20

The smoke appeared before Luzmer did.

A dark line stretched across the harbor horizon. The wind flattened it over the water and split it among the masts. Birds flew inland.

“Too much for a furnace,” Kaoran said.

“Too steady for a fire in the open.”

Isolde studied the color. Damp wood, thick oil, and wool. The fire was trapped inside something large.

The boat had spent a day on the river and another following the coast. It carried flour, clothing, and eight passengers with work tokens.

Orla had registered them as laundry workers bound for a trading house.

Kaoran walked with an oar cut to shoulder height.

His staff was still trapped beneath the Citadel kitchens.

Isolde had folded the cloth inside her borrowed boot again.

Her left heel shifted when she put her weight on it, and the chafing forced her to take short steps.

“The oar makes you lean too far,” Isolde said.

“It’ll get me to a carpenter.”

“You need a curved handle.”

“I need you to stop mentioning the handle every ten minutes.”

“You’d grown fond of it.”

“It had a grip made for my hand. I’d miss you for other reasons.”

Kaoran looked at the boatman.

“The passenger talks when she’s nervous.”

“I’ve noticed,” the man replied.

Luzmer spread across a delta of stone and timber. Three canals ran through the city. Warehouses stood on pilings, linked by walkways. Low-roofed houses occupied the inner islands. Ships carrying salt, glass, and oil docked in the outer harbor.

The regency’s flags hung above every crane.

The boat slowed as it approached the checkpoint.

Two Guard launches blocked the main canal. The soldiers wore cloth masks. Behind them, a warehouse tower sent smoke through boarded-up windows.

L-4 was painted on the wall.

They had arrived during the thermal loss protocol.

“Oil accident,” a guard announced. “The canal is closed until further notice.”

“We’re carrying flour,” the boatman said.

“You’ll dock at pier nine. The cargo will be inspected.”

“Pier nine is upwind.”

“Then you’ll save coal.”

The launch struck their side to force them to turn.

Isolde kept her head down. As she drew her core inward, she felt the fire spreading behind the wall and small movements within that heat.

She could not distinguish one from another.

She reached for Ydrael and found silence.

The list named nineteen people; someone at a boarded-up window had just knocked three times.

“They’re still inside,” she whispered.

Kaoran counted windows.

“Four floors. Two entrances from the water. The main door is chained.”

“The guards are keeping the firefighters out.”

Three carts and a table waited at pier nine. They inspected the flour, the tokens, and their hands. An officer asked why Kaoran was carrying an oar.

“The sea has an attitude problem,” he replied.

The man examined the wood.

“It could conceal a blade.”

“It can also hit you without one.”

Isolde stepped on his boot.

The officer gave him back the oar.

“You’re here to unload, and you’ll leave before nightfall. The city is under a thermal safety curfew.”

“What happened at L-4?” Isolde asked.

“Inventory loss.”

“The smoke seems to be keeping it all inside.”

The guard looked at her token.

“Laundress. Stick to the laundry.”

They passed through.

The fire bells hung silent. Luzmer had a brigade for each canal. The water reservoirs were full and the carts ready. The Guard had removed the ropes from the bell towers.

A man in a yellow jacket was arguing beside the bridge. He wore the firefighters’ emblem: a drop of water crossed by a hook.

“There are people on the upper floors,” he said. “The neighbors hear knocking.”

“The commission evacuated the staff,” the Guard captain replied.

“Then open the doors and let us confirm it.”

“Record oil gives off toxic fumes.”

“That’s wool, wood, and pitch. I can smell it from the other canal.”

“Tarin Ose, this is your last warning.”

The firefighter raised his hands and backed away. The captain kept two soldiers following him.

Isolde waited beside a fish stall. Tarin entered an alley. Kaoran followed him around another corner.

They met behind a cistern.

“How many inside?” Isolde asked.

Tarin studied her apron.

“Clean laundry stays well away from smoke.”

“L-4 appears on a transfer route. Nineteen names.”

“I’ve counted knocks on three floors. Two sequences are asking for air. One’s asking for tools.”

“Plans?”

Tarin took out a tablet. The warehouse had a tidal basement, two cargo floors, offices on the third, and sleeping quarters at the top. The interior walls were lined with clay to slow fires.

“The fire should be spreading from room to room,” he said. “It’s inside the beams and ducts. Someone laid slow fuses from the basement to the roof.”

“They want time to get out and make sure it all burns,” Kaoran said.

“The commission took four carts out before dawn. Then they closed the doors. Our brigade was ordered to protect the adjoining buildings.”

“Access from the water?”

