Sara turned and marched toward the riders, biting her pipe as the leader, Myron Whitefall, the Council’s general, dismounted.
“Are you done wasting my time?” she cried over the clatter of the horses.
“Only if you’re done wasting mine,” Myron answered. “I have a war to prepare for, Sara. The Empress could arrive as early as next month. I don’t have men to waste on your marital spats.”
Sara lifted her chin. “Try fighting the Empress without the wizards that I’m going to get by cracking this Tower and then say that again, Myron.”
Myron’s reply was predictably nasty, but Sara wasn’t listening anymore. Sparrow had touched her arm. She turned, and her eyes widened. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?” Myron snapped. “That you’re a waste of Council resources and—”
His voice sputtered out as Sara hurried away. She ran to the front of her wagons and stopped, watching in amazement as the blank face of the Tower peeled open like a curl of shaved wood and Banage himself stepped out into the sunlight. He was dressed in a dark suit with the great gold and jeweled mantle of the Tower on his shoulders. Bow strings creaked as the Council archers trained their arrows at his chest, but Banage paid them no mind. He just stood there, glaring defiantly at Sara with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’d never believe it if I wasn’t seeing it myself,” Sara said, grinning around her pipe. “Have you come to your senses at last, Etmon?”
“I never took leave of them, Sara,” Banage answered, glancing at the gathered troops in disdain. “Unlike some.”
“That’s enough, traitor!” Myron shouted, recovering at last. “You have exactly three seconds to surrender before—”
Sara rolled right over him. “What brings you out of your little spire? I can’t believe you’re giving up.”
Banage straightened. “You can’t ‘give up’ being right, Sara. But the situation is no longer what it was.” He reached out his arm, pointing east with one ring-covered finger. “The Empress has arrived. She is about to attack Osera, if she hasn’t already.”
“Are you mad?” Sara laughed. “We’ve heard nothing of the sort.”
“You wouldn’t,” Banage said. “Both of Osera’s Relay points were broken this morning, just before the ships appeared.”
Never taking her eyes off Banage, Sara reached down, sorting through her pouch for the two orbs that controlled Osera’s Relays. She brushed each of them with her spirit, probing the connection. But her prod faded off into nothing. There was no echo, no reply.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line against the narrow stem of her pipe. “It seems the Rector is right,” she said slowly.
“That’s impossible!” Myron shouted, stomping up to stand beside her at last. “We heard the Empress shipyards were reactivated only a week ago. Even if she’d sailed that day, there’s no way the Empress could have a fleet here so quickly. It’s a bluff!”
“He doesn’t bluff,” Sara said with a sigh. “But even if you’re right, and the Empress is about to attack, it doesn’t explain what you’re doing out, Etmon. The whole reason I’m standing here is because you swore up and down that your Court would never go to war.”
Banage stiffened. “We have our reasons, Sara. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to share them. You will remove your troops and let us pass. There is no time to waste.”
“Enough,” Myron said. “Do you think just because you’ve decided to fight that you can do as you please? The Merchant Prince’s order is still in effect. The Spirit Court is under the control of the Council. You’ll do as we tell you.”
“The Spirit Court obeys no laws but its own,” Banage said, his voice deepening as the mantle on his shoulders began to glow. “Step aside, General.”
As he spoke, the ground began to rumble. All across Zarin, buildings began to shake. Windows rattled against their panes and awnings rippled like water above the merchant stands. Down on the river, barges rocked and bumped together. Even the Whitefall Citadel was shaking, its golden-roofed towers trembling in the sunlight.
Back at the Spirit Court’s tower, the Council soldiers gripped their swords, bracing their feet against the shaking ground. Myron grabbed Sara’s wagon, his face as pale as cheese. Sara smacked his hand away, blowing out a huff of smoke.
“Enough dramatics, Etmon,” she said. “Myron, move your troops and let them through.”
Myron gaped at her. “What? You can’t be—”