“Did you know?”

The bishop of Godsgrave leapt near three feet out of his chair. His teacup of goldwine slipped from his fingers, spilled across the parchment on his desk. Heart rattling about his chest, Mercurio turned and found his old pupil behind him, swathed in the shadows of his bookshelves.

“’Byss and bl—”

His heart stilled as he saw the gravebone stiletto in his former protégée’s hand. A blond girl was standing in the gloom behind her, dressed in dark leathers. She looked vaguely familiar, but damned if Mercurio could place her . . .

A low growl made him turn, and he saw a wolf made of shadows coalescing near his open chamber door. As if in a soft breeze, it slowly creaked shut.

“Did. You. Know?” Mia repeated.

Mercurio turned his eyes back to his former pupil.

“I know lots of things, little Crow,” he said calmly. “You’ll have to be m—”

She moved in a blur, across the space between them in a blinking. He hissed as she seized his throat, pressed her blade to his jugular.

“Get that bloody pigsticker off my neck,” the old man demanded.

“Answer me!”

Mercurio tapped his own blade—which he’d drawn as he dropped his goldwine—against Mia’s femoral artery.

“One good twitch and you’ll be bled out in moments,” he said.

“That makes two of us.”

“I gave you that knife,” he said, swallowing against the gravebone blade.

“No, Mister Kindly gave it to me.”

Mercurio eyed the not-cat now coalescing on Mia’s shoulder.

“ . . . you just gave it back, old man . . .”

“Still. Never thought I’d find it against my own throat, little Crow.”

“I never thought you’d give me a reason,” the girl said.

“And what would that be?”

“They killed my father, Mercurio,” she said, voice trembling. “Or as good as. They handed him over to Scaeva and let him hang!”

“Who did?” the old man scowled, glancing over Mia’s shoulder at the blonde.

“The Ministry!” Mia spat. “Drusilla, Cassius, the rest of them. My father and Antonius were captured in the middle of a camp of ten thousand men. Who could do that if not a Blade of Niah?”

“That makes no blo—”

“Did you know?”

The old man looked at his pupil, saw no fear of the blade in his hand. No fear of dying reflected in her eyes. Only rage.

“Six years, I trained you for the Church’s trials,” he said quietly. “Why in the Black Mother’s name would I do that, if I knew the Church helped Scaeva murder your da?”

“Well, why would the Church train me at all if they helped kill him, Mercurio?”

“That what I mean about this not making sense, Mia. Think on it.”

Mia hands trembled on her stiletto, and she stared into his eyes. He could see the Blade in her, the killer they carved from the girl he’d given them. He knew that was what she’d become, sending her there. He knew the mark it would leave. You don’t gift someone to the Maw without gifting a piece of yourself, also. But beneath, he could still see her. The waif he’d saved from the Godsgrave streets. The girl he’d sheltered beneath his roof, taught everything he knew. The girl who, even after she failed, he’d still thought of as his kin.

“I’d never hurt you, little Crow. You know that. On my life, I swear it.”

She stared a moment longer. The killer she’d become warring with the girl she’d been. And slowly, ever so slowly, Mia withdrew the knife. Mercurio lifted his blade away from her leg, slipped it back into his armrest, and leaned back in his chair.

“You want to tell me what all this is about?” he asked.

The blond girl produced a book from beneath her cloak, placed it on the desk before him. It was black. Leather. Unadorned.

“The fuck’s this?” he asked.

“The Red Church ledger,” Blondie replied.

His eyes grew wide. Suddenly, it made sense. Suddenly . . .

“I recognize you now,” he breathed. “We met at the Church, when I came to get Mia. You’re Torvar’s girl. You’re Ashlinn fucking Järnheim.”

“Well, my middle name’s actually Frija, but—”

“We’ve been hunting you for eight bloody months!” Mercurio turned to Mia, voice rising. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Thanks to this traitor and her da, most of our Blades are in the fucking ground!”

Ashlinn shrugged. “Live by the sword . . .”

“It was a miracle they never got me!”

“Bullshit,” the girl replied. “When the Luminatii purged Godsgrave, they never kicked in the door of your little Curio Shop, did they?”

“O, and why’s that, pray tell?” the old man growled.

Ashlinn looked toward Mia. Back to the red-faced bishop.

“Because I didn’t want her hurt.”

