Daja checked the list and called out their destination. Each meeting followed the pattern of this first one, more or less, in shops that sported ten and twenty students, mages and non-mages, and in houses and shops where mages had one or two students, or in a few cases, none. Some were willing to take on new students; others weren’t. All tested Daja’s medallion before they would believe she was a mage.

Unlike Daja, Serg knew the city well. Not only was he expert at dodging horses and other sleighs, but he also knew small side streets that cut weary minutes from their travels over Kadasep, Airgi, Bazniuz, Odaga, and First Fortress Island. He also seemed to know most of the young women who worked in the houses and shops along the way. The sky was turning indigo as they turned back toward Bancanor House on Kadasep Island. Nights came early this far north, so late in the year, and Daja had to be there in time for the girls’ first meditation lesson. The city’s lamplighters were already out, going from lamp to lamp along the main streets and bridges. In another week, Serg told Daja as they drove across Bazniuz Island, the city would hold the ceremony when the great-lights, giant oil lamps backed by polished metal reflectors, were set aflame for the first time that winter. They would be needed as the city entered a night that would last until the month of Carp Moon.

“Is that one of them?” Daja asked Serg, pointing to an orange bloom up ahead. They were driving west on Velvet Street, on their way to the bridge over Prospect Canal.

Serg muttered what Daja suspected was a curse. “It’s a fire, Viymese Daja. This is Shopgirl District-boarding-houses for girls and women mostly. We’ll pass it.”

He was right about the fire, though not their ability to pass. The fire was just off Velvet Street, which was blocked with sleighs and those on foot who’d come to watch. Serg halted the sleigh. Daja, concerned, got out and walked through the crowd, using shoulders and elbows to make room. When she came into the open, she found herself just to one side of a line of well-trained firefighters who passed buckets of water to the fire and back from the nearest well.

Ahead she saw Ben Ladradun emerge from the house, a sodden blanket over his head and around the woman he carried in his arms. He handed her to waiting friends, then turned to direct the bucket brigade to douse a flaming chunk of shingles that had dropped into the street. As he stripped off his blanket, he bellowed orders for those assigned to keep watch over the crowd, directing them to back up and force the crowd farther back from the building. People came to him for orders and left him at a brisk trot, no sign of fear in their faces, only determination and tension.

They get that feeling from him, Daja realized, awed by Ben’s command of the situation. He’s not frightened, so they aren’t.

One woman near Daja, her hair falling into her eyes, nearly dropped a water bucket. Serg, who had followed Daja, took her place in the line as Daja helped the woman to pin her coils of hair out of her face.

“All our things,” the woman told Daja, trying not to weep. “I hope everyone got out. If I hadn’t been sick I would still be at the shop-“

A shriek split the air, yanking all eyes to the third floor of the narrow building. A girl, framed in an open window, waved frantic hands. Daja saw the problem instantly-most of the first floor was on fire. Ben had escaped just before the blaze covered the front door. He and his fire brigade would know the house was finished. Now they spent all their efforts to protect the nearby buildings. A handful of women and possessions on the icy street testified that the firefighters had carried a great deal out of this place before they’d given up.

“Yorgiry save us, that’s Gruzha!” cried Daja’s companion, clinging to her arm. “She’s blind-she can’t get out alone!”

Daja looked at Ben. He stared up at the third floor of the house, his lips moving-in prayer or in calculation, Daja wasn’t sure. He’s going to try it, Daja realized. He’s going to go in there after her. She stripped off her coat with trembling hands, removed her medallion, and stuffed it into one of her pockets before she folded the coat and handed it to the woman beside her.

“Would you hold this, please?” she asked. The woman took it without looking away from the girl in the open window. Her own lips moved as she prayed.

Ben waved some firefighters up. They ran in with a canvas sheet, trying to get as close to the house as they could, under that window, so they might catch the girl if she jumped. Daja knew they would never get near enough. Ben would go if she didn’t hurry.

She yanked off her boots, stockings, and belt, putting them on top of her coat in the woman’s arms. That was enough: the clothes she still wore were made by Sandry to resist flames. Knowing what she was about to do, Daja swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She had passed through fire once, four years ago. It had not been fun. Combined with powerful magic, it had stripped her naked, burned her old Trader staff, left her with strange metal on one hand, and filled her with a kind of pain so wonderful she hoped never to feel that way again. Pain should be one thing, she knew, exhilaration another. At least, she thought they were supposed to be different, most of the time.

She strode up to Ben and grabbed his arm. He looked at her, about to pull out of her grip, then frowned. “Daja?”

Speaking to this man as she would speak to one of her Winding Circle teachers, Daja said, “I think I can get her.”

His reaction made her heart pound. He grabbed a bucket of water from one person, a blanket from another, and soaked the blanket thoroughly. Briskly he rolled it into a small bundle. “Are you ready?” he asked.