They approached the empire’s second largest city with caution, using the line of hills northwest of the city to hide their line of march. Studying the walls from a hilltop just over a quarter-league away, Tylocost found it strange they had encountered no Riders from the city’s garrison. With bakali and nomad invaders about, warriors should be patrolling the countryside.

With his more than human vision, Tylocost could see the city gates were shut, save for one, the Dermount Gate on the north side. It was guarded by several hundred troops. A thin stream of people came and went through the portal.

The elf’s plan was to wait for Tol, keeping out of sight until his arrival. Like any good general, though, he craved information, and wished he could know what was happening in the city.

He made this comment in Zala’s hearing. With a shrug, she said, “I could find out if you like. I could enter the city.”

Since her father was a resident of Caergoth, Zala had a glean-a brass token that identified her and allowed her to pass in and out of the city. Given the threat hanging over Caergoth, her glean might no longer be honored. She was willing to try. She could find out whatever Tylocost wanted to know, and look for her father at the same time.

She put aside her weapons, save for a belt knife, and commended Helbin to Tylocost’s care. The wizard had been distracted. He’d spent much of the day toying with a small glass mirror, fitted in a hinged wooden box. It appeared to be an activity that caused him great frustration.

“You watch yourself, girl,” Tylocost told her.

Zala felt strangely pleased by his concern. The Silvanesti was arrogant and opinionated, but there was something about him that made her want to please him. If he weren’t so hard to look at-

She ruthlessly suppressed that thought. No good could come of such feelings.

Leaving the hidden caravan behind, she started down the hill toward the city. As she descended the slope, she picked up speed, until she was jogging rapidly. She’d been too long in the company of soldiers, refugees, and captives. The exhilaration of being on her own flooded through her. For a moment she allowed herself to think of freeing her father and running away with him, away from unsightly, vexing elves, notions of honor, warlords, and kender. If she ran without stopping, beyond the empire, to the end of the world, perhaps she would find peace.

By the time she reached the queue of people waiting to pass through the Dermount Gate, she’d put away such extraneous thoughts. Instead, she concentrated on appearing to be nothing more than a young woman bent on visiting her aged parent.

All those entering Caergoth were searched. Soldiers carried out this process with rapid, rough thoroughness. Packs were opened, their contents dumped on the ground; pushcarts were upended, babies’ swaddling was groped. Faced with bared swords, no one protested.

The officer in charge of the gate guards examined Zala’s glean and pronounced it outdated.

“What’s your business in Caergoth.

“I’m visiting my father. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Her mixed heritage gave rise to ribald comments from the soldiers. The harassed officer growled at them to shut up. He daubed the glean with a spot of white paint.

“This means you have twenty-four hours. If you’re caught in the city after that, you’ll be thrown in prison as a suspected spy.”

She nodded curtly, moving on.

The city beyond the thick wall had changed since her last visit. Caergoth had always been an orderly city, with wide, clean streets and well-scrubbed stone buildings. No longer. Now the lanes were crowded with people, wagons, horses, and livestock. Half the population of the province seemed to be trying to squeeze within the walls. It was obvious they did not know that Lord Tolandruth and the landed hordes had driven out the raiding nomads.

Her father lived on the top floor of a rooming house in the scribes’ district. His two rooms were small, but cheap, clean, and except on festival days, quiet. He wouldn’t be home-the empress had had him taken to the citadel-but Zala headed there first anyway. If possible, she wanted to wash and change clothes before going to the governor’s palace. Tiring of the lewd and ugly comments from passers-by, she untucked her hair from behind her ears so it would hide their shape.

The trip through the clogged streets to the scribes’ quarter took an age. Market squares, once lined with neat, widely spaced rows of stalls and pushcarts, were now crammed with tents and squalid with the offal of thousands of squatters. Pickpockets and cutpurses worked the mobs. After fending off a fourth attempt to steal her purse, Zala grew so annoyed she broke the pickpocket’s wrist and left him howling on the pavement.

The last square between her and the scribes’ district was the city’s largest, Luin’s Field. Bounded on three sides by Caergoth’s major temples, it was a sacred space used for religious ceremonies and imperial parades. It was always kept spotlessly clean, with not even the smallest bit of litter allowed.

When Zala beheld Luin’s Field, however, shock froze her in place. The square had been turned into an army camp. Warriors were quartered along its sides, and its center was taken up by huge cages, row upon row of stout wooden posts joined together by iron strapping. The cages were filled with people. Some, clad in buckskins, were plainly nomads, but others looked to be city folk or peasants. At least a thousand captives were being held in Caergoth’s most sacred square.

An Ergothian soldier, trying to get by her, asked sarcastically, “Something ailing you, girl?”

Instantly, Zala assumed a slightly hunched posture and looked at him with wide eyes. Stammering, she asked, “Who are those people, sir? Why are they here?”

As she’d guessed from his voice, the soldier was an older man. Her shy, deferential manner caused his tone and expression to soften. She imagined that he had daughters of his own at home.

“We need every room in the citadel to house the garrison,”

he said. “Lord Wornoth emptied the citadel dungeon and put the scum here.”

After admonishing her to “get herself on home,” the soldier moved away, and Zala approached the cages. In the general confusion, she was able to get within a few paces. She walked slowly along, looking anxiously for her father among the wretched captives.

“Has anyone seen Kaeph the scrivener?” she asked as she walked. “An old man with white hair and a bald spot on his crown? Anyone know Kaeph the scrivener?”

For a long stretch all she heard were negatives. Finally, one of the prisoners, a coarse-looking woman with a city accent, answered in the affirmative. Zala stepped closer to her cage.

“I seen him,” the woman repeated. “He’s in with the condemned-the cages around the corner, facing the Temple of Corij.”

Zala thanked her. The woman thrust a hand through the bars, snatching at Zala’s sleeve. “A favor for a favor! Tell Mextro I’m here! Mextro, the innkeeper at the Golden Galley! My name-!”

Her plea was cut off as a soldier thrust the butt end of a spear through the bars and struck her in the belly. The woman fell back. Under the guard’s unfriendly glare, Zala moved on.

As befit a warrior nation, the Temple of Corij was the largest and most splendid in Caergoth. Built of white marble, it was floored in red granite, to honor all the warriors’ blood spilled for the empire. The temple rose in a series of sloping terraces, making a step-sided pyramid. At the pinnacle, in a small columned portico, an ever-burning flame was tended by the warrior-priests of Corij.

The cage facing the temple was isolated from the other enclosures. Warriors on horseback circled it. Friends and family of those within hovered outside the perimeter of guards, looking for loved ones among the many prisoners.