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second party that had gone looking for Johanna and her family’s killers, reported what he’d found.
    “The trail looped east around the marsh. At first I thought it would turn north along one of the smaller trails, but it continued in a circle till it headed back to Santiago.” He paced across the room that had always been Duke DeSilva’s office, hands clenched behind his back, sword whisking against his leg as he moved. He took four steps, then pivoted and took four more. “We came across the site of a bandit attack. We found several bodies. They each carried military-style weapons, but they didn’t wear a uniform from any particular state. After that the tracks were muddled, and they all seemed to turn south.”
    He stopped in front of the cold hearth and pressed one hand against the mantel, seeming to gather strength from the stone. Lady DeSilva didn’t make note of the pause in his story. She faced the citrine-colored windows, watching the rain that was quickly turning the training ground into a muddy mess.
    Raul continued. “We followed them and found signs of a second skirmish . . . and a large grave site.”
    Dom lowered his head to the table.
    “Is my son dead, Raul?” Lady DeSilva’s voice was low and cool, devoid of emotion, as it had been when she heard of her husband’s sudden death.
    “We don’t know, my lady. The bodies were . . .” Raul trailed off, reliving the moment. “We dug and dug, but they were so far down. We unearthed only one. It was Snout.”
    There was a swish of skirts and Dom felt the weight of a familiar hand between his shoulder blades. “So you’re saying that someone took the time to bury our dead?”
    “Yes, my lady.”
    “Bandits don’t bury their own, let alone their victims. Am I correct?”
    Dom raised his head, feeling a crease from the table’s edge across his brow. His mother brushed the spot with her thumb.
    “And I’m assuming you found tracks away from the site?”
    Raul sagged with relief. “Yes, two sets. One going north; the other to the west.”
    “Then as far as I’m concerned, my son is alive. And until we know otherwise, we will continue to operate under that assumption.” She rubbed Dom’s neck gently. “Only my son, bound to his honor, would continue such a hunt and leave his mother to worry.”
    It was a positive way to look at things. There was no guarantee that Rafi was alive, but the knot of anxiety binding Dom’s lungs loosened.
    Until his mother said, “While we wait for Rafi to return, we’ll prepare for war.”

Chapter 10
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Johanna
    Only lovers and troublemakers visited Camaçari’s turrets. The wooden watchtowers stretched above the stockade walls, crowning the city with eight pinnacles, and offered an unhindered view of the surrounding countryside.
    Strands of tattered garland dangled between the barbicans, fluttering under the gentle rain as the peddler’s cart rolled through the guarded gate. Raucous music and laughter mixed with the smells of cooking food and moderately good ale.
    Camaçari was a town famous for parties and gambling. It was a place people came to get lost and forget.
    Without her training as a Storyspinner, Johanna would never have guessed that the walls, splattered with vibrant murals and lines of crass poetry, surrounded what had once been a major stronghold of the Ten Years’ War.
    The bones were there, she supposed. The iron-wrapped gate, the guardhouses at both entrances, the soldiers who nodded to cart drivers as they passed. But otherwise, the people were loud, their laws lax, and their morality questionable.
    To put it nicely, she couldn’t imagine why any DeSilva—except perhaps Dom—wouldn’t have straightened out such a crooked town long ago.
    “You didn’t tell me we were coming to Camaçari.” Johanna and Rafi sat side by side in the peddler’s cart. It was nearly empty now that the peddler was done with his route, and there was enough room for them both. “I love it