Silence fell in the room, Mia looking anywhere but into Ashlinn’s eyes. After a long, uncomfortable quiet, she turned to the ledger, flipping through the pages until she found a name listed among the many patrons and their payments. A name written in a bold flowing script, stark black against the yellowing parchment.

Julius Scaeva.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Mia asked. “The Ministry would have to tell bishops who can and can’t be touched, if only to avoid breaches of Sanctity.”

“Of course I knew,” the old man snapped. “They told me as soon as they made me bishop. Why the ’byss do you think I haven’t sent one of my Blades to cut the bastard’s throat? Standing for a fourth term as consul? He’s a fucking king in all but name. And I’ve said so all along, remember?”

Mia tapped the entry with her finger.

“Ten thousand silver priests,” she said. “Sent to the Church by Scaeva himself, dated three turns after my father’s execution. Paid by the man who stood to gain the most from the rebellion’s failure. And the name of my father’s right-hand man is carved at Niah’s feet in the Hall of Eulogies. Explain that to me, Mercurio.”

The old man stroked his chin with a scowl.

Looked down at the names and numbers, blurring in the dim light.

It couldn’t be . . .

Of course he knew Scaeva was secretly paying the Church. Truth told, it made sense for people who could afford the cost to be stuffing Niah’s coffers. That was one of the beauties of Sanctity, you see—gift the Church enough money to be considered a patron, you’d be protected under the Red Promise. The King of Vaan had been doing it for years. Stroke of genius, really. Niah’s faithful could get paid without lifting a finger.

Of course, Scaeva went further than just a retainer—he’d used the Church to rid himself of a dozen thorns in his side. But Mercurio had never suspected the Church had been involved with the end of the Kingmakers. Everything he’d ever heard led him to believe Corvere and Antonius had been betrayed by one of their own men.

Could it be . . ?

“The Red Church captured my father,” Mia said, her voice thick with pain. “Handed him over to the Senate. They as good as murdered him themselves.”

Mister Kindly tilted his head, purring soft.

“ . . . what I do not understand, is why scaeva had remus attack the mountain, if scaeva already has the church in his pocket . . . ?”

“ . . . AS IF THAT IS THE ONLY THING YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND . . .”

“ . . . hush now, child, the adults are talking . . .”

“Remus attacked the Mountain without Scaeva’s consent,” Ashlinn said.

“Bullshit.” Mercurio turned on the Vaanian girl with a scowl. “Remus didn’t take a squirt without asking Scaeva’s permission first. The Senate, the Luminatii, and Aa’s Church are the three pillars of the whole fucking Republic, girl.”

“Don’t call me girl, you crusty old prick,” Ashlinn snapped. “My father was the one in league with Remus, remember? The justicus hated Scaeva’s guts. O, aye, he took the consul’s orders, but Remus was one of Aa’s faithful, just like Duomo. Using the Red Church for his dirty work made Scaeva a heretic in the Remus’s eyes. And shutting down the Church would’ve cut Scaeva’s access to his pack of hired murderers.”

Mercurio scratched his chin. “I thought Remus and Duomo—”

“Duomo’s a patron of the Church too.”

“I know that,” Mercurio snapped. “I’m not some simpleton fresh in from the rain, I’m a bishop of Our Lady of Blessed fucking Murder.”

“Except our illustrious grand cardinal never hires the Church to blessedly fucking murder anyone.” Ashlinn flicked through the ledger, showed exorbitant payments from Duomo dating back six years. “He just pays an annual stipend out of Aa’s coffers. Protects him under Sanctity, see? That way, he knows Scaeva can’t just have his throat cut while he sleeps. The cardinal and the consul hate each other, and both of them would do almost anything to see the other dead.”

“ . . . IT OCCURS TO ME THAT RECORDING THIS IN A LEDGER WAS A FANTASTICALLY FOOLISH IDEA . . .”

“They kept it in a locked vault,” Ashlinn said to the shadowwolf. “Inside a den of the most feared killers in the Republic. And the only key was hung around the neck of one of the most accomplished assassins the world has ever known. Considering what I had to go through to get hold of it, perhaps it’s not as foolish as you think.”

“ . . . speaking of which, little traitor, why, pray tell, have we not murdered you yet . . ?”

“My winning personality?” Ashlinn glanced at the not-cat on Mia’s shoulder. “Or perhaps it’s just because I’m the only one with half a clue what the fuck is going on around here.”

“So what is goi . . .” The old man blinked, looked about the room. “ . . . Wait, where the ’byss is Jessamine?”

