridge high above, and the bridge at Fish Town far below, nearly obscured in the evening mist. The ancient city tumbled down the hill in layers—Fensi longhouses jammed against Vasran domes and minarets—and languages from every land babbled from the people on the streets. She swayed with Keeper's steady downhill pace, pulling her cloak tighter against the chill wind blowing in from the sea, increasingly eager to join her friends in the warmth of The Merry Widow.

The traffic of early evening was steady, but not crowded: ox carts and horse-drawn carriages of the upper classes, an old woman lugging a basket of weave cloth on her back, a merchant astride another Siwab. None of these people gave Meranne a second glance. A scrawl of graffiti gave her pause—a shape like the top of an arrow, with three wavy lines underneath—and she pulled her brother’s cowl over her head.

She and her friends had never planned to spark a resistance. They had certainly not named themselves The Cuttlefish League—which sounded officious and organized—but the newssheets and town criers had all but hammered the moniker into the minds of the populace. Meranne and her friends had acted from pure necessity that first time, to rescue Wyl and his family. Percy had slipped into the prisons of the Oracle, armed only with his daring and Meranne’s Suratic potions. But the flow of innocents driven into the Malekkabir never ceased, and so their missions continued, growing in ambition. Three years later, their exploits had fueled stories of The Cuttlefish, a heroic fictional figure, and the sigil had been adopted as the mark of resistance.

Meranne dropped her head between her shoulders.

Keeper slowed as they reached the checkpoint gate at the ring wall between Midton and Fish Town. Several Red Cloaks in snake-headed helmets watched on as the city guard waved the traffic through. Meranne kept her eyes focused on the cart load of onions before her. These new soldiers, the Sword’s private force, were an increasing presence on the streets of Mamadi, while members of the city patrol were seen less frequently. A line of twenty well-appointed carriages waited on the other side of the gate, headed upward toward the Malekkabir. Despite herself, she scowled. Vultures feeding on the misery of others, they would be attending the Toucs Alfir. A lamp lighter—a Dreamless, judging by his vacant half-smile—shuffled along the side of the road, mindless of the cold. One of the Red Cloaks threw a rock, hitting the back of his head, while the others laughed. The Dreamless paused, patted the fresh wound that parted his gray hair, then continued his methodical progress, without expression. Meranne glanced away, seething.

With one hand, she worried at the small belt purse that carried her tools—sleeping darts, smoke globes, and a velvet-lined box with a few potions. She’d never had cause to use any of these tools on an actual mission—not like the others. These inventions were her contribution to The Cuttlefish League, but their presence at her belt was a comfort.

She was in luck—the guards did not question a boy in Old House clothes—and after several moments plodding the muddy roads near the docks, she reached the stable closest to The Merry Widow. With one more carrot as guilt-offering, she left Keeper in the stableman’s care and stepped carefully on the slick roadways of Fish Town, grateful for her brother’s sturdy boots. The snow had begun in earnest, haloing the greasy yellow streetlights in a soft, ethereal glow. When a rat skittered from a pile of reeking potato peels and ran across the top of her boots, she flicked the little beast with the walking stick, tossing it across the rubbish to land with a smack against a wall. It shook its head, gave her an offended look, and darted away. She regretted her choice instantly, ashamed for letting fear become meanness.

She narrowed her eyes at the handbills, barely visible in the dim light, pasted multiple times over the bricks:

1,000 Purity Ingots
for Information Leading to
Capture of The Cuttlefish
or
Members of His League

Meranne frowned. Her smoke globe illusions had the tendency to take the form of giant cuttlefish, giving rise to rumors. Percy and the others thought it was funny, but Meranne found it embarrassing. A better Surast would create better illusions.

Her gaze stuttered across the name blazoned on another handbill.

Za'ala Altanlorel, Seer to Kings!

It was a common enough name, she told herself. Focus. Do not slip on the ice. Despite herself, her attention drifted back to the posters, wondering how the celebrated seer was helped in her visions by the apparent lack of clothing.

She arrived at The Merry Widow, a place she had never before entered, though her friends came often. Aside from the fact that Old House Vasran women did not visit dockside taverns, her duties at home had swelled to a point that left little time for leisure. She paused before the door, gathering social courage.

“Hey there, Old House.” A Scythalli wandering man flashed a grin. His shaggy black hair and blue-green eyes put her in mind of a predatory cat. “The hunting’s better out here.” He twitched aside a corner of his embroidered cloak to reveal glowing green vials stitched to the inner lining. Their contents swirled with the motion of tiny figures trapped in the glass. Meranne caught her breath.

Dream Mist.

Ten vials, each representing the extracted dreams of another person, someone who now trudged through life, hollowed out of their innermost essence.

“What’s your poison, Little Lordling? Women? Men? Fensi? Vasran? Rani? You’ll find it all here.”

She reached hurriedly for the door, which burst open, ejecting a pair of tottering shipwrights with a burst of light, laughter, and the clatter of a busy kitchen. The Scythalli faded into the shadows, as if she had imagined him. She slipped inside the tavern and blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden light and color, still reeling with the horror of what she had just seen. She understood Dream Mist, in theory, but had never before seen it in real life, despite her work as a Surast. The casual cruelty of it, all for profit, was something she could not wrap her mind around.

