Dunburgh was a city of tenements and towers, of rubbish heaps in alleys and broad clean streets with decorative paving. Thousands of people lived and worked within its limits, but the day that Kite arrived, they seemed to be all crowded into those broad central streets, clustered around the intersections, watching the arrival of their conqueror in a parade of pomp and heraldry. Kite made it through the city gates by noon, and jostled next to all the others on the route to the central square, pushing and shoving for a glimpse of the ‘justice’ of this General Vorannen, and hoping desperately that she wasn’t too late. She learned from those around her that the parade had come and gone, but the executions were only just beginning, and even as she made it to the big central square, she heard the announcements. Whoever was in charge of the event had a loud voice, or was being helped mechanically or magically, because the charges and sentencing were clearly audible all the way over on the far side.

“Anya, Teris’ daughter. Thrice accused of theft and found guilty. Sentenced to death by hanging.”

Each announcement was followed by a worrying pause, then a roar from the crowd, an uneasy mix of anger and passion. Kite, heart in her mouth, circled around the edge of the square for a better view. Guards stationed here and there watched her and the other stragglers without interest.

“Tarlesen. Accused twice of theft and once of assault. Found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging.”

The sickening pause, the roar from the crowd. Kite bounced off into a tall, plump woman at the back of the crowd, who turned to give her an accusing look.

“Don’t push! Oh...” she seemed to be considering, a keen eye on Kite’s foreign appearance and comparative lack of height, then gestured to the buildings around the outside of the square. “Why don’t you sit up there, where the children are? You’ll be able to see then.”

“Thank you,” Kite said automatically, but the woman had turned back to the crowd and didn’t hear. The surrounding buildings were tall and elegant, with stairs leading up to wide entryways and pillars with supports now crowded with children. They were further from the stage, but they had a clear view of the spectacle. Kite joined them, pushing without mercy, desperate to see for herself. As she gained a place, the announcer spoke again.

“Next, a foreigner accused of murder by magic. Sentenced to slow death. Take him to the table.”

Her eyes found him, a small pale figure on one arm of the vast wooden stage. One of many lined up waiting for justice, with the gallows beyond them as a grisly sign of what to expect. His head was concealed in some kind of helmet but even after days of captivity his white hair still caught the sun. The soldiers hoisted him up and her heart froze.

“Wait!”

The command came from the central portion of the stage, where a single figure sat on a chair. There was nothing particularly special about the chair, or the figure, but the attitudes of everyone else in the square told her who this was. General Vorannen did not need pomp and circumstance to maintain his authority.

“Take the helmet off,” Vorannen said. “Bring him here.”

“But my lord, he is a sorcerer,” one of the soldiers said.

“I will deal with that.”

Saryth was dragged away from the gallows, to Kite’s intense relief, and shoved in front of Vorannen. The helmet was removed, although it was at such a distance that it made little difference to what she could see. His head hung down, his hair loose. Vorannen looked at him for a long moment, then used his sheathed sword to tip Saryth’s head up. He made his mind up quickly.

“Very well. Start with his eyes.”

Released, Saryth’s head hung low again, and the soldiers hauled him back to the side, unresisting. Kite felt her legs quivering as they pushed him down and tilted his head back onto a wooden support. The huge square was too crowded, she would never get through in time. She didn’t even have her staff, which was a weapon as well as an aide to her slight capacity for magic.

Magic.

“Even weak wizards can work marvels here,” Harvis had said.

I’ve never been able to teleport...

She closed her eyes and concentrated. The spell channels were so clear, so bright in her mind. Memory and visualisation had always been easy for her, but the magic came so slowly, so reluctantly. It oozed, not enough, not nearly enough and it mattered so much, it wasn’t happening, why not, not even now -

Saryth screamed, a sound that pierced through the crowd’s rumbling disquiet.

Her eyes flew open.

“Saryth!”

The children sitting near the foreigner squeaked and clutched at each other as she disappeared.

The boards of the stages were rough under her knees, warm in the afternoon sun. Saryth was a limp weight in her arms, almost too much for her to hold, even kneeling. The magic had come and gone and she had never been so tired before. Adrenaline buzzed dully through her exhaustion.

“Saryth, wake up! Please! We have to get away!” Dimly she was aware of Vorannen, a slim dark-haired figure with an intrigued expression on his face. His soldiers had leapt back, but were now regaining their nerve. One in front was wielding a spear, but the rest had drawn swords. There was no defence, nowhere to go. I didn’t think this through at all.

