After a few more questions, Valek would have bet money that the Starfish was the Storm Thieves’ ship. Now the next step would be to find it. There hadn’t been a break-in in over three weeks, and most of the fishermen believed the weapon raid was the last one. Only thirteen days remained until the start of the warm season and the first safe day that the fleet could set sail.

Valek figured the Storm Thieves would make one more raid before lying low for the fishing seasons. He needed to review the stolen items again. Once he determined what was next on their list, he could anticipate their destination.

“We better finish this net today,” Pug said. He gazed at the sea. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

“Could be a big blow.” Joey massaged his stiff fingers.

“Any idea where it will hit?” Valek asked.

“If it’s big enough, it don’t matter. The whole coast gets punched,” Joey said. “If it’s smaller, then you follow the waves.”

“The waves?”

“Yeah. If the storm’s coming right at you, the waves are parallel to the shore, lined up like rolling pins on my granny’s table. If the waves are angled to the right, the storm’s moving north. Angled left means south.”

Valek studied the waves lapping under the dock. Rolling pins.

“Too soon to tell,” Joey said. “Look in the morning.”

“When will the storm hit?”

Pug squinted. “Tomorrow...maybe tomorrow night.”

Valek needed to hurry. He didn’t have much time to prepare.

18

LEIF

As he traveled to the Citadel, Leif’s thoughts kept returning to Irys’s comment about the twelve missing and four dead magicians. And Irys’s lack of intel about the attacks gnawed holes of worry in his guts, ruining his appetite. Irys could only speculate why—to regulate all the magicians. As for who, she suspected a group of influential and wealthy people was behind it, but she had no evidence.

The timing of the incidents matched with Yelena’s loss of magic. Almost right after she’d been shot with that damn poisoned arrow, the Cartel—Irys’s name for them—started their aggressive campaign against magicians. The only suspected member of the Cartel was Bruns Jewelrose, who’d hired The Mosquito to assassinate Yelena and supposedly the other four magicians. And perhaps he’d also targeted Ben Moon and Loris and Cilly Cloud Mist.

Unable to solve the puzzle while traveling, Leif forced his brooding thoughts to a different topic. Too bad yet another worry popped to the surface. Yelena. Through the super glass messenger, Irys told him the good news—that she’d returned to the Citadel with Ari and Janco—and the bad—she’d been arrested and interrogated by the Council.

Irys urged Leif to hurry so he could verify her story. Leif also carried detailed drawings that his father, Esau, provided to show the Sitian Council what Owen had been growing. Esau had refused to leave the glass hothouse until he had finished his investigation and found someone to properly care for the plants while they were gone.

Meanwhile, Yelena waited for Leif’s arrival instead of escaping. She wished to regain her positive status with the Council. But every day she remained in the jail, the greater the danger.

Sensing his mood, Rusalka picked up her pace. They rode on the main east-west route in the Featherstone lands. In two more days, he’d be home, but if he pushed it, he might shave off half a day. Of course that meant arriving late at night, when all the Councilors would be asleep, so he’d have to wait until morning to talk to them.

He grinned. Leif knew exactly how he wanted to spend those hours. In bed with his wife, Mara, who made the plainest housedress appear to be the height of fashion. Just wrapping his arms around her would ease the ache pulsing deep in his chest. And he’d breathe in her scent—the light aroma of ylang-ylang flower, combined with the sweet fragrance of the living green—and be home.

Instead of overnighting in an inn, Leif decided to stop to rest for just a couple hours. He’d find a merchant camp to join. The caravans tended to avoid the expense of a real bed and bivouacked along the road. With the warm season a few weeks away, many had started their first deliveries of the year.

A couple hours after sunset, Leif caught a whiff of molasses followed by the bitter tang of fear. Rusalka broke into a gallop as the shrill sounds of a horse in distress pierced the air.

When they turned a corner, a cloud of emotions struck him. Panic and fear the strongest. In the faint moonlight, he identified the black shapes. Horse. Wagon. Person.

As they drew closer, the shapes sharpened. Overturned wagon. Man about to be trampled by a panicked horse.

High-pitched squeals and cries emanated from underneath the wagon. The man shouted at the kids to be quiet. “You’re scaring the horse.”

Too late. Leif stopped Rusalka fifty feet before the scene. Her presence might make it worse. At least the children quieted to whimpers.

The man lurched forward in an attempt to grab the reins, causing the horse to rear again. Idiot didn’t know anything about horses. Leif dismounted, then approached slowly.

“Back away or you’re going to get hurt,” Leif ordered the man in an even, nonthreatening tone—more for the horse than the idiot.

The man whipped around. “Oh, thank fate! Can you help us?”

“Yes. Stand over there.” Leif pointed to a safe spot.

“But my children—”

“Will be fine, if you do everything I say.”