The Merry Widow smelled of warm bodies and spiced meats. Serving boys carried trays laden with fried and breaded bits of fish, ale splashing from the mugs they lofted, four to a hand. A bent Fensi man, white as the falling snow, sawed away at an ox-head fiddle while three rowdy couples stomped their feet in time. Giving lie to the place’s name, an older woman behind the bar slung drinks with forearms big as barrels and a face more bitter than the drink. Meranne pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring several cries of “Hey Pretty Boy!” or “Ladies Bold for Old House Gold!” followed by peals of laughter.

She scanned the crowd three times before spotting Wyl and Gen, disguised, whispering together in a far corner table. Mamadi was no longer safe for Ibisans, so Meranne was not surprised by the blue Rani dye and swirled black ink on Wyl’s cheeks. He was fortunate; the marks of his race were easier to hide for him than for many others. His goat-like beard had been braided into the intricate beaded pattern of a Rani trader, his horns were covered by a cowl, and tinted spectacles hid the square pupils of his eyes. Gen—Lady Gengarda Soliav of Lion’s Tooth—was a shock, however. Her face was painted like a common night worker, and her breasts spilled over a low-cut blouse. Her blonde curls were a slovenly mess. Meranne frowned. Gen was five years her junior, and Percy’s little sister. She had watched over Wyl and Gen as children, and she found herself, just now, forced to swallow a wave of protectiveness before approaching the table and pulling out a chair.

“Sorry I’m late.” She sat down, and was met by blank stares.

Gen blinked several times before recognition dawned in her eyes. She broke out into laughter.

“Aren’t you the handsomest little man I’ve ever seen?” Her cheeks were red from more than just the paint.

Wyl shook his head, grinning widely. “I wouldn’t have known you, Mer.” The scent of ale was warm on his breath.

“Well that’s three of us then.” Meranne crossed her arms, her ears burning. “How much have you had? I’ll never catch up.”

Gen waved dismissively. “You’d never catch up in any case, you Vasran nun.”

She meant it as a friendly tease, but Meranne bridled inwardly. These two had a way of making her feel like a pestering auntie. To counter that sensation, she flagged a serving boy and ordered a mug of ale.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“Robbyt and Raff are running down a lead up the street. Weren’t sure they’d make it,” said Wyl, shrugging. “And Percy? Who knows? Said he’d be here, though.”

“My dearest brother is late as you,” said Gen. “Leave it to us young ones to be responsible and on time. We’ve had to drink for the rest of you.”

Wyl nodded. “Someone had to do it.”

Meranne leaned forward, elbows on the table, and spoke in a low voice. “What’s with the costume, Gen?”

Wyl mirrored her posture, his face grown somber. “A cooper from the old warehouse has been hiding three Ibisans in his basement. He sent word asking if I could help.”

“What made him think you could help?” Meranne nearly hissed her reply. “Does he know about—”

“Calm down.” Wyl murmured his reply. “He doesn’t know about The League! He thought another Ibisan might have connections, and passed his message through a man who used to work for my father.”

Mention of Wyl’s parents—now living as refugees in Northall—brought a flood of memories to Meranne’s mind: the house on the Tennlond and the vineyards in flames, the family carted off to the dungeons beneath the Malekkabir. Wyl Somabrod’s family had been prosperous vintners, neighbors to the Soliavs and Alibars for two centuries, and the Oracle’s attack three years earlier had caused Meranne and Percy’s political theories to boil over into action.

“…Gen and I got them on a Rani caravan this afternoon.” Wyl finished his story. “And now we celebrate.” He took several long swallows of his ale, but his tone did not sound celebratory.

A nearby table burst into song, and Meranne dropped her voice even lower, conscious of the public setting. “Who were they? Did you know them?”

“Not to speak to, but we’ve all seen them around town. They were the couple that ran the tapestry shop in upper Fish Town. One with skin like a birch tree, and—”

“And his husband looked like a snow fox. Tufted ears.” Meranne finished his sentence. “I remember them! Always dancing. Have they been in hiding all this time?”

“Two years in the cooper’s basement,” said Gen. “But they’ll soon be dancing in the forests of the north. So they’ll be better off than the rest of us.”

“Did Percy know about this?”

“No,” said Gen. “Last minute thing. And he left for the city before dawn today. He didn’t say why.” She sat up, and her tone lightened. “D’you see the handbills for the sight maiden from Trewestone? You’d think she was the resurrection of Fidelki! Posted all over town.”

Meranne nodded. “Not much for clothing, I noticed.”

“As did I.” Wyl waggled his eyebrows above the tinted spectacles, and Gen flicked ale at him with her fingertips.

“Made me think of our own Za’ala, though,” said Gen, her words slurring slightly.

“She’d be, what…twenty-three by now?” said Wyl. “Hard to imagine. I hear rumors, sometimes, of the Dalantsaa fleet.” His face soured. “But no one knows, for sure, with the Scythalli…She was always nice to me, Za’ala. You must miss her still?”

Wyl must truly be drunk to take the conversation on this tack; Meranne did not have words big enough to answer the question, and a familiar ache blossomed in her chest. Thankfully, the serving boy chose that moment to set a mug of ale before her, and she took a swallow large enough to wash down the knot of words she could not say. An awkward pause followed, during which they sipped their drinks and watched the drunken antics of the dancing couples.

It was Gen who broke the silence, sitting taller and glancing around the room. “Where is my brother? He should definitely be here by now.”