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I don’t care.

The nearest soldier stepped in, sword swinging down. Instinctively she put her arm up to block, and the blade bit deep. She cried out in shock and pain, bending further over Saryth, holding him close with her good arm.

He flinched.

Opened one eye.

Through her tears of pain she saw his recognition of her.

And the gateway bloomed into existence and swallowed them up, then vanished like a popped soap bubble before the astonished guards and their thoughtful commander.

If the teleportation had been hard on her, the unscheduled gateway transit was worse, even though it wasn’t her magic this time. Kite knelt on cold hard paving, hunched over Saryth and gasping for breath, fighting the throbbing pain in her arm.

“Eh?” came a voice she ought to know. “Kite? Saryth? What are you doing here? With his hair like that and all! You’re lucky no-one’s around. Don’t you know that’s dangerous?”

Kite looked around and saw a familiar figure, short, red-haired and better dressed than before.

“Jig...” she managed.

“What?” Jig gaped, aghast, as Kite gave in to the black spots clustering in front of her eyes. The last of her energy was used up in falling to the side, away from both Saryth and her wounded arm.

He woke to the sounds of birdsong and the awareness of a soft mattress underneath him, a feeling so far removed from the last few days that for a while he thought it was still a dream. But in this dream he could still feel the pain of the brand on his shoulder, the ache of bruised ribs and broken fingers, and he couldn’t open his eyes. He remembered the hubbub of a crowd, kneeling on splintered boards, the face of a man with black hair who had not been interested in him, the sentences of death. He remembered Kite. I hope it’s not a dream.

He lay still and listened, and the sound of quiet breathing told him someone was nearby.

“... Kite?”

“Saryth!” Not Kite. “How are you feeling?” A timid touch on his arm. The voice was familiar. Jig.

“Where’s Kite?”

“She’s all right. She’s downstairs.” He smiled, relaxed in relief. “Packing.”

The word was a punch. He lurched halfway up, bandaged hands protesting, stiff in the middle where his ribs were similarly wrapped. Pain surged behind his eyes with the sudden movement, making him gasp.

“Lie down!” Jig was close, pushing him back against the bed.

“Packing? What -!”

“You need rest.” She kept up the pressure until he relaxed unwilling into the pillows.

“Where is she going?”

“She left a message for you,” Jig said, and stepped away. Saryth sat up again, without further restraint. “She said you can stay here with Pyetr. She’s going to get a new staff. If you want to...”

“What?”

“She said to meet her in four months at the last inn in Setharye. Now lie down!”

Obediently he lay down, then raised one hand to the bandages on his face.

“My eyes...”

“The right is fine.” Jig sounded fierce. “Don’t disturb the bandages, you’ll make the other bleed. You’ve also got a broken rib. And broken fingers, and a burn on your shoulder.”

“Did Kite say anything else?”

There was a pause before Jig answered.

“She said she’s sorry.”

“I -” I have to see her.

“Don’t get up!” Jig put her hands on his upper arms as he tried to sit up again.

“Jig... Please?”

She was sniffling quietly, but she let him lean on her, and guided his wobbly steps to the door and down the spiral stairs. At the bottom, bare feet on cool marble tiles, she walked him around the dining room table to where Kite was talking to Pyetr.

“It feels odd with it the wrong way round,” she was saying.

“Kite?”

“Saryth?” She sounded afraid, upset. He shoved at the bandages on the right side of his face.

“Kite, I -”

“Don’t do that!” The bandage moved just enough for him to squint under it, blinking at the light. She was dressed for travel, and someone must have helped her put her hair up because her left arm was bandaged and in a sling, and her bag strap was on the wrong shoulder. She was staring at him, tears in her eyes. “Look, you’ve made it bleed.” There was wetness on his cheeks, but...

“It’s not blood,” he said. “Only tears.”

“Stupid,” Jig mumbled from behind him. He stepped closer to Kite.

“Your arm...”

“It’s all right. Saryth, I... I’m so sorry.” She looked desperate, uncertain. What can I do?

“I’m sorry too.” That didn’t seem to help.

“Did you get the message?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then,” she looked aside, “then I’ll see you in four months.” She hurried past him, head down, then turned at the curtain as though about to say something, gave him one last miserable look and left. Saryth watched her go.

“I’ll be there,” he promised.