Taken aback, I relaxed my shoulders and tried to place her face. . . .

The mother from the vampyri fight!

She nodded at my recollection and beamed even wider.

“I’m Jiriam. I haven’t had a chance to thank ya!” The woman stepped back and motioned her hands for others to gather round, then clasped mine in hers. “Dis is one of dem that saved our fur during de Scouring! Mista Talbot, Missus Lenya . . . I don’t see Mista Alator, but,” her large hazel eyes welled up and her furred chin scrunched into a ball, “Dese t’ree jumped inta action and me and Luka made it out thanks to dem.”

I shifted on my feet, a little uncomfortable with the gush of emotion.

“I hope everyone’s well. After having faced that fiend, I can’t imagine the terror of it suddenly appearing in your home.”

She shook her head, now streaming tears.

“Heart o’ gold, dis one!”

My chest puffed up and my heart swelled.

“Well, thank you. . . .”

“And . . . what’re ya doing now?”

I cleared my throat.

Picking up a bounty? That doesn’t sound great. . . .

Lenya piped up:

“We received word that some outsider miscreants were taking advantage of all the confusion. As outsiders ourselves, having been so warmly welcomed by Ith-Korr, we agreed to try to put a stop to their bad deeds. We’ve just subdued one of them,” she said, touching the back of the unconscious body of Yariq over my shoulder. “We also took out an accomplice — another outsider who unfortunately could not be reasoned with — and in the process ensured everyone in the Dwellship involved is safe. We saw to that despite it presenting us with much more danger. The fracas was fifteen minutes’ walk in that direction,” she indicated.

Jiriam and the others exchanged glances, but I couldn’t feel any outright hostility from them.

She picks her moments, but she really is impressive, I thought of Lenya.

“Well, I don’t really understand at de moment, Missus, but I trust it’s for da good of de city.”

“It is,” I nodded again.

Wiping her eyes, the mother stepped aside.

“We’ll not hamper ya long, in dat case! Let dem through.”

And the crowd parted, all hungry eyes but smiling faces, and cleared a path towards the rise down to the Craftship tier. Sheepishly, with much more inclinations of heads and deference, we left. The climb down with one hand over Yariq’s body to steady him was difficult, especially feeling the burn in my muscles and the bruised welts settling into what felt like my whole body.

Once again at the barricade, I shouted over and we were let through. On the other side, the warden who had given us entry raised himself on his tiptoes to get a good look at our bounty.

“Yariq Sahl!”

Over my shoulder, I felt the jungle-folk warden pull Yariq’s wrappings down from his face and slap him hard across the cheek, and there was a grunt and moan, and squirming.

“Akhet amu! Imeru sechet?” Yariq blurted out.

Another slap came.

“Es khafi, djeret!”

The warden giggled and walked back around to face us.

“Ruddy good job, niraki! Get him back to the Wardship, you’ve done a great service to Ith-Korr today.”

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I adjusted the grip on Yariq, keeping him steady through his efforts against the ropes. As I did, my side throbbed, and I winced at the pain.

“Didn’t go down easy?” the warden asked.

“This one did,” I shrugged. “But he’d enlisted some of the denizens of the Dwellship. You Vyneshi are tough.”

A lick of pride crossed his face, but he shook it away.

“Here,” he said, withdrawing a familiar white flower with a fine, almost glass-like stem. “My mother keeps Windbloom Herbs.”

“Thank you,” I exclaimed.

I took it with my free hand, crumpled it up as I had before in the Sinews of Korgoth, releasing some of the juice like thick water, and swallowed it down. Instantly, the pain in my side numbed a little and I knew the bruises would be on their way to healing.

“Don’t mention it, Mista.”

The journey through the Craftship drew a great deal of attention, but aside from whispered comments, not a single person confronted us upon seeing the peculiar sight. As we went, Yariq cursed us incessantly in his mother-tongue.

“I don’t understand you,” I said as we reached the rise to the lowest tier.

“I know, djeret, but this tongue has always been distasteful to me.”

Lenya cleared her throat.

“Before you were soundly trounced, you said something that’s been bothering me,” she said as I lowered Yariq to the floor to check his bindings.