Mia and Ashlinn exchanged a long, uneasy glance. Ash’s lip was split and swollen from her brawl on the roof, her eye bruised black.

“ . . . there was some . . . unpleasantness . . .”

“Fucking wonderful.” Mercurio glared at Ashlinn. “And you’re responsible for it?”

“If it makes you feel better, Jess stabbed me first.” Ashlinn shrugged. “I just stabbed her last. And . . . repeatedly.”

“So what are you doing here?” the bishop demanded. “Mia got sent out seven turns ago to kill a braavi and steal a map. She comes back here with the most wanted traitor in Church history. Where do you fit into all of this?”

Ashlinn shrugged. “I have the map.”

“ . . . you had the map. it exploded, remember . . . ?”

The girl smirked. “You don’t think I’m stupid enough to let something that valuable go up in flames, do you, Mister Know-it-all?”

“You’d best start talking, then,” Mercurio growled.

“Aye,” Mia nodded. “Where did you get it? Where does it lead? And who are you working for? The braavi said you were selling the map to Cardinal Duomo.”

“He hired me to get it,” Ash said, leaning against the wall and folding her arms. “After the attack on the Church went tits up, da and I spent the next eight months dodging Blades sent to kill us. By the time da died, we’d burned most of our coin. Duomo and Remus plotted together to bring the Church down, so I knew how to get in touch with the cardinal. Turns out he was looking for someone with my . . . skill set.”

“For what? Back-talking and smartarsery?” Mercurio spat.

Ashlinn’s lips twisted in that maddening smirk. “Locks. Traps. Dark work. He’d learned of another way he might tip the balance and undo the Red Church once and for all. Without them in the way, he’d be free to take down Scaeva, install a pliant new consul, and have the pot for himself.”

Mia’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of ‘other way’?”

Ash shrugged. “He never said. I never asked. My job was to travel with a pack of sellswords and a bishop of Aa’s ministry. To a temple ruin on the north coast of Old Ashkah. That’s where we found the map. And . . . other things.”

“What kind of other things?” Mercurio asked.

Ashlinn’s face was stone, but Mia saw a sliver of fear in her eyes.

“The dangerous kind.”

“What happened to your comrades?”

The girl shrugged. “They didn’t make it.”

“So you came back to the ’Grave alone to sell the map to Duomo?” Mia asked.

Ash nodded. “The Toffs act as his middlemen. Duomo has the coin to carry a lot of people in his pocket. I didn’t know if he’d try to shiv me in the back, but I presumed the worst. I’m a loose end. One of the only people alive who knew the cardinal was working against Scaeva to take the Church down.”

“Well, someone knew Duomo is working with the Toffs,” Mercurio said. “And that the map was being delivered to them this eve. And that someone hired Mia to . . .

Mia met Mercurio’s stare. The old man’s eyes growing wide.

“You don’t think . . . ,” he began.

Mia searched the floorboards as if looking for a truth she’d dropped. Dragging her hair behind her ear. The sinking in his stomach reflected on her face.

“My patron for this offering requested me specifically,” she breathed. “‘She who slew the justicus of the Luminatii Legion.’ Or so the Ministry said. And I’ve offered up three others at the same patron’s request.”

“ . . . Who did you kill?”

“A senator’s son. Gaius Aurelius. The mistress of another Liisian Senator, Armando Tulli. And a Galante magistrate named Cicerii.”

“Black Mother,” Mercurio growled.

“What is it?” Ashlinn asked, looking between them.

“Gaius Aurelius was rumored to be planning a run for consul against Scaeva,” Mercurio said. “And Cicerii was planning an inquest into the constitutionality of Scaeva sitting a fourth term.”

Mia sank to her haunches, steadied herself against the flagstones. Eclipse coalesced beside her, Mister Kindly licking her hand with his insubstantial tongue.

“O, goddess . . . ,” she breathed.

“Scaeva is pulling people into line,” Mercurio realized. “Intimidating opponents or killing them. Making sure he’s elected again.”

“And I’ve been helping him . . . ,” Mia whispered.

“ . . . bastards . . .”

“Which means he knows Duomo is working against him. He knows whatever this map leads to is a threat to the Church, and he’s using the Church to eliminate it.”

“Protecting his little cult of assassins.” Ashlinn looked at Mia, shaking her head. “What did I tell you? Whores, all. And not content with helping to murder your father, the Church made you slit throats for the bastard responsible for his hanging. Solis. Mouser. Spiderkiller. Aalea. Drusilla. They need a killing, Mia. Every last one of them.”

