Gray pressed his back against a smooth stone chimney stack, fighting to stay in a patch of shadow and not slip down a very steep roof.

Sweat clung to his skin. It stung his grazes and burns.

Heat swathed him in a cloud.

He tried to control his ragged breath. Every gasp in was filled with the briny air of the ocean below and the fumes from the silversmithies for which Sirentown was famous.

The bright turquoise tiles of the rooftops of Sirentown were coated in some kind of glaze that made scaling the roofs a deadly exercise.

Not to mention that Sirentown was cut into a damn mountain and he was exposed to the houses above as much as he was visible to the people below, if they chose to look up at certain angles.

Gray had never seen so many people or such bustle.

He’d never seen so many guards.

They patrolled the turreted walls, the gates, the roads outside and inside Sirentown, wearing their turquoise accented uniforms and hard expressions. A never ending sprawl of houses and palaces were cut into the side of the mountain, and the roads wound up in intricate patterns. The city stretched around Gray, further than he could see. It would take a lifetime to memorise these streets.

He wanted, desperately, to go back to the market. He wanted to find Lyrie and Oliver - hell, he’d have given anything to see Sorena - but he didn’t dare.

Thirst clawed at him.

It made it hard to think clearly, to make sensible decisions not based on getting water regardless if it exposed him.

He lingered on the roofs, moving anytime the guards got too close on the streets below, shivering as the air changed from warm and bright to dark and cool as evening pressed in.

He listened to the conversations of the people passing by.

The people here wore brightly coloured clothes of red, turquoise and gold. They walked fast and talked faster.

But, no one mentioned Sorena, or the Ralphs.

No one mentioned the lion fireworks.

In Krydon, if someone had something like what Gray had done, it would’ve been all anyone talked about for days.

Forget days, months.

As it grew darker, the shadows grew deep and long, and the people on the street changed - as did the feel - and Gray decided there was nothing for it but to find somewhere to sleep for the night.

He slipped awkwardly off the roof and dropped into an alley filled with overflowing rubbish bins, biting back a hiss as he jarred his ankle.

He made for the first inn shingle he saw.

-

Gray was aware, as he stood in front of the recoiling receptionist inside the inn entrance, that he looked and smelt like something that had crawled out of the closest drain.

‘I got mugged,’ Gray lied quickly, before the receptionist could open his mouth.

‘Congratulations,’ said the receptionist.

‘But, I can pay,’ said Gray, praying he had enough coin still stashed in his pocket.

‘The muggers didn’t do a very good job, then, did they?’ said the receptionist.

‘Uh,’ said Gray.

Gray honestly had no idea how he’d managed to get this far in life, with being so stupid. Apply the tiniest amount of pressure and straight-up idiocy was his default.

Gray withheld a wince.

‘Lucky for you,’ said Gray, attempting a winning grin, ‘they didn’t. Worst muggers in Sirentown, I’d wager.’

He dug around in his pocket, grasping what money he could into his grazed palm.

The receptionist was a middle-aged man with a bitter twist to his thin lips. The remains of his jet black hair was scraped back into a northern style twist, and he had swirls stitched into his vest that matched the pristine wallpaper.

He watched Gray. Waited.

Tapped his finger against his desk.

From the outside, the inn looked ordinary. Bordering on run down. The stone was crumbling, and the turquoise paint on window frames was peeling.

But, now Gray was inside and taking a second to glance around, he could see he’d messed up.

There was a flawlessly clean window behind the receptionist showing a spectacular view of lights twinkling in Sirentown, mapping the streets and homes, and lights on the ships on the ocean. Inside, the delicate furniture in the reception was too ornate to be anything but decorative, and a large candelabra glinted gold overhead.

This place was way too nice.

As in Sorena-level nice.

‘Where are your parents?’ said the receptionist.

Gray hesitated.

He was damn well in here now, like a moron, and if he turned around and walked out, there was a chance the receptionist would call the guards, because that’s just what Barin would’ve done if some beat up kid had strolled into the tavern, told an obvious fib, and then legged it out of there.

Gray was committed to convincing the receptionist to work with him now, for better or worse.

