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jumping over the alley to the next building. Anburj leapt over the alley with ease, and Caina kept running. Below she heard the clatter of armor as the Immortals pursued, running through the streets to keep her in sight. 
    Caina kept running, jumping from roof to roof, but a cold inevitability began to close around her heart. Perhaps she had finally taken too great of a risk, had gambled too much, and now would pay the price. She wished she had found the truth of the Apotheosis. Caina resolved then not to let Anburj take her alive. If Caina was killed before any of her secrets were tortured from her, Damla and her sons would be safe. And Agabyzus was still free, and could continue the work of the Ghosts after she was dead.
    She ran across the roof of a wine shop, Anburj and a half-dozen Immortals in pursuit, and saw the opened window. It was across the alley, in the top floor of the neighboring house. Likely the owner of the house had left the shutters open to cool off after the heat of the day, confident that no one would try to enter a third-story window. 
    Perhaps Caina could use it to put some distance between her and Anburj.
    She jumped across the alley and landed on the house’s roof, her legs flexing to absorb the impact. Then she whirled to face her pursuers, as if she had determined to make a last stand here. Anburj grinned and jumped, and the Immortals followed suit, fanning across the roof to encircle her. 
    Caina sidestepped off the roof and twisted, grabbing the windowsill as she fell. She heaved herself over the windowsill and landed in an empty, dusty room. Perhaps this floor of the building was unused. She turned to close the shutters and bar them before Anburj and his men followed…
    A hand reached out and slammed the shutters shut, a bar dropping into place.
    Caina jumped back, daggers raised, as a man stepped out of the shadows.
    He was in his late thirties or early forties, of Istarish or Anshani birth with brown skin. His head had been shaved, and the trimmed lines of a black beard encircled his lips and edged his chin. He wore a loose black shirt tucked into black pants, a scimitar hanging from his belt. A black leather glove and bracer covered his left hand and forearm, and Caina felt a faint aura of sorcery from his hand.
    “Good evening,” said the man, a white smile flashing in his dark face. His voice was a deep, sonorous vibration, the sort of voice made for mighty orations. “I am pleased you chose to answer my humble invitation.” He tapped the shutters. “And that you elected not to kill me on sight. I do so abhor bloodshed before breakfast.” 
    Caina opened her mouth to speak.
    “To forestall what shall be an inevitably tedious line of conversation,” said the man, turning towards the door, “first, I mean you no ill will, second, I know that you are the Balarigar, and third, you may address me as Ibrahaim for now, though proper introductions can follow if we live long enough. If you wish to fulfill your death wish at the hands of the Immortals, I shall not stop you, but I would prefer not to die here. We really ought to go.”
    Caina hesitated for a few heartbeats. She had never seen this man before, but he clearly knew of Balarigar. Not that it meant anything, since all of Istarinmul had heard of the Balarigar. Yet Ibrahaim had known to find her here. If he had meant her harm, he could simply have let Anburj kill her.
    The shutters thumped from a blow. The Immortals were trying to get into the house, and likely Anburj had dispatched men to the door. 
    “Very well,” said Caina in her disguised voice.
    Ibrahaim grinned. “Let’s run.”
    He dashed from the room, and Caina followed. The door opened into a deserted corridor, and Ibrahaim raced down the stairs. Crashes echoed through the house as the Immortals took axes to the front door. Ibrahaim veered left, making for the kitchen and the back door.
    “There will be Immortals in the alley,” said Caina.
    “But most of them