“Scaeva.”

Mia spat the word like a mouthful of poison. Lips peeling back from her teeth. She glared at Ashlinn, slowly shaking her head.

“Scaeva and Duomo first.”

Ashlinn stepped forward, eyes glinting like steel.

“Duomo is probably at the Basilica Grande right now.”

Mia shook her head. “I can’t get in there. I tried once before. The trinities . . .”

“I can get him for you,” Ashlinn offered. “He might bathe with one about his neck, sleep with one under his damned pillow, there’s no trinity that can stop me. I steal inside and cut his throat, then we get Scaeva and the Ch—”

“No,” Mia said. “They’re mine. The pair of them.”

She rose slowly from the floor, black hair draped about a ghost-pale face.

“Those bastards are mine.”

“Hold, now,” Mercurio counseled. “Let’s not speak hasty.”

“Hasty?” Mia snarled. “The Red Church helped kill my father, Mercurio. Just as Scaeva and Duomo did. The Ministry are as guilty as the other two.”

“But why would the Red Church train you if they helped kill your father?”

“Maybe they thought I’d never find out? Maybe Cassius ordered them to train me, knowing I was darkin? Maybe that fucker Scaeva found it amusing? Or maybe they thought once I’d killed enough, grown cold enough, I just wouldn’t care anymore?”

The old man steepled his fingers at his chin, staring at the ledger.

“Feed someone to the Maw, you also feed it a part of yourself,” he murmured.

“Are you with me?” she asked.

He looked at the ledger. Scaeva’s name. The man who’d crafted himself a throne in a Republic that had rid themselves of their kings centuries ago. A man who thought himself above law, honor, morality. But truthfully, Mercurio himself had cast most of those aside himself, years ago. All in the name of faith.

“I’ve devoted my life to the Red Church,” the old man said.

Mia stepped forward, her eyes burning.

“Are you with me?”

The bishop of Godsgrave looked at his former pupil. She seemed carved of stone, jaw set, fists clenched in the soft arkemical glow. He searched those dark eyes, looking for something of the girl he’d taken under his wing for six long years. He’d been angry with her after she failed her initiation. After she failed him. But in truth, she’d been his daughter those six years. And she always would be.

The Church had already taken one father from her.

Could he let them take another?

“I’m with you.”

The answer hung in the room like a sword above their heads. Mercurio knew what it would mean, and where it would end. How big the foe they were pitting themselves against truly was.

“We have to do this unseen, Mia,” Mercurio said. “The Church can’t know it’s you when you get Scaeva, or they’ll retaliate. And you’ll have to get Duomo with the same stroke, or else he’s going to be ten times as hard to hit.”

“That’s the least of our problems,” Mia replied. “The Church are going to want me back. The dona is dead. Scaeva could have another offering for me.”

“They still don’t have the map,” Mercurio said. “I can weave a story. Say the map slipped your grasp, but you’re chasing it now. Strictly speaking, that could take months.”

“The Ministry won’t be pleased with that,” Ashlinn said.

“Fuck them,” Mia scowled. “The Ministry aren’t pleased with me anyway.”

“Wonderful,” Ashlinn said. “So now all we need do is ponder a way for you to murder a cardinal you can’t physically get close to, while at the same time killing the most highly guarded consul in the history of the Itreyan Republic.”

Mia and Mercurio were silent. The old man’s brow creased in thought. Mia’s eyes were narrowed, roaming the bookshelves and finding no answer along their spines. She turned her gaze to the other wall, Mercurio’s collection of weapons. The Luminatii sunsteel blade, the Vaanian battleaxe, the gladius from a gladiatii arena in Liis . . .

Her eyes narrowed further. The wheels behind them turning.

She glanced to her old teacher, her breath coming quick.

“What is it?” he asked.

Idiotic.

Insane.

Impossible.

“I think I have an idea . . .”

* * *

Thirteen gladiatii were gathered in a circle in the training yard. The walls of Crow’s Nest rose about them, banners of the Familia Remus fluttering in the rising wind. They’d arrived back from Blackbridge late, and it was near the turn of nevernight. But before evemeal, time would be taken to welcome their new brother and sister into their fold—the most sacred of rites, conducted here on the sacred ground of their collegium.

The votum vitus.

