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the middle. Pretending to be me . He glanced at Thayer. He seemed unconcerned by his role as decoy.
    “Let’s go,” Rand said.
    Harkeld watched the mages file down the gangplank. Thayer set foot on the wharf. No one darted from the crowd and tried to kill him. A fire mage disembarked, a water mage, a healer, another fire mage, and then it was his turn. He walked down the long, swaying gangplank and stepped ashore. The noise and smell of the crowd enveloped him. He breathed shallowly, trying not inhale the odor of desperation and fear and people gone too long without washing. Curse shadows surrounded him. Someone buffeted him on his right and he jerked sideways as if burned and almost lost his balance. The mage behind him stepped closer, the shapeshifters swooped low, but no attack came.
    They pushed their way slowly through the crowd. Harkeld kept his arms close to his sides; he didn’t want to touch any of these curse-shadowed people. But it was impossible not to. He flinched each time he brushed past someone, flinches he tried to hide, but couldn’t. He imagined the shapeshifters laughing scornfully as they hovered overhead and gritted his teeth, felt his cheeks grow hot with mortification—then noticed that the fire mage ahead of him, Gretel, also shied from the curse shadows.
    Once past the press of people, they moved faster, off the wharf, along a side street, into the stableyard of an inn. The horses waited—riding horses saddled, packhorses loaded with the supplies Rand had bought yesterday.
    Harkeld went to the bay mare he’d ridden in Ankeny. The horse huffed a breath at him and nuzzled his shoulder. He stroked her neck. Poor beast. She had no inkling of the journey that lay ahead. She didn’t understand Fithian assassins, or curses that sent people mad with bloodlust. She headed into danger without knowing it.
    Or perhaps the mare was to be envied? Perhaps it was better not to know what the future held?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
    T HE ASSASSINS STOPPED mid-morning. Britta allowed herself to stir to alertness, to blink her eyes open and look around. The arm holding her tightened, and the man—she couldn’t see his face—handed her a waterskin. She drank thirstily.
    One of the other riders nudged his horse close. Curly. He held out another waterskin. “Broth,” he said. “Drink.”
    Britta obeyed.
    The broth was lukewarm, fragrant. Its flavor filled her mouth.
    Britta gulped it hungrily.
     
     
    S HE DIDN’T FEIGN sleep again, but watched the countryside, leaning into the assassin’s body heat. It was uncomfortably intimate—his arm warm and strong around her, her cheek resting against his chest—and also oddly protective. Britta felt safe, as if it was Karel who held her, and he would shield her from anything. But this man would protect her only until her usefulness had been served—and then he would kill her.
    Kill her, and kill Harkeld, and take Harkeld’s blood and hands back to Osgaard, so that Jaegar could force the other kingdoms to bow to his rule.
    Britta shivered. I have to escape .
     
     
    I N THE AFTERNOON, they passed through a town. It wasn’t until several hours later, when they halted in a copse not far from the road, that Britta realized the cart and one of the assassins were no longer with them.
    The Fithian whose mount she’d shared lowered her from the saddle. Britta leaned against the horse and clung to the stirrup, pretending to be weaker than she was. She glanced up. The man was nondescript: mouse-brown hair cut close to his skull, an unremarkable face. She had no name for him yet.
    Curly took her arm, his fingers pinching like a manacle around her elbow, and walked her to the trees. Britta staggered and clutched at him, feigning dizziness. Curly halted. “Sit.”
    Britta sat, a half-collapse.
    Curly handed her a waterskin. “Broth,” he said. “Drink it.” There was no compassion in his voice, no compassion in his eyes. I am a thing to him, not a person .
    Britta obeyed,