They walked into the harbor in the gray, bruising light of early morning. The political seat of power for the entire Confederation was still unaroused from its deep, heavy sleep. No curious faces perched up from behind the tightly shuttered windows to peer down at them; no blacksmith’s furnace roared its scorching breath into the receding night, nor did any merchant shout their wares to attract the attention of a sleepy populace.

The Call was seemingly dead. Dead, barren, and trapped in frost of winter.

Perhaps it would have been vastly better for the world if the island had truly been a graveyard, Harlon reflected bitterly. That would have been a infinitely preferable fate to an island made entirely of treachery, backroom daggers, and shifting plots. The moment Harlon believed he had finally grasped the strings of a game, the truth only revealed itself to be a clever veil hiding an even deeper, uglier secret.

Someone was paying Barbut to oppose Blake, but why? And more importantly, who?

It must certainly be someone who wished for the absolute ruin of Blake, and there was no short list of eager takers for that prize. There were Romelians, Azanians, and even fellow Confederates alike envious of his rise. The Azanians he could safely cross off his mental ledger; the broken desert dwellers simply didn’t possess the political power, the coin, nor the subtle contacts to execute such an intricate ploy while total war was actively roaring on their own shores and bloodied sands.

The Romelians? It was a distinct possibility. The boy Emperor down south had only recently come out victorious against his own elder brother in a battle for the throne, so the imperial court could easily be preparing a veiled, secondary attack to systematically bring down the Red Angel before he grew too dangerous.After all if you wish to bring an house down you aim at the pillars.

And then, of course, there were the Confederates themselves. Perhaps it was a rival lord, someone fiercely envious of the towering prestige and legendary glory Blake was carving out for himself in the vanguard.

Harlon let out a long, heavy sigh, breathing in the freezing morning air mingled with the sharp tang of salt. Hopefully tonight I’ll get my answer.

His eyes shifted to the hooded figure limping painfully a few paces ahead of them. The stranger was moaning softly at each agonizing step he took, a kind, lasting gift left behind by the sharp bite of Harlon’s own dagger. It was an absolute mockery of justice. He had nearly lost his own life trying to capture the bastard in the pitch-black cove, and now, before the tools were bloodied and out , they were being forced to release him back into the wild. Wasn’t that a beautiful goddamn joke?

A low, biting voice cut through the stillness of the alleyway. "Stop your incessant fidgeting and squirming, Harlon. You’ll get us noticed.’’

Harlon turned his head to see Karlin gazing at him with a look of sterness, as if he were his father.

It was entirely because of Karlin’s elaborate, hyper-cautious plan that they were currently trudging through the freezing gutters of the city without a single honest soul awake to bear witness. But why in all five hells did Harlon have to be physically present for this charade? Couldn’t two common guards, or even a pair of disposable house servants, have taken their place on the cobblestones?What was the point of risking their lives?

A deep, dark dissatisfaction rose in his chest. The captured spy had been more than forthcoming with promises and sacred oaths to obey their faction; the rat had been practically weeping with willingness to pledge his life the moment he heard a way out, just as Harlon had been perfectly willing to pull the nails and teeth cleanly out of his fingers to extract any lick of actionable information.

Still, the burning question refused to quiet itself.

"Why would a creature like him ever truly help us?" Harlon muttered, leaning close toward Karlin’s ear. He kept his voice low, making sure the hooded bastard was safely outside earshot, which was significantly easier said than done considering how painfully slow the spy was walking with the aid of a makeshift wooden cane.

"He explicitly promised us he would serve and obey our interests," Karlin replied, his eyes never leaving the street ahead.

"Oh, did he truly? Well, my humblest apologies, then!" Harlon snickered, his whisper dripping with a heavy, venomous sarcasm. "I mean, if the gentleman gave us his word! Surely what absolute fools the Romelian Emperors were throughout history not to simply force their rebellious vassals to promise never to mutiny. If they had only known, civil wars would have completely disappeared from the annals of time!"

Karlin did not appear even remotely impressed by the display of wit.

