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the knifewielder. Amara’s cheek ached with a long-ago memory: encountering the hired mages for the first time, that blade hooking into her cheek—
    Focus. Amara double-checked the entrance to make sure the knifewielder wasn’t with them.
    She wasn’t. Just the two mages. It should’ve calmed Amara, should’ve made her grab Cilla and flee.
    But what Amara wanted—needed—was to burst through the crowd and kill these mages, knifewielder or not. Killing a mage ended their spells. A curse like Cilla’s would’ve required tens of mages working in unison, but in the end, a single person channeled the magic. A single mage responsible. It could’ve been a minister. Could’ve been someone they hired. Could’ve been one of these two.
    Without the curse, Cilla would still need to stay on therun, but life would be infinitely easier. The mages wouldn’t be able to track her. She wouldn’t need endless drugs to stop her monthly bleeds. She wouldn’t have to worry about stray paper cuts.
    She wouldn’t need Amara to get hurt in her stead.
    Amara wanted the mages dead. These two. The knife-wielder. All of them.
    But that was Jorn’s task. She reined herself in, focused on her own. Were the mages tracking Cilla? She checked the lamps suspended to the walls and the beers in people’s hands for any immediate reactions to nearby magic. Nothing.
    Magic backlash wasn’t always visible, though.
    They needed another exit. Amara nodded at the door to the dumphouse and didn’t wait for approval to pull Cilla along toward it. She’d grown up protecting Cilla, and Jorn let her do that however she saw fit.
    The dumphouse’s shit-stink grew thick as they neared it, streaking past rented rooms. Amara chanced a look over her shoulder. Someone waltzed into the dark behind them. Too big to be the woman, too dark to be the man. Too drunk to be either of them. Good, so—
    â€”Amara barely corrected her stumble. Cilla’s grip kept her upright. Her hand squeezed Amara’s in reassurance, or a wordless
Careful!
    What had she stumbled on? No time to check. The dumphouse door stood ajar. They barged inside. Shuddering gaslamps lit the hut, illuminating men leaning into walls to piss into ditches, two other shapes sitting in crouches. Amara ran straight through, Cilla’s hand safe in hers.
    â€œYou girls in a hurry?” a woman shouted, her voice thick with alcohol. Too loud. If the mages heard, it’d point them right at Cilla.
    Amara reached the doors on the other side of the dumphouse, the ones that led to the street, and stood aside so the light hit the lock. Often, inns locked their dumphouses, unlocking them only for back-street cleaning. No one wanted to drag shit through the inn, and no one wanted a dumphouse on a respectable street front.
    Amara
really
missed the mainland’s sewage system. For all you could say about the ministers, they’d still come up with a decent invention or two.
    If the doors were locked, she could manage the mechanism with her knife, but if she was lucky she could—
    â€”Amara’s hand rested loosely around the handles. She blinked a couple of times fast. Cilla stood awfully close all of a sudden, close enough for Amara to smell the wine on her breath despite the dumphouse stink.
    There’d been a full footlength between them a second ago. What’d happened?
    â€œWhat is it?” Cilla asked, tension visible in the hunch of her shoulders, the press of her lips, the balls of her hands. Both hands. Just a moment ago, Amara had been gripping Cilla’sfingers tightly. Why hadn’t Amara noticed them slip away? She should’ve noticed.
    Shaking her head to clear the fuzz, she pressed the handles together. The doors opened wide, fresh air and light bursting in. Amara shielded her eyes. The inn was all low ceilings, black wood, shimmering gaslight, and flickering fire pits. She’d almost