With Wil's maritime experience, it didn't take long to identify the lighthouse they'd seen in the crystal ball. It was half a day's ride up the coast, perched on a deserted promontory guarding a storm-wracked peninsula. The sky was already darkening—a herald of the storm Emmarelda had foreseen. Black clouds began piling high, causing sailors to shake their heads and pull on their tar-stained coats.

"We'll need horses," Wil said as they shared a small loaf of rough bread they'd bought from a street vendor.

"I think I'm eating our last few coppers," Emmarelda replied, her mouth full of bread. The goats had confiscated her purse and the few magical tools she had hidden on her person.

"Well, it won't be the worst reason I've ever stolen a horse," Wil said, scanning the area. Just down the road, a modestly prosperous-looking inn stood, its large stable visible behind it, long lines of smoke issuing from its three ancient brick chimneys.

"You wait here. I'll be right back," Wil told her, strolling off toward the hopefully unattended horses. Emmarelda lingered in the mouth of the alley, brooding over what might be happening back in the city. The Goats might assume she was hiding among them, and who knew what they'd do to force them to turn her over? That raised the question of why the Goats wanted her at all. Wil had given vague hints about a dark prophecy, but even if that were true, why would the Goats care? The Protectorate was almost constitutionally allergic to superstition. Their view of religion was stern and puritanical, with no room for wonder or curiosity. Why, then, would those grim old men pay attention to the whispers of the very witches they despised? Who was this Duke, and who was the stranger on the boat?

While Emmarelda was lost in thought, she failed to notice a knacker’s wagon pulling up across the mouth of the alley. The tired dray snuffled in irritation as two middle-aged men, husky from a lifetime of butchering horses, climbed down and sauntered toward her, wooden mallets in hand. A gust of wind, perhaps the leading edge of the coming storm, sighed down the alley, stirring the knives and pots hanging from the skeletal frame of the wagon.

Emmarelda looked up just in time to see the knackers lunging toward her. With a startled cry, she threw up her left hand. There was a flash of light, followed by a sharp crack. Both men staggered back, crying out and clutching their eyes. Wasting no time, Emmarelda dashed between them while they were off balance. The knackers grabbed at her, but she wriggled free with the skill of a street urchin.
She was almost at the wagon when something struck her in the back. She staggered forward, dropping to her knees, as a second wooden mallet whistled past and thudded off the wagon. Emmarelda screamed, scrambling under the wagon. One of the men seized her ankle and yanked her across the cobblestones. She twisted in his grip, a short-bladed knife appearing in her hand. She slashed it across his outstretched hand. The knacker recoiled, screaming, blood spraying as he lost a finger.

For a brief moment, the two men struggled to regroup. She flicked the blood off her blade and yelped a series of words. The mortar between the cobblestones crumbled, and black mold spread up the walls as though time had suddenly accelerated. Both men fell to the ground, retching blood. The nag in the harness screamed and bolted forward.

Emmarelda barely had time to leap aboard the wagon before it tore off down the street toward the coaching inn.