"It is in his own immediate survival interest to seek political asylum with our house, Harlon," Karlin explained patiently, his voice like cracking ice. "He is a hidden agent whose cover was violently blown by his enemy. Do you truly believe his foreign masters possess a nice, comfortable retirement plan for operatives who fail their missions? A plan that doesn’t involve a sharp piece of iron stuck nicely into their throats to seal their lips forever?"

"He could still turn around and betray us the moment he sniffs a better offer," Harlon pressed, entirely unsure and thoroughly unconvinced.

"And I could still betray you," Karlin countered smoothly, throwing a sharp, warning glare over his shoulder. "I could stick a dagger into your ribs right now. I could suddenly choose to obey my mother’s nagging, marry a high-born virgin, and breed a dozen squalling heirs. I could, you could, they could. In this world, everything can happen if you wait long enough. Stop trying to crack your thick skull over the geometry of it. If the man wants to keep his head attached to his shoulders, it is vastly easier for him to serve us as our personal informant especially since we hold him by our balls, surely you do not think I let them go without my own reassurances?"

"Just because a wild lion allows you to stroke its mane doesn’t mean it’s tamed, Karlin," Harlon growled back, his hand resting instinctively on his pommel. "One day the beast will find its footing, and it will pounce on us. Mark my words, this will end badly."

The hooded spy suddenly halted at the corner of a stone warehouse, his breath forming a thick, pale plume in the winter air. He turned his head slightly, his pale face illuminated by the dim morning light.

"We are near the harbor mouth," the spy muttered, his voice raspy and thin from the damp cold. "Keep your mouths closed and let me do the talking from here on out. If the dockmaster smells anything on either of you, the game is dead before we even touch the fish."

Harlon stepped into the man’s space, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over the limping agent. He reached out, his calloused fingers gripping the spy’s wounded shoulder just firmly enough to make the man flinch. "You listen to me, you miserable little rat," Harlon hissed, his voice dangerous and low. "You play us false by even a hair’s breadth today, and I won’t just pull your nails out. I will personally skin you from heel to hip and feed your carcass to the crabs in this basin. Do you take my meaning?"

The captured spy merely shrugged the violent threat off, his expression remaining entirely dead and detached. He had already looked down the barrel of Harlon’s worst in the basement; empty words in an alleyway held very little currency for him now.

"Save your breath milord," the spy whispered dryly. ’’Whetever I want it or not, now I am with you.So till the end we go.’’

They turned the corner and stepped onto the wide, sweeping expanse of the harbor. In the early morning light, the grand docks looked desolate and bleak. A few lingering drunkards from the previous night’s revelry were still stumbling aimlessly around the stone piers, muttering incoherently to themselves or vomiting sleepily into the dark water. The thick, brackish scent of low tide, rotting kelp, and old wood hung heavily in the air.

With a painful, exaggerated grunt, the spy adjusted his grip on his wooden cane and began to limp forward across the open stone, his boots clicking against the frost-rimed leaves that were becoming sludge. He raised a gloved hand, waving a lazy, commanding gesture for the two noble lords to follow quietly in his wake like a pair of silent, dutiful servants.

They made their way through the harbor. Most of the ships docked on the port floated lazily upon the tide.

Usually, when a ship docked at port, the majority of the crew would instantly scatter to make a merry way toward the nearest harbor taverns and low-born brothels, leaving behind barely half a dozen miserable souls to watch the decks. There was rarely any real risk of thieves plundering a vessel in the dead of night; after all, without the heavy pontoon bridge tracking the short distance from the stone pier to the wooden rail, how would an intruder even hope to get inside?Swimming?

A dozen or so of these grand ships sat dark and quiet at the port, gently rocking against the stone wharves. Despite the burning resentment cooking inside his chest, Harlon kept his head dutifully lowered, though he meticulously observed their surroundings out of the tail of his eyes.

They made their way straight down the length of the main pier, the salt air stinging their cheeks, until they reached a small, cluttered bundle of freight crates. There, their captive rat swayed slightly on his splinted leg and turned sharply to the right. He led them straight toward a deep-bellied cargo ship, where three heavily cloaked men were waiting ahead of it on the stone, sitting atop a stack of weathered wooden crates.

None of them may have spoken it outright, but the grim meaning was clear enough to all three. They had finally reached the designated place.

And now, it was time to get some answers.