Mama shook her shaggy head. “Ash and iron,” she began. “But it’s got to be new iron, what ain’t never rusted…”

Finding Evis wasn’t easy. By remaining at the Regent’s side, he’d put himself in the center of a ring of determined bodyguards, and even my winning smile was barely sufficient to charm my way through them.

By the time I did get close enough to whisper in Evis’s ear, I’d been deprived of Toadsticker, my gun, both my knives, my brass knuckles, and even the coins in my pockets. I was beginning to think my shoes might be confiscated as well, given the somewhat pointy nature of the toes.

Evis, when I did reach him, was as pale and as weary-looking as any corpse I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

I briefed him in whispers, leaving out a detail here and there in case anyone nearby was hiding pointy ears and a pocketful of tongues. He nodded grim assent.

“Keep her safe,” was all he said. I knew who he meant.

Then the Regent’s slinky creature turned her gaze upon us, and I sidled quickly away. I managed to retrieve all my items and headed back to check on Mama and Stitches.

Tables had been cleared to form a space twenty feet across. A silver rolling service cart sat in the middle, its top cut away and a grid of metal rods laid on it to support an enormous steel stew-pot.

On the bottom shelf of the cart, a small fire was already burning, its flames just beginning to lick the pot.

Dutson appeared, trying with little success to hide a scowl at the sight of sparks burning scars in his beloved casino floor. He hauled another serving cart behind him, this one filled with glass jugs of water.

“The water, sir,” he intoned as a trio of waiters filled the stew-pot with the contents of the jugs. “Might I suggest we cover the floor with a cloth of some sort?”

“Good idea,” I said, hoping my tone didn’t convey my utter disinterest in the state of the Queen’s floor coverings. “See to it, won’t you?”

He shuffled off, radiating disdain.

Mama huffed up, her arms filled with jars and brick-a-brac, which she dumped at my feet.

“I had to knee a cook in his privates, but I got us all the common things,” she said, pointing and muttering. “Salt and sugar. Charcoal from an oven. White flour, corn flour, fresh tobacco, black pepper, red pepper…”

“Capital,” I said before she could finish her list. Darla poked at the pile with the toe of her shoe.

“Is that a silver thimble?”

“It is, and the woman whose hat I snatched it from ain’t happy.” She grinned. “But I reckon gettin’ folks riled up was half the point.”

I made frantic shushing motions, as Stitches and her silence spell were nowhere near, and Mama was all but outlining the heart of our deception. Mama chuckled and rummaged in her ever-present burlap bag. “I’ll get started on what I gots, boy.” She hauled out a pair of moth-eaten dried owls. “Gonna hex this but good, I tells ye.”

With that, she plopped down on the floor, used a tiny pot of something black and thick to inscribe a circle around herself and her pile of arcane goodies, and began to mumble and wave her owls over the stack of herbs and trinkets.

Dutson reappeared, a tarp folded carefully in his hands. He saw Mama, saw her circle, and dropped the tarp in disgust before stomping away without a word.

“There goes my beer supply.”

“Here’s Evis,” said Darla, nodding off into the shadows. “He doesn’t look happy.”

He didn’t.

“The Regent winning big?”

“Every hand. But that’s not the problem. I’ve lost contact with the shore patrols.”

“I didn’t know we had shore patrols.”

“They were secret shore patrols. Four hundred men. Both banks. Keeping pace with us, scouting the woods for any sign of ambush. They reported in every half-hour. They missed the last report and aren’t responding to our messages.”

“How are you talking to anyone outside the shield?”

“Longtalker. We’ve improved it. Much smaller, better range.”

I remembered the enormous, spark-spitting contraption I’d once used, far below Avalante, to speak to Evis from a distance.

“Maybe it just stopped working.”

“We’re still in touch with the House,” replied Evis. “No. Something wiped out the patrols. Which means they found an ambush up ahead.”

Darla handed Evis a drink, which he downed in a single gulp. “So we turn around,” she said. “Go back to Rannit.”

“That’s what I said. He said no. We are to continue on to Bel Loit, no change in course or speed. No discussion.”

I took a good hard look around. “So we turn around anyway.”

“Half the crew is ready to do just that,” said Evis. He crushed the glass in his hand. “We can’t, Markhat. His people could run the Queen without any of us. They’d not hesitate to butcher us all if it came to that. You know we can’t take them.”

I cussed. Darla pretended not to notice.

“We’re being used.”

“From the start. Damn it all. Look. Take this.” He pressed a long fat key into my hand. “Behind the stage. Right center. Waist level. There’s a knothole in the wainscoting shaped like a face. Stick this in the nose. The dunway behind it leads to a fake boiler down in the engine room. It’s lined with lead, silver, everything we could think of to keep the occupants safe from magical attack and physical blows. Not even Stitches knows. Use it if you have to.”

“Maybe it won’t come to that.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “One more thing. The Regent knows about the huldra somehow. Said he wants you to let his companion hold it for a second. Claims she can jazz it up.”

I didn’t like that. His knowing or his help, either one.

Darla put her hand on Evis’s shoulder. “What about you? Where will you go, if…”

“I started this mess. Put my people in harm’s way. I’ll see it through. Make sure Gertriss gets there with you. Markhat, I never told you this, but you married above your station. Angels help us all.”

And he turned and was gone, vampire-quick.

Stitches appeared at the edge of our cleared space, a pair of duffle bags thrown over her shoulder. They looked heavy but she bore them as if they were filled with feathers and moonlight.

Darla said nothing as I gave her the key.

“Mind my sacred-ass circle,” gruffed Mama as Stitches neared.

I have the items we require, said Stitches, dropping her duffels close to Mama. A work table would speed the process.

“Too good to sit on the floor,” said Mama with a sniff.

“One work table on the way,” I said before Mama could further expand her oratory on the spoiled nature of modern sorcerers. Darla was already at the nearest table, though, brushing aside the protests of its current occupants first with her winning smile and then with a casual wave of her unladylike gun.

I fetched the chair.

Once seated, Stitches worked quickly to erect her apparatus, which she positioned right next to the steaming steel stew-pot. Within moments she had constructed a sturdy metal scaffold, through which a complex system of glass tubes and copper hoses began to take shape. Glass globes fitted to accept tubes and lines were hung, wires were strung, and within minutes, sparks and glows came to life amid the turnings and workings, raising a chorus of ohs and ahs from the crowd that gathered at a respectful distance.

Mama glared at the circles of faces fixed on Stitches and her apparatus. “Well, it’s awful purty, if ye are wantin’ to decorate a young-uns play-room,” she grumbled. She snapped her fingers and barked out a word, causing a column of burning, coiling smoke to shoot from her pile of items. People screamed and leaped back. Mama hid a grin and went back to her muttering.

Your Mama Hog is quite the performer, said Stitches in what I recognized as her version of a whisper in my head.

“I’ll ask her to tone it down,” I whispered back at her.