The twin suns beat down on the yard, and Mia felt sweat dripping down her bare belly and arms. She was on her knees in the circle, Sidonius beside her. Arkades stood before them, clad in a gleaming breastplate embossed with twin lions, scratched and scored from years of combat. Dona Leona watched from the balcony in a beautiful silken yellow gown. When she looked down at the executus, she smiled, and the sapphire of her eyes seemed to say, “I told you so.”

“Gladiatii,” the executus said. “We stand here on sacred ground, in sacred rite, to welcome these two proven warriors into our fold. We bind ourselves not with steel, but with blood. For blood we are, and blood we shall remain.”

“Blood we are,” came the voices around the circle. “And blood we shall remain.”

Executus drew a dagger from his belt, drew the blade across his palm, let the red drip upon the sand. And then he passed the blade to his left.

The Butcher of Amai took the dagger. He repeated the ritual, cutting his palm before passing it to Bladesinger. The woman looked Mia in the eye as she cut her palm. And so it went, around the thirteen. To the Vaanian twins, Bryn and Byern, the male Dweymeri Wavewaker, to the rest of the gladiatii in the circle, until finally, the bloody blade was passed to their champion, Furian, the Unfallen.

The Itreyan watched Mia with dark, clouded eyes, a new silver laurel resting on his brow. She’d watched him fight at Blackbridge, and his victory (“peerless,” the editorii had called him, “flawless”) had only inflamed her curiosity. She felt her shadow tremble as he cut his palm, mingling his blood with his gladiatii familia on the razored edge. He let the scarlet droplets fall to the sand, then walked across the circle to stand before Sidonius and Mia. Glancing from that handsome jaw, those burning eyes, down to the darkness at his feet, she saw his shadow was trembling too.

He stands in your way, she reminded herself.

All of them.

In your way.

“Blood we are,” he said, passing her the blade. “And blood we shall remain.”

Mia took the knife, her belly thrilling as her fingertips brushed his. And chiding herself for a fool, she turned to the executus, looked him in the eye.

“Not too deep,” he cautioned. “You will ruin your grip.”

Mia nodded, drawing the blade across her palm. The pain was bright and real, bringing all the world into focus. She was here. A blooded member of the collegium. Before her lay a desert of sand, an ocean of blood. But at the end, she saw Grand Cardinal Duomo in his beggar’s robes, no trinity about his throat. Consul Scaeva, reaching up to place the victor’s laurel upon her brow.

Her shadow, reaching toward theirs . . .

“Blood we shall remain,” she said.

Sidonius took the blade, cut his palm, and repeated the vow.

“Blood we shall remain.”

A rousing cheer went up around the circle. Executus motioned for Mia and Sidonius to rise, and the gladiatii closed in. Bladesinger smiled at Mia, and the Vaanian girl Bryn crushed her to her breast, whispering, “You fought well.” Butcher slapped her on the back so hard she almost fell over, the others offering their bloody hands or giving her friendly thumps on the arm. Only Furian held himself apart—but whether out of his lofty status as champion or the enmity between them, Mia had no idea.

“My Falcons,” came a voice from the balcony.

“Attend!” snapped the executus, and all eyes turned upward.

Dona Leona smiled at them like a goddess upon her children, arms spread wide. “Our victories at Blackbridge earn us yet more renown, and berth at the venatus four weeks hence in Stormwatch!”

The gladiatii cheered, and Sidonius wrapped his arm around Mia’s neck, squeezing as he bellowed. Mia laughed and pushed the big man off, but she couldn’t help but find her voice caught up among them.

“The contests shall only grow fiercer as we approach the magni. On the morrow, you return to training. But for now, never let it be said your domina does not reward your valor, or the honor you do her each time you take to the sands!”

Leona clapped her hands, and three servants wheeled a large barrel out among the tables and chairs on the verandah.

“Is that wine?” Sidonius breathed.

“Drink, my Falcons!” Leona smiled. “A toast to your new brother and sister. A toast to glory! And a toast to our many victories to come!”

* * *

Three hours later, as she lay down in her cell, Mia’s head was swimming.

She’d tried to drink frugally, but Sid had bellowed every time she slacked her pace, and every one of the other gladiatii seemed to drink as though their lives depended on it. It made perfect sense, she supposed—for folk who owned nothing, their lives at risk every time they took to the sands, a moment of respite and a full cup must seem like a paradise. And so, she’d done her best to play her role, drinking hard with her new familia and smiling at their praise.