Tarin pointed to the north canal.

“A loading gate opens with the tide. They chained it from inside. The basement has grates for emergency flooding. If we open them, the water will put out the fire at the base and the smoke will rise toward the prisoners.”

“We need a way out above before we flood it,” Isolde said.

“The brigade has a floating ladder. The Guard requisitioned it.”

“Where?”

“Pier seven. Six soldiers.”

Kaoran examined the routes.

“We can recover the ladder while you go in through the gate.”

“We go together.”

Kaoran turned the plan toward her.

“Tarin knows the basement. I can get the ladder to those windows.”

Isolde kept a finger on the water entrance. They had entered mines, ducts, and courtyards together. She could judge how long it took him to open a lock; inside L-4, she would lose that measure.

“If they close the canal, you’ll be on your own.”

“Two firefighters will be with me.”

She looked at the men waiting for Tarin’s decision and took her hand off the plan.

“Secure the ladder before you climb.”

Tarin looked at them both.

“Who are you?”

“People who arrived before nightfall,” Isolde replied.

The firefighter studied her hands. He had heard stories.

“The nameless woman has a gray cloak.”

“Today she’s wearing an apron.”

“That will complicate my report.”

“First we need to survive to write it.”

Tarin agreed.

The Luzmer brigade worked like Jesa’s crews. Each section knew one canal and voted on dangerous entries. Tarin gathered six people in a net house. He explained the fire, the nineteen possible prisoners, and the Guard’s order.

Four chose to go in. Two would stay by the cisterns to keep the fire from reaching other buildings. Isolde gave none of them an order.

The plan divided the work.

Kaoran and two firefighters would recover the ladder. A third brigade member, Sura, would open a walkway from the adjoining roof. Tarin and Isolde would enter through the basement. The boatmen would prepare wet blankets and boats beneath the windows.

“If you hear three bell strikes, the Guard has opened the canal,” Tarin said.

“They’ve taken the ropes down.”

“We have hammers.”

Isolde studied the wind.

“Need: get the people out and preserve any accounts that identify destinations.”

Kaoran nodded.

“Limit.”

“Adjoining buildings, brigades, prisoners, and guards who allow the rescue.”

“Time.”

Tarin looked at the tablet.

“The fuse will reach the third floor in less than an hour. The roof might hold for two.”

“Acceptable cost,” Kaoran said.

Isolde looked at the smoke.

“Losing the accounts. Leaving the city. Revealing the fire if it saves a way out.”

“Your body stays within the limit.”

“So does yours.”

“I’ll make a note.”

They split up.

Isolde and Tarin went down the north canal in a fishing boat. A canvas sheet covered them. Guards watched from the walkway. The fishermen pretended to retrieve nets snagged near L-4.

The gate appeared at water level.

The iron was hot.

Tarin slipped a hook between two bars. Isolde felt the chain inside. They had coated it in resin so the fire would weld the links together.

“I can open one link,” she said.

“They’ll see the heat from the walkway.”

“Use the net.”

The fishermen raised a wet sheet. Isolde laid two fingers on the bar. She drew the heat toward a single link. The resin melted. The metal softened.

Tarin turned the hook.

The chain gave way.

They entered the smoke.

Ankle-deep water covered the basement floor.

Oil barrels lined the north wall. Several lengths of tarred rope ran up through ducts toward the floors above. An ember sheltered inside a box crept along each rope. The fire had a schedule.

Tarin broke open the first box with his ax.

“There are eight fuses.”

“Cut the ones you can.”

Isolde followed the heat. Three ropes had already carried the flame to the floor above. Five others were still burning inside narrow channels.

She could extinguish the boxes. The embers traveling through the walls would continue.

“We need to open the lining,” she said.

Tarin pointed to patches of fresh lime. Each covered an access opening into a duct.

He struck the first. Isolde found the rope and drew the fire out. She carried it to the water. A hiss filled the basement.

The second fuse was behind a pillar. The third ran up inside a beam.

“That one’s reached the ceiling,” Tarin said.

A knock came from above.

Three. A pause. Two.

“Air,” the firefighter translated.

“How many people?”

The answer came in four knocks, then three.

“Seven on that floor.”

Isolde touched the beam. Fire had surrounded a staircase. They could go up in a cargo lift to one side.

Tarin cut the last basement fuses. He chalked a mark on each barrel and opened the flooding grates halfway. The water would rise slowly, keep the oil cool, and leave them a way out.

They stepped into the lift cage. Isolde heated the brake. Tarin pulled the rope. The platform rose between smoke-filled walls.

The first floor held bales of wool.