If we’re turned away, people will die.

Rachel might die, and I can’t stand to imagine my life without her in it.

So as we approach the gates, I instruct Drake to let me do the talking and come up with a story that is completely true . . . without telling the whole truth. Guilt snaps at me, but I shove it aside. I have promises to keep to the survivors of Baalboden. I’ve made no promises to Lankenshire yet.

Just inside the entrance, a man wearing gold bars on the front left pocket of his uniform steps forward. “What business do you have with Lankenshire?” he asks as he stares at our group like he’s never seen a crowd of smoke-scorched weary souls standing outside his gate. His voice is cautious but friendly enough.

“We’re from Baalboden, and we were in a fire last night. I have several seriously injured people, some of our elderly are suffering from smoke inhalation, and I have a pregnant woman due to give birth any day. We’d like to respectfully request lodging and medical attention. I can offer payment.”

Once I have the right supplies to replicate the device, that is. Until then the three elected leaders who govern Lankenshire—known as the triumvirate—will have to take me at my word.

“What are folks from Baalboden doing so far north?” He peers past me as if searching for someone. “Where’s your leader?”

I clear my throat, and the man’s gaze latches onto me again. “We’re all that’s left of Baalboden. The Cursed One destroyed it almost six weeks ago. I’d planned to negotiate a possible asylum for my people here, but last night’s fire changed those plans temporarily.”

“Baalboden’s gone?” His eyes widen, and he glances over his shoulder as if the Cursed One might suddenly appear and light his city on fire, too.

“Please,” I say as I step closer to the gate. “Some of my people will die if they don’t get medical attention.”

He tugs at the hem of his jacket. “I can’t offer you long-term asylum. That has to come from the triumvirate. But I should be able to offer your people a brief stay in the hospital while our leaders set aside a time to meet with you and hear your case. Let me check with my commanding officer.”

He hurries into the city, leaving the two soldiers who were with him to stand and stare at us while we wait. It isn’t long before he’s back, along with several other men in green uniforms and six people, both women and men, dressed all in white.

“I brought doctors,” the gate guard says. “And my commanding officer.” He snatches a thick gold key from a chain around his neck and unlocks the gate. “You’re welcome to stay in the hospital while your people recover. The triumvirate is being told of your presence and will request a meeting with you as soon as you are not as concerned with the immediate care and treatment of your people.”

“We’ll take your animals and wagons, if you like,” one of the other uniformed men says. “We can spread them out between several local farmers and care for them until you need them again.”

“Thank you,” I say. My voice can’t encompass the relief that fills me. I set out to find a safe asylum for my people, and I’ve done it. Now I just need to catch a killer, outwit the Commander, and warn the other city-states about Rowansmark’s tech.

The doctors surround the medical wagon, and in seconds, it’s whisked off toward the hospital. The rest of us follow slowly on foot, led by Coleman Pritchard, the man in charge of Lankenshire’s security.

Coleman points out the local sights as we walk. The greenhouse beside the city’s best pub. The museum that is solely dedicated to restoring and displaying artifacts from the previous civilization. The central irrigation system that makes it possible to raise crops, even if the rainfall won’t cooperate.

I try to act interested and respond in all the right places, but I keep scanning the faces that peek out of buildings as we walk the glittering stone road that winds through Lankenshire’s business district like a loose spiral.

I keep looking for the tracker.

“Did anyone else enter Lankenshire today?” I ask when Coleman takes a break from explaining the newly installed gas streetlamps and switches to discussing the sizable mercantile that sells the best pickled okra in all of the nine city-states.

“Not yet,” Coleman says as the road curves gently to the right. “Are you expecting someone else? Do you have missing people?”

“No. I just wondered how often people visit.”

Coleman points to the hospital, a solid four-story structure that gleams in the same pale glittery stone as the roads beneath us. “Here we are! Elim is our head nurse. She’ll make arrangements to allow your uninjured to lodge here as well while you wait for everyone to heal. I’m sure your people will appreciate the warm beds and the opportunity to shower.”

He looks over his shoulder at my people, and I follow his gaze. Dirty, soot-stained faces and torn clothing greet my perusal.

“Perhaps I can ask our Charity Committee if we have any spare clothing as well,” Coleman says.

“That might be a good idea,” I say.

“There’s Elim now. I’ll leave you in her hands, and see about setting up a meeting with the triumvirate. And about getting you some clothes.”

Before I can thank him again, he’s gone, and Elim, a slim, capable-looking woman with the same beautiful olive skin and almond-shaped eyes as Adam, walks toward us. I’m about to greet her when a flash of movement behind her catches my eye.