The Dweymeri woman, Bladesinger, seemed to have taken a particular liking to her, though most of the collegium had a kind word. Her ploy in the arena—wearing the enemy’s colors and playing wounded to get close enough to bring them down—had struck most of her new kin as a stroke of small genius.

Bryn, the blond Vaanian girl, had raised her cup in toast.

“A fine ruse, little Crow.”

“Aye,” her brother Byern replied. “When I saw you clutching those guts and realized what you were up to, I almost shouted loud enough to give the game away.”

“Crow my arse,” Butcher had grinned. “We should call her the bloody Fox.”

“The Wolf,” Bladesinger smiled.

“The Snake,” came a voice.

All eyes had turned to Furian, glowering at the head of the table. Mia had met his stare, watched his lip curl in derision.

“Gladiatii fight with honor,” he’d said. “Not with lies.”

“Brother, come,” Bladesinger had said. “A victory won is a victory earned.”

“I am champion of this collegium,” the Unfallen had replied. “I say what is earned. And what is stolen.”

Bladesinger had glanced at the torc around Furian’s neck, the laurel at his brow, nodded acquiescence. The Unfallen returned to his cup, speaking no more. Festivities ended soon after, and in truth, Mia had been thankful. She wasn’t accustomed to so much wine, and a few more cups and she’d have been painting the walls.

She sat in her cell now, the bars slowly spinning. She’d heard that same singing from Bladesinger’s cell before the lights died, supposing it might be some sort of prayer. But now darkness had descended, all she could hear was the sound of sleep.

Sidonius was on his back snoring like a dying bull, pausing only long enough to fart so loud Mia felt it through the floor. She scowled and kicked the big Itreyan, who rolled over with a grumble.

“Fucking pig,” she cursed, covering her nose. “I need my own bloody cell.”

“ . . . i seldom find myself ungrateful that I do not need to breathe . . .”

Mia’s eyes widened as she heard the whisper.

“ . . . at this moment, doubly so . . .”

“Mister Kindly!”

“ . . . she cried, loud enough to wake the dead . . .”

Two black shapes coalesced from the shadows at the other end of the cell.

“ . . . IF THIS LUMP’S SNORING HASN’T DONE SO, NOTHING WILL . . .”

Mia grinned as the pair of daemons bounded up to her, diving into her shadow as if it were black water. A rush of soothing chill washed over her, rippling down the length of her body, leaving an iron calm in its wake. She felt Mister Kindly stalking across her shoulder, weaving among her hair without disturbing a single strand. Eclipse curled around Mia’s back, put her insubstantial head in the girl’s lap. Mia ran her hands through both of them, their shapes rippling like black smoke. She hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed them until she had them back.

“Black Mother, it’s good to see you two,” she whispered.

“ . . . I MISSED YOU . . .”

“ . . . o, please . . .”

“ . . . I MISSED THE MOGGY LESS . . .”

Mia ran her hands down the length of the shadowwolf’s body. There was no sensation of being able to touch her, but petting Eclipse was like petting a cool breeze.

“When did you arrive?”

“ . . . YESTERTURN. BUT YOU WERE NOT YET RETURNED FROM THE venatus . . .”

“ . . . things went well, i take it . . .”

“I’m not dead, if that counts for anything.”

Mister Kindly nuzzled against her ear, and Mia’s skin tingled. It felt like being kissed by cigarillo smoke.

“ . . . everything . . . ,” he whispered.

The trio sat in the gloom for a while, simply enjoying each other’s company. Mia curled her fingers through their gossamer bodies, felt any trace of the fear she’d felt over the past weeks fading to nothing. She’d done it, she realized. The first step toward Duomo’s and Scaeva’s throats was complete. And with her passengers beside her, the remaining steps seemed not so far at all.

“ . . . lovely as this is . . .”

“ . . . ALWAYS WE CAN COUNT UPON YOU TO SPOIL THE MOOD . . .”

“No, he’s right,” Mia sighed. “Is she waiting?”

“ . . . AYE . . .”

“Take me to her, then.”

Her passengers faded into the black. Mia felt them coalesce in the shadows of the antechamber, and just as she’d done the nevernight she visited Furian, she closed her eyes, reached into the dark. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the practice she’d had, but she found the Step a little easier this time, the sudden rush, the vertigo. Opening her eyes, she found the room spinning wildly, but she was in the shadow of the stairwell beside them.