‘They sent me ahead to settle a room,’ Gray said. ‘They’re with the guards, filing a report.’

The receptionist leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers. ‘Stat papers?’

‘The,’ said Gray, licking his lips, ‘the muggers took them.’

‘The muggers valued your papers more than your purse,’ said the receptionist. ‘I see.’

Gray gave a false laugh. ‘Right? Worst muggers ever.’ He rubbed the coins in his palm, trying to feel how much he had, and tilted his chin, just so, like the richest guests had done in the Tipsy Stag. ‘So, I’ll need a room for the night with two large beds, a private ensuite, a good view, and I want a meal sent up immediately.’

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

The receptionist slowly scratched his nose, his gaze travelling up and down Gray in a scrolling look.

Gray tried not to blink. Not to mess up.

Even though he had poor written all over him.

It may as well have been a flashing sign over his head.

‘Country lad?’ said the receptionist.

‘Reviness,’ lied Gray.

‘Your parents do that to you?’ said the receptionist.

He nodded at Gray’s face, and Gray knew he still had the faint remains of bruising on his skin underneath the muck from the past few days.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Gray, hardness building in his chest.

‘I’ll need your parents to provide some form of ID,’ said the receptionist. ‘Even if their stat papers have also been - ah - stolen.’

‘You bother my parents with foolish requests,’ said Gray, ‘they will not be pleased.’

The receptionist raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Which orphanage have you escaped from, eh?’ said the receptionist. ‘Clancy’s? Lu’s Home for Boys?’

Gray pushed down rising panic. This jerk could see it.

He could see that no one gave a shit about Gray. That Gray didn’t know which way was up, and no parents were coming for him. He was on his own.

Gray edged closer and slammed what coin he had onto the desk, because the receptionist wasn’t buying the bullshit Gray was selling, not one bit. ‘Look, I can pay. I’ll pay extra, for your discretion. I’ll take whatever room you have free. Just one night. I’ll be gone before dawn.’

The receptionist gave Gray a long look, and then dropped his gaze onto the coins.

‘You’ll need more than this,’ said the receptionist, ‘for me to look the other way.’

‘How much?’ said Gray.

‘I get one silver for every runaway I report to the Hall. We get a lot of them, what with the port here and all. And I get two silver for every runaway I report to the Captain of the Tide Voyager. He’d snap up a boy like you in a second.’

Gray’s mouth was dry.

‘I get three silver coins,’ said the receptionist, a slow awful smile spreading over his face, ‘for every runaway I report to the Silver Axes, if that runaway shows any kind of enterprising spirit. Pickpocket that you are,’ he said, gesturing to the coin, ‘I’d call you enterprising.’ He paused. ‘The Silver Axes are a gang-’

‘I know who the Silver Axes are,’ said Gray.

‘You get me seven silver coins,’ said the receptionist, ‘I’ll let you stay here, quiet as a mouse, and not tell a soul.’

‘Seven?’ said Gray tightly.

His smile widened. ‘Seven silver coins, or the three of them will be alerted within minutes, and we’ll see who gets you first, eh?’

Silently, furiously, Gray went through the rucksack.

Lyrie and Oliver’s robes.

They had silk, they had gold thread, pearl buttons, jewelled brooches …

Feeling sick, Gray dumped them onto the desk.

The receptionist froze. ‘You’re mage?’

‘No-’

‘Why’ve you come in here looking like a gremlin if you-’

‘I’m not mage.’

‘So, you attacked a mage? Stole their robes?’ The receptionist was going through the robes like they contained a live viper. ‘Two? Two metal mage apprentices?’

‘No-’

‘Ralphs?!’

‘No,’ said Gray, his face hot.

The receptionist shook his head, pushing the robes back at Gray. ‘Look, I don’t want trouble.’

‘There’ll be no trouble,’ said Gray, firmly. ‘You’ll take them as payment?’

The receptionist appeared to be doing some very quick thinking. ‘I don’t want the wrath of a mage family, here, looking for their young.’

‘No family will come looking,’ said Gray.

