“Remy,” Harkan said, “why don’t you go collect your things?”

“I’m not stupid,” Remy muttered. “Just tell me to leave so you can talk.”

“Fine. Leave so we can talk.”

When Remy had gone, Harkan took Eliana’s hand.

“Tell me you’re not making a terrible mistake, trusting this man,” he said quietly.

A thrill of nervousness rippled through her at the grave expression on his face. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Good. Because then I’d know you were lying.”

Despite herself, she smiled, and when Harkan finally grinned back at her, she cupped his face in her hands and brought him down gently for a kiss. With his hands warm against her bare back, Eliana could almost believe this was just another night—going to a party with Harkan, dancing and flirting and coming home with a job.

“We will find her, El.” Harkan kissed her temple and let her go, his eyes soft on her face. “But first—”

“First,” she said, trying on a smile, “I have a party to attend.”

• • •

In the Evening Ballroom of Lord Arkelion’s palace, only a handful of small candles dotted the room, and the shivering floor spun with dancers. Large windows opened into the night, letting in the river breeze.

Eliana pretended to sip her wine and scanned the room, counting the motionless figures around the perimeter—adatrox. Twenty of them.

Her mouth thinned. On a normal night, upward of five hundred adatrox patrolled the enormous palace and its sprawling grounds. But tonight there would be close to a thousand.

She continued counting. Thirty. Thirty-five. Mostly men, a few women. Dark and pale. Black cloaks and gray surcoats and blank-eyed stares that could turn murderous in an instant.

An idol to the Emperor towered in a corner of the ballroom. Eliana, glaring at it, sent a quick prayer to Saint Tameryn of the Old World, the legendary shadowcaster and the patron saint of Astavar. The Empire could raze their temples to the ground and tear down their statues, but they could not police the prayers inside her head.

Hide me, Tameryn, she prayed, lady of swiftness and illicit deeds.

If, that is, you ever actually existed.

Chiming tones floated in from the city’s central plaza—the clock tower, striking midnight.

Eliana waited five minutes before drifting across the ballroom, smiling and making excuses whenever someone asked her for a dance. She made her way through the maze of candlelit sitting rooms surrounding the ballroom, keeping one eye on the adatrox patrolling the hallways. Then she slipped into a narrow servants’ passage and followed the winding stone stairs to the palace’s lower levels—the infirmary, the servants’ quarters, the kitchens.

Any servants she passed knew her well enough to look the other way.

As she rounded the corner into a hallway stacked with crates of vegetables and sacks of flour, a tingle of nerves climbed up her spine.

If this was all some elaborate trap of Simon’s, if he betrayed her at the last minute and abandoned Remy and Harkan to certain death…well. She wouldn’t be beaten without taking him down with her.

She paused, listened to the bustle of the kitchens to make sure no one was approaching, then opened a heavy, locked door that led to a small stone supply yard.

Simon slipped inside, wearing the adatrox uniform Eliana had stolen for him. In the fitted surcoat, with the winged shield of the Empire emblazoned on his chest, he could have passed for one of the silent soldiers—except for that sharp light in his eyes and the way he moved. Sinuous and graceful, with none of the adatrox’s stiffness.

“At last,” he said dryly. “I was beginning to worry.”

“I find that unlikely.” She shut the door and swept past him, noticing with savage delight how his eyes trailed down her body. That could be useful later. “Let’s move.”

She led him through the cramped servants’ passages up to the third floor, where they emerged into the palace proper. The deep-piled carpets muffled their steps. Music drifted through windows open to the vast gardens below.

In the north wing, the walls turned red, the moldings ornate. Gas lamps burned in jeweled casings; the air smelled of perfume. They turned a corner into a portrait gallery of black-eyed generals. At one end of the corridor hung a painting of the Emperor himself.

Eliana’s heart pounded. She had never been in the north wing before. She couldn’t shake the childish fear that the Emperor’s painted black eyes were following her every step.

“Well,” she said, “we’re here. Now it’s your turn.”

Simon slipped past her. “Watch and learn, little Dread.”

“Call me ‘little’ again and I’ll punch you.”

A smile twitched at his mouth. “You know just how to entice me.”

“Have you forgotten? My punches hurt.”

“Forgotten? In fact, I relish the memory.”

She scowled, but then they reached a set of wooden doors marked by an engraving of a naked woman, her cascading waves of hair masking her face, and Eliana froze.

“The maidensfold?” She shot a look at Simon. Female concubines lived in this tower, their male counterparts in the south wing. “Why?”

“There’s a girl inside,” Simon explained, taking hold of Eliana’s arm. “Cover me while I retrieve her. Try not to get hurt. I won’t have you slowing me down.”

Eliana bristled. As though he stood a chance of navigating back down through the castle without her.

“Follow my lead,” said Simon, knocking on the door.

Eliana nodded, ready to grab Arabeth from the slit in her skirt.

The doors opened, revealing two adatrox. Men. One pale, one dark.

Their brows furrowed to see Simon. He shoved Eliana into the foyer. She kept her eyes obediently on the floor, her heart pounding.

“What’s this?” asked one of the adatrox.

“Special delivery,” Simon answered smoothly, before pulling his sword from his belt and gutting both of them. They dropped to the floor. Simon kicked the door shut behind him.

A girl passing by the foyer, clad in gauzy silks, ran off shouting warnings.

More adatrox rounded the corner. Simon ran at them, Eliana right on his heels. He took out one of the adatrox with a swift punch and a swipe of his blade.

Eliana leapt at the other. The adatrox lunged at her, sword in hand. She sidestepped his thrust, stabbed him in the throat. He thudded to the floor, choking. Then his clouded gaze fell on her face—and darkened. Sharpened.