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No time to worry about Galena now.
Ilse locked her rooms and skimmed down the back stairs. The side courtyard was empty, but carts and stalls filled the square in front of the pleasure house. Most were fishermen who trawled the waters close to shore, or farmers from the hills just north of Osterling—men and women with plum-dark complexions, who spoke in a lilting cadence—but as she squeezed through the crowds, she heard snatches of dialects from the central plains.
Beyond the plaza, she turned off the main boulevard and plunged into the labyrinth of narrows streets and passageways around the ruins of the old Keep. Osterling was a city of walls, each ring marking its history over the centuries. The garrison and Keep lay at the heart, tucked against cliffs rising straight up to a stony crest where the king’s fort overlooked the city and the sea. Sunlight splashed the walls overhead, but the streets themselves were still dark and cool. As she crossed through a small courtyard, her shadow lengthened unexpectedly, and the strong clear scent of magic filled the air. She spun around into a crouch, dagger in hand.
And faced an empty lane.
Her skin rippled, as though she still stood in the void between worlds.
Just a reflection of the sunlight, she told herself. Nothing more.
Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she re-sheathed the dagger and set off again. The quarter bell rang out, a single chime. Ilse cursed and ran faster. She would have to do her limbering exercises alone and try to catch up with the others. If, that is, Spenglar allowed her to stay. Spenglar had trained with the king’s personal guards in Duenne. He’d come to Osterling as drill master and captain ten years ago. A grim, disciplined man who expected the same from others.
She jogged up a set of narrow stone steps to the next level. The Keep’s wall curved around to the north. Ilse followed the lane beside it to the main boulevard. Now the garrison and the fort atop the cliffs came into view. Soldiers patrolled in pairs outside the fort’s walls above. A single pair stood outside the gates to the drill yard. Piero and his sister, Marelda. From within came the crash of swords, and Spenglar’s voice calling out the rhythm.
She paused for one breath, then sprinted to the gate. “Piero. Marelda. Am I too late?”
Both swung around to face her. Piero flashed a grin. “Can’t you hear them already?”
“I can, but—”
“Poor child. You thought Spenglar might have mercy.”
Ilse allowed herself a smile in return. Piero, not so old himself, loved to tease the younger soldiers
. “I only hoped, my friend. We both know the gods extracted all pity from Spenglar twenty years ago, when they made him captain.”
“Hush,” Marelda said. She had gone still, her whole attention elsewhere.
They all went silent. Inside the drill yard, sword rang against sword as Spenglar counted the drill. Then Ilse heard the peal of bells from the harbor towers. Not the slow peal of the hour bell, but faster and more urgent. The next moment, the fort’s bells broke out even louder.
“Warning!” Piero shouted. “It’s the warning bells. Raiders!”
A roar erupted inside the garrison. Piero and Marelda vanished through the gates. She heard Spenglar shouting orders, then another voice calling out for weapons and armor.
Ilse drew back from the entrance. She ought to return home at once. Warn Mistress Adeliess and the others—the pleasure house had a secret room dug underneath for just such emergencies—but she stood, frozen and breathless, listening to the tumult inside the garrison.
With a crash, the gates swung open. Men and women in armor poured out, file after file, all the patrols from the morning weapons drill and more. They marched in double time into the boulevard leading down directly to the harbor, the patrol leaders shouting the time above the clanging of the bells. Ilse pressed back to keep out of their way. An entire wing’s worth. Or two. And that’s not counting the fort’s soldiers.
“Ilse!”
Galena Alighero swung away from her file. Mail glinted under her leather tunic. A high color edged her cheeks, and her eyes were alight with excitement. She looked tall and strong and impossibly young. “It’s going to be a battle,” she said.
“Who is it?” Ilse asked. “Raiders or—”
“Alighero!”
Captain Spenglar’s voice cut through the din.
“Alighero, you useless chit! Stop flirting! Get moving!”
Galena spun around and pelted after the other soldiers. Spenglar shot a disgusted glance at Ilse, then stalked away. Soon the last file of the last patrol marched through the gates. Piero and Marelda were gone, each to their own file, to be replaced by another pair of soldiers, but otherwise the boulevard and surrounding streets had emptied, while the bells from the garrison and the fort above continued to ring out their warning.
CHAPTER FOUR
A HIGH WIND was blowing long before they reached the harbor walls—strong cold gusts that swept away the spring. Galena sniffed and caught the strange scent of something ripe and green. It was not seaweed—it had a land smell. It reminded her of the pine-forested hills north of Osterling, but that was impossible—the wind came from the wrong direction.
“Watch where you’re stomping, Alighero. Or were you daydreaming about Zhalina again?”
