Corayne looked it over, noting wood blocks that looked suspiciously like printing stamps, not to mention several cast-iron molds. Her eyes narrowed.

We’re in a forger’s workshop.

“Charlon Armont,” Sorasa said, approaching the stubby young man bent over a workbench. She said his name with the characteristic Madrentine flourish, words swooping. “So nice to see you.”

He looked up, one eye exaggerated by a magnifying glass. The other was mud brown, like the thick hair held back from his face by a tight braid. He straightened, revealing a strongman’s gut and broad, rounded shoulders. He had the build of a laborer, sturdy as a wall. But his hands were thin and delicate, skillful. His skin was pale, unnaturally so, as if he spent most daylight hours down in the crypt. It’s probably true, Corayne thought.

“Don’t lie, Sarn. You’re too good at it; it unnerves me,” he said, lowering his eyeglass to let it dangle from the cord around his neck. Without looking down, he swept the papers on his desk into a box, hiding the contents from sight. Corayne tried to catch some of it, but he moved too quickly. “It isn’t like you to come with company. Especially this kind of company,” he added, eyeing the rest of them. His curiosity deepened as he glanced from Andry to Dom to Corayne, taking their measure.

Corayne did the same. Armont didn’t look older than twenty, his face unlined by age, his skin smooth as marble and the color of honeyed milk.

His assistant, the owner of the green eyes, wavered nearby. She was small with a frizzy head of sandy hair. Charlon dismissed her with a nod, and she made herself scarce. The brick door shut behind her, the gears above it now clearly visible. It even had padlocks and a broad bar to be lowered into place.

He looks ready for a siege, Corayne thought.

“Strange days,” Sorasa answered, her hands spread wide. Both her palms were as tattooed as her fingers. On her right hand, the sun; on the left, the crescent moon.

Charlon nodded. He removed the glass, shoving it into the tool belt around his wide-set hips. He looked like a bull. A very nervous bull. “Indeed, there’s been odd talk.”

“What sort of talk?” Corayne said sharply.

It felt like being home again in Lemarta, listening to sailors trade tales at the tavern, or merchants jaw in the market. She wanted to sink her teeth in, tear out something useful from the nonsense. Once, she’d have grabbed for a line on a treasury ship moving currency. Now, perhaps, some word of where Taristan was going next, or where he had been. What Spindle will tear next, and which is already torn? What new dangers lurk on the horizon, waiting for us—and anyone else caught in the crossfire?

Charlon eyed her and she eyed him back, unyielding. “Storms out of season,” he answered. “Villages going quiet. Gallish troops on the move, and not to any war anyone knows about. Ships running aground out at sea,” he added, moving a hand over his chin. The tips of his fingers were stained a dull, dark blue. Years of ink. “One of them limped in this morning, hull nearly cracked in two. And there’s that whole fuss about the Queen of Galland marrying some no-name without gold or a castle.”

Corayne flinched. But he has an army.

“News certainly travels fast around here,” Andry said shakily. “By the way, I’m Andry Trelland,” he added, extending his hand.

Charlon did not return the gesture, perturbed by his politeness.

“Good for you,” he muttered. “What can I say, we’re people of the realm. We like to stay in the know. Ain’t that the truth of it, Sarn?”

A corner of Sorasa’s mouth twitched, betraying a smile. “If you want information, come to Adira.”

“And be prepared to pay for it,” Charlon replied neatly. “So, what do you need?” He gestured to the vaults with a blue-tinged hand. “I’ve some fresh seals made for the Siscarian dukes, and with the mess in Rhashir, I’ve got a line on a genuine Singolhi mark-press. Not cheap, but easy. Run off your own Rhashiran notes. Wash the money for gold or land before their treasury knows what’s what.”

Corayne felt her jaw drop. A mark-press from the Bank of Singhola, the treasury of Rhashir. Noble seals. And, based on the vast collection of ink, paper, quills, and wax stuffing the shelves, a great deal more where that came from. He could probably make letters of trade, privateer papers from every crown on the Long Sea, wax-sealed orders. As good as a shield to any ship, smuggler, or pirate on the water. Her hands twitched as she eyed the shelves again. She saw the symbol of the Tyri navy, a mermaid holding a sword. One stamp of that in blue wax and Mother could run any fleet blockade or enter any port without so much as a wink.

“See something you like?” Charlon followed her gaze, taking a step closer. He narrowed his eyes. “If you have the coin, I’ve got the means.”

Only then did Dom stir, moving to loom over them both. Stout Charlon craned his neck, looking up. “You must have money on you, with a bodyguard like this,” he said nervously.

“We’re not looking for seals or forgeries,” Sorasa said sharply, bringing them back to the task at hand. “We’re looking for you.”

Charlon barked out a dry laugh. He wagged a finger at her. “The days really are strange. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you tell a joke in all your life.”

“She isn’t joking, sir,” Corayne said, wrenching herself away from the wall of iron seals.

“‘Sir,’” he chuckled. Again he waved a hand at Sorasa, as if scolding her. “Well, are you going to explain what you’re going on about? So I can tell you again why I can never leave the walls of this city?”

Sorasa didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth to explain, but Corayne felt a shiver down her spine. She swallowed and raised a hand, cutting the assassin off.

“Let me,” she said, shrugging off her cloak.

It took a long moment, but she managed to unbuckle the sword belt from her shoulders. I’m getting better at this. Charlon went round-eyed as she drew the Spindleblade from its sheath. It was still heavy, and her hands trembled around the hilt, but it felt familiar now. My father’s sword.

Even in the forger’s crypt, the steel gleamed strangely, etched and marked by a realm lost. It fed on the underground light, brightening as the rest of the chamber darkened, until it was the only thing in Corayne’s world, a mirror of cold flame. When she finally pulled her eyes away from the blade, she found Charlon staring just as deeply, his keen focus trained on the sword. He was a craftsman. He knew delicate, intricate, and ancient work when he saw it.

“That’s no ordinary steel,” he breathed. He didn’t step forward or reach out, though he certainly looked like he wanted to. “Not Treckish. Not Elder.” His eyes darted to Dom again, the wheels in his head turning with obvious motion.

Corayne shook her head. “This is a Spindleblade,” she murmured, and his face went paler than she thought possible. “Forged in a forgotten realm, the land of my ancestors.”

“You’re from the lines of Old Cor.” Charlon stopped staring at the sword to stare at her. “Spindleblood.”

She returned his gaze. “I am.”

“Not too many of you still walking the Ward,” he said.

Corayne pursed her lips and slid the sword back into its sheath. The blade sang the length of the leather. “There won’t be much of anything walking the Ward if we fail.”