Bending double, she retched a few cups’ worth onto the stone, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. She felt a few gladiatii stirring in the barracks, sinking back into the shadows and fighting the urge to vomit again. She clutched the wall to help it stop spinning. Wiping her hand across her lips, and spitting onto the stone.

“Black Mother, remind me not to do that when I’m half-drunk again.”

“ . . . COME . . .”

“ . . . the viper waits, mia . . .”

She glanced to the mekwerk control on the wall, pondering how it worked. On unsteady legs, she stole out through the keep, into the shadows of the verandah. Fang was sitting beneath a table, watching with curious eyes. As Mister Kindly and Eclipse flitted past, the dog’s hackles rose. Mia offered her hand to calm the mastiff, but with a low whimper, Fang scampered out of the room.

“ . . . dogs are fools . . .”

“ . . . SAYS THE FOOL WHO GOT LOST ON THE WAY UP HERE . . .”

“ . . . i was not lost, dear mongrel, i was exploring . . .”

“ . . . IT IS AN ENORMOUS KEEP ATOP A CLIFF OVERLOOKING THE WHOLE CITY, HOW DO—. . .”

“Hsst,” Mia hissed, ducking into an alcove. Swift footsteps marked the approach of the magistrae, a serving girl in tow. The pair were in deep discussion about travel arrangements to Stormwatch, the girl marking notes in a wax ledger. Mia waited ’til the pair were out of sight, slowly crept along the corridor to the front doors, open wide to cool sea breeze. Squinting against the sunslight, she peered out at the high keep walls, red stone against a sky of burning blue.

Gathering handfuls of shadows, Mia draped them about her shoulders. Her fingers were a little clumsy from the drink, but finally all the world was shrouded in muzzy black and muffled white, and she almost as blind as the turn she was born. With soft whispers, her two passengers guided her through the courtyard, past the patrolling guards and into a shadowed alcove just beside the main gates. And from there, she closed her eyes

and Stepped

into the

shadow

across

the road

Mia fell to her knees, clutching her belly and fighting the urge to vomit with all she had. After a few minutes in the dirt, she caught her breath, wiping tears from her eyes.

“ . . . are you well . . . ?”

“Next silly question, please,” she whispered.

“ . . . WE DO NOT HAVE TO SEE HER NOW . . .”

“No, we should. But we can’t be gone too long. They don’t rouse us ’til early morn, but if they somehow miss me in the nevernight . . .”

“ . . . THE WINE WILL KEEP YOUR CELLMATE DREAMING ’TIL THEN . . .”

“Still, we need to be swift.”

“ . . . it is not far . . .”

She rose on shaking legs and staggered along the dusty road, winding down the sheer hill upon which Crow’s Nest stood. Mia didn’t need Mister Kindly or Eclipse as much out here—she knew the road well enough to walk it blind. But she didn’t dare risk casting off her shadow cloak just yet. She was still clad as a gladiatii, and the twin circles branded at her cheek marked her as property. Though masters might often walk in the company of armed warrior slaves, it would be a rarity to see one wandering alone. Best to remain hidden, and avoid questions entirely.

Mia could hear the sea to the south, the ringing of port bells below, smell the familiar scents of the town in the keep’s shadow. Known as Crow’s Rest, it was home to three or four thousand—a bustling trade port that had sprung up under the keep’s protection. The buildings were red stone and white plaster, crammed together on the steep hillsides leaning down to the water. The air rang with the song of gulls.

Her passengers led her into the tangled warren of dockside. She threw off her cloak here, stole down twisted alleys, ripe with garbage and salt air. They arrived at a small alehouse, Mister Kindly nodding to the guest rooms above.

“ . . . second floor, third window . . .”

Mia glanced about to ensure all was clear, and began to climb. She reached the second-floor terraces, slipped over the iron railing, rapped once upon the glass.

The window opened and she stole inside, quiet as whispers.

Mia’s eyes took a moment to adjust after the sunslight outside. But finally she saw a figure dropping herself into an old divan, stretching long legs out before her. She was dressed in black, leather britches and a short leather corset, a long-sleeved shirt of dark silk beneath. She’d dyed her hair to cover the telltale blond, now as bloody-red as Jessamine’s had been. But there was no mistaking those eyes.

The girl leaned back in her chair, looked Mia up and down.

“Hello, beautiful,” she smiled.

“Hello, Ashlinn,” Mia replied.