Gray said this with enough sincerity that the receptionist’s expression shifted.

Slowly, he took up the pile of mage robes. ‘Fifth floor.’ He slid a key across the desk. ‘Room five.’

‘You can send up a meal?’ said Gray.

The receptionist glanced at Gray. He looked at him hard. Then, ‘yes. I’ll send up a meal.’

–

Exhaustion clawed at Gray as he climbed the stairs and made his way to room five.

He didn’t trust the receptionist.

Anxiety warred with fatigue, at the thought of Lyrie, Oliver, and Sorena trying to find somewhere safe with no coins, nothing.

He’d lead the Ralphs and Sorena to pure folly.

His mind was on Krydon. How he’d left things there …

And he had no damn clue what his next move would be. Where he’d go. Wong’s written on Alistair’s map of Sirentown was all well and good until Gray had seen Sirentown, how big it was, how fast, how diverse.

A single word on a map was nothing to go on.

He jiggled the key in the lock to room five.

He closed the door to the room behind him and locked it. It was large, with a double bed under a window that looked over the view of the city that stepped down the mountain and into the sea, now all twinkling lights in the darkness.

Dropping Alistair’s rucksack by the door, Gray checked the bathroom. It had a shower. Brilliant white tiles. A tiny window that had the same view of the city. A row of bottles of lotions and soaps that smelt like mint and woods.

Gray went back into the bedroom and dug around in the rucksack and then pulled out Alistair’s shaving kit and used it to hack off his hair. He needed to disguise himself as best he could, he’d cut this off as often as he needed, to keep it from being long.

Cutting his hair felt painful, but he didn’t care, it was better to have it gone. He could still feel Codder’s fingers digging through it, twisting it, using it. He wanted it gone.

He cropped it so short it looked shaved.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

He let in a sullen girl barely older than Gray, balancing a tray of food - a simple meal consisting of a baked potato topped with ham and cheese with a side of shaved carrot and wilted spinach, and a green fruit he’d never seen before - and watched her leave and locked the door again.

Gray sat on the edge of the bed, hunger suddenly filling him with an alarming intensity. He demolished the whole meal. He could’ve eaten it three times over.

‘Shit.’ Gray ran his hands over his cropped hair.

He washed the meal down with about a pint of water and hobbled into the bathroom. He scrubbed his skin raw in the shower. Then, had a second shower. The room filled with steam and the warm smell of mint and woods. The pain in his ankle slowly eased under the hot running water, as did the knots and aches that littered his body.

He scrubbed his teeth and mouth. His nails. Carefully cleaned every scrape and graze and bite.

He must have spent more than an hour in there. He climbed into an old shirt and shorts of Alistair’s that he found bundled at the bottom of the rucksack.

Then, he fell face down into the soft bed and slept.

It seemed like minutes later when Gray woke to the sounds of people banging doors on the floor above him. He blinked, disoriented, wondering for a moment why people were on the roof of the tavern. Glanced to his right for Alistair.

But it was just a dark, unfamiliar room with a view of sprawling city lights. Gray was alone. He pressed his shaking hand over his eyes and rolled onto his back, feeling the tingle of the tracking jinx under his skin grow stronger, remembering where he was.

Everything flooded back, all at once.

Alistair. Rowan.

The soldiers.

Killian.

Krydon.

Hot, sick guilt swirled inside his chest.

He ran his hand over his head. His fingers got caught in long tangles.

He sat upright.

He stumbled into the dark bathroom. He could just make out his reflection from the lights outside. His hair was back to its usual shoulder length, unruly and black. He bent his head over the basin and tried to control his breathing.

Gray’s hair shouldn’t make him feel like this. He knew his hair would grow back. Honestly, it had been stupid to cut it before sleeping, he should’ve waited until morning to disguise himself. It wasn’t his hair making his breath run out of control. Something had gotten mixed up in his processing of this. He needed to stay calm. Clear. Stop glaring at his mage hair in this dark bathroom in this strange city.

But, irrepressible, irrational, burning hot anger built inside him and he slipped to sit on the floor and punched the tiles with his fist. Again. And again.