"You're impossible," she said, surrendering.

"We all have our special little talents."

Kip woke to the smell of oranges and smoke. It was still hot, the evening sun slipping through the leaves to tickle his face. Somehow, he had made it to one of the orange groves before collapsing. He looked down the long, perfect rows for any soldiers before he stood up. His head still felt foggy, but the smell of smoke drove away any thoughts of himself.

As he approached the edge of the orange grove, the stench grew stronger, the air thick. Kip caught flashes of light in the distance. He emerged from the grove and saw the sun setting behind the alcaldesa's mansion, the tallest building in Rekton. As he watched, the sun went from a beautiful deep red to something darker, angry. Then Kip saw the light again-fire. Thick smoke billowed suddenly into the sky, and as if on signal, smoke billowed up from a dozen places in the town. In moments, the smoke blossomed to raging fires towering dozens of paces above the roofs.

Kip heard screams. A ruin of an old statue lay in the orange grove. The townsfolk had always called it the Broken Man. Much of it had dissolved in the centuries since its fall, but the head mostly remained. Someone had long ago carved steps into the broken neck. The head was tall enough to watch the sun rise over the orange trees. It was a favorite spot for couples. Kip clambered up the steps.

The town was on fire. Hundreds of foot soldiers surrounded the town in a vast, loose circle. As the flames drove some townsfolk from their hiding place, Kip saw King Garadul's horsemen set their lances. It was old Miss Delclara and her six sons, the quarrymen. The biggest one, Micael, was carrying her over one burly shoulder. He was shouting at the others, but Kip couldn't hear what he was saying. The brothers ran together toward the river, apparently hoping to find safety there.

They weren't going to make it.

The horsemen lowered their lances as they reached a full gallop, maybe thirty paces away from the fleeing family.

"Now!" Micael yelled. Kip could hear it from where he stood.

Five of the brothers dropped to the ground. Zalo was too slow. A lance punched through his back and sent him sprawling. Two of the others were skewered as their pursuers quickly adjusted their aim and caught the men low to the ground. Micael's pursuer dipped his lance too, but missed. He caught the ground instead, and the lance stuck.

The horseman didn't release his lance in time, and was slammed out of his saddle by the force of his own charge.

Micael ran over to the fallen soldier and drew the man's own vechevoral. With a savage chop, despite the layers of mail, he nearly cut the man's head off.

But the other horsemen had drawn rein already, and in seconds there was a forest of flashing steel blocking Micael, his brother, and his mother from Kip's view.

Kip felt like he was going to throw up. At some signal he didn't see or hear, the horsemen formed back up and charged off toward new victims in the distance. Kip was only glad that they were far enough away he couldn't recognize them.

Around the rest of the town, the foot soldiers were moving in.

Mother! Kip had been watching the town burn for several minutes, and he hadn't thought about anything. His mother was in there. He had to go to her.

How was he going to get into the town? Even if he could get past the soldiers and the fire, was his mother even still alive? The king's men had seen the direction he had run away, too. They would think that the "drafter" they'd seen earlier was the only threat in the whole area. Surely they would be watching for him. In fact, they might have men out hunting him now.

If so, perching on the highest point in the orange grove was probably not the smartest thing to do.

As if on signal, Kip heard a branch snap. It might have been a deer. Evening was coming on after all. There were lots of deer in the orange groves after-

Not thirty paces away, someone cursed.

Talking deer?

Kip dropped to his stomach. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. They were going to kill him. Just like they killed the Delclaras. Micael Delclara was big. Tough as old oak. And they'd slaughtered him.

Move, Kip, just move. His heart was a riot in his chest. He was shaking. He was taking tiny breaths, way too fast. Slow down, Kip. Breathe. He took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from his trembling hands.

There was a cave not far from here. Kip had found his mother there once, after she'd disappeared for three days. There'd long been rumors of smugglers' caves in the area, and whenever his mother ran out of haze and money she went looking for them. She'd finally gotten lucky about two years ago and found enough of the drug that she hadn't come home. When Kip had found her, she hadn't eaten for days. She'd nearly died. He'd overheard someone saying aloud that they wished she had, for his sake.

Reaching the ground, Kip started jogging, trying to keep the ruin between himself and the man he'd heard. He ran about as fast as Sanson would run if Sanson carried another Sanson on his back. So Kip jogged, trying to be quiet, zigzagging through the straight rows of trees. Then he heard a sound that froze his bones to the marrow: dogs barking.

Fueled by fear, Kip found a flat-out run. He ignored the burning in his legs, the stabbing in his lungs. He was already headed toward the river; the cave was on its banks. He heard a soldier shouting curses, maybe two hundred paces back, maybe less. "Keep those dogs on the lead! You want to find a drafter while it's still light out?"

It was getting darker by the minute. So that was why he was still alive. With all colors muted by darkness, drafters weren't nearly as powerful at night. And between the smoke and a bank of black clouds rolling in, the sky was darkening faster than normal. If they'd let the dogs go, they'd have run him down already. But with darkness coming on so fast, they might feel safe to let them go at any minute.

Suddenly, Kip was on the riverbank. He stepped on one pant leg and almost fell down, barely catching himself with one hand. He stopped. The cave was upstream, away from town, not two hundred paces away. He picked up two stones that fit nicely in his hands. If he had the cave to protect his sides and back, he could… What? Die slowly?

He looked at the rocks in his hands. Rocks. Against soldiers and war dogs. He was stupid. Insane. He looked at the rocks again, then threw one onto the opposite bank of the river, downstream. He threw the second rock farther. Then he grabbed two more, rubbed them against his body, and threw them as far as he could. The last one crashed through the branches of a willow tree. Lousy throw.

No time to mourn his ineptitude. Kip's scent trail already was headed upstream-the direction he did need to go. He'd just have to hope. It was a pathetic attempt, but he had nothing else. He kept moving upstream up the bank, trying to ignore the sound of the barking dogs closing in. Then he stepped into the river, careful not to let his clothes touch any dry rocks. The place where he had come to the river was a bend, so soon he was out of the line of sight.

"Let the dogs go!" the same voice shouted.

Then Kip was opposite the cave entrance. It was invisible from the river, obscured by boulders that had fallen in front of the opening. But as soon as he stepped out of the river, he'd be leaving scent for the dogs, and a visual trail of wet rocks for the soldiers. He couldn't get out of the water. Not yet. He looked up at the black clouds.

Don't just sit there. Give me some rain!

"What's the problem? What's wrong with them?" the soldier demanded.

"They're fighting dogs, sir, not trackers. I'm not even certain they're on the drafter's trail."