Yariq got a good look at her for the first time, and his eyes went wide and a little taken aback by her, but hate quickly shot through.

“What is it, long ear djeret?”

Ignoring the insult, she said, “You said you had things to accomplish within Ith-Korr.”

There was another squirm over my shoulder, but not trying to escape — Yariq had just turned his head away. I gave him a jolt, but he kept silent.

“Lenya, explain what you mean.”

“The way he said it, and when he arrived, he seemed to know something was going to happen.”

At that, Yariq’s body went stiff.

The Wardship was in sight; I could see far over a broad open area the spiked barricades the wardens had set up. But this set my senses on edge. I ducked into a narrow alley and threw Yariq to the floor, propped against a wooden wall of some establishment.

“Speak,” my voice was tinged with danger.

Yariq spat on the floor by my feet.

“Lenya, make him talk.”

Lenya put her hand up in front of her. The familiar warm breeze of magic overtook the space, sawdust and wood shavings picked up and were drawn towards her, rolling past my sandals, and she began to intone arcane words under her breath.

Yariq’s blue face grew pale — he recognised the effect, and struggled desperately against the vine rope, stretching and creaking, but made no progress.

All told, the spell took her perhaps ten seconds to cast, and finally her lips parted:

“[Command : Truth.]”

The desert-folk’s eyes shot open. I recalled the mental anguish that threatened to overtake me the first time I had met the elf princess, and I knew that every one of his instincts were screaming at him to spill his heart to her.

He did not put up much resistance.

“We were told . . . Ith-Korr would . . . be attacked,” he gasped through gritted teeth. Lenya leaned closer, pressed her fingers into his forehead. He winced and let out a yelp.

“Who told you this?” I growled, venomous.

The dune tattoos on Yariq’s cheeks rippled as his face contorted with effort. His face darkened, and a vein ridged on his forehead.

“The . . . Crimson . . . Crown,” he grunted through a locked jaw. Then Lenya’s magic was released, she rocked backwards on her heels and almost fell. I caught her shoulder and she steadied herself and stood.

Yariq doubled over, coughing and spluttering, face pressed against the wooden planks.

“Witch!” he spat at Lenya, then true honest fear settled over his features, and his words came stammering, “Please . . . don’t tell them I told you.”

“Don’t tell who?” I asked.

“The Crimson Crown.”

I shrugged and set about ensuring his ropes were properly tied.

“From what I understand about Barbican justice,” I muttered, “You’re likely to be put to death for your crimes.”

“They’d do much worse than that,” he said.

“Tell us about them,” I barked. His face screwed up again in pain, so I added, “And before you start, remember that my companion here has at least one more of those spells in her.”

Lenya took to my side and peered down at him, and gathered magic again. Her eyes shone silver like glinting steel. Yariq averted his eyes from both of us and slumped.

“The Crimson Crown is a Barbican-wide assemblage of ambition. Each member has their own goals — I couldn’t list names or plans even if I wanted to. Go’leb, sahir ir sekher, was in contact with one of their members; a Gilgashi told him about Ith-Korr, that an attack would come from the skies, and that many opportunities would arise.”

“Turns the stomach,” Lenya mumbled, taking a step away, then I felt her snap and her voice raised imperious, echoing in the alley. “These people could have been warned! So many dead!”

Castigation wasn’t the way to go; a foul smile crept over Yariq’s face, and he scoffed.

“Gilgashi?”

Yariq looked up at me through a furrowed brow for a moment, then clicked his teeth, “Forgot you newcomers know so little about Barbican. Gilgashi are feline fur-folk, the majority of the population of Uruk.” Met with another blank face, he added, “The greatest city in Barbican.”

I looked to Lenya. Steaming, she did not take her eyes off him, but whispered out the corner of her mouth:

“He’s telling the truth about it all, as far as I can tell.”

Nodding, I turned back to Yariq, grabbed the ropes around his chest and wrists, and hauled him up back over my shoulder. The pain in my ribs throbbed with the strain, but only a little.

The Crimson Crown. . . . Careful, Tal, don’t get your hopes up. . . . But it seems we finally have a lead.