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room, searching for her knife. Using her voice, she pushed out the single syllable of his name, “Mar!”
    Cilla thumped the closed hatch of Maart’s bunk. “They’re close,” she said, talking fast. “Jorn went out to hold them off. He’s dissolved his detection spell. We can pass safely.”
    Amara slipped her knife into the side pocket of her horse-fuzz boots. “How many?”
    Cilla was helping Maart from his bunk; with her head turned away, she missed Amara’s signs. Didn’t matter. They’d need to run fast no matter what.
    They hadn’t encountered hired mages in months. Jorn normally sensed them coming once they passed his boundary spell, giving him the chance to take the group out of range. He must’ve been distracted. Or drinking. Amara swallowed an oath.
    Maart stumbled on the floor and made for his boots. His shoulders were bare. No time to wrap a topscarf. “Go,” he said, and the pleading in both his hands and eyes told Amara things she didn’t want to know: to be careful, to run, to let whatever happened to Cilla
happen
. “Go!”
    She pretended not to see, and he grabbed his boots and yanked them on as he scanned the room. They all had their tasks. Jorn fought. Amara fled with Cilla. Maart safeguarded their essentials.
    The mages wanted Cilla, but if they couldn’t trigger her curse, they’d hinder the group any way they could. They’d steal the herbs that stopped Cilla’s bleeds, their money, Jorn’s enchantments. They’d kill the group’s servants.
    They had before.
    â€œHide when you can,” Amara told Maart, and ran.
    Cilla followed footlengths behind. Their boots pounded narrow, steep stairs. “They’re coming from the direction of the mill,” Cilla said, a whisper of wine on her breath.
    The nearest mill was two houses south, close enough that they heard the wings creak during quiet moments, the wind fluttering through the fabric. They’d go north, then. The mages could track Cilla by the curse, but only when close enough. All Amara needed to do was get Cilla out of reach and hide.
    Amara paused on the third step from the bottom to look over the pub. If the mages had arrived, they were lying low. She squinted at the smell of fungi, penetrating enough to stab at her eyes. To reach the exit, they’d need to slip past a good ten people in various stages of drunkenness. If Cilla was grabbed, that’d be bad. If Cilla was grabbed a little too roughly, that’d be worse. Amara didn’t want anyone finishing the mages’ job for them.
    A touch on her neck. Her hands flew up to guard herself, but the look on Cilla’s face stopped her. Calm. How could Cilla be calm? There were mages on the street—who knew how close, who knew how many.
    â€œYour tattoo.” Cilla’s voice cut through the pub-goers’ shouts.
    Amara flattened her hair against her neck. If it didn’t cover her tattoo, they’d be sure to get held up. She dipped her head in thanks and took Cilla’s wrist. After regrowing only that morning, Amara’s nails were in no state to cut skin, but she was cautious, anyway, even with her eyes fixed on the entrance.
    She held her breath when the door opened and people stepped through. The first thing Amara searched for—always—wasthe knife-wielding mage. Tall and Alinean, she carried that same curved knife every time.
    Instead, the first person to enter was male, and Amara recognized him instantly. He always stood out among the mages who chased them. Elig people like he and Amara stood out in
any
crowd, no matter how silently they spoke or furtively they walked. And, unlike Amara, this mage was pink-skinned and pale-eyed, with hair like fire—exactly what everyone north of Eligon expected them to look like.
    The second mage was a Dit woman, just as familiar. The last time Amara had seen her, the mage had been side by side with