Hours after cantfall, Lorelei stood in the rotunda of the Curia Ancrata, the one-time home of Ancris’s senate, now a preferred locale for state functions. The striking fresco on the massive dome overhead depicted Alra at the edge of a cliff, holding a gleaming spear. At her feet lay Faedryn, eyes wide, one hand raised against the impending blow.
The fete in the city’s catacombs would follow the celebration, but Lorelei and Creed couldn’t enter it without specially marked dragonbone coins. Skylar hadn’t had enough time to secure any, which meant Lorelei and Creed needed to find some on their own.
Hundreds of masked men and women—senators, magistrates, landowners, and magnates—milled about the curia’s open space. The women wore gowns. The men wore doublets with surcoats or half capes. The masks were an ancient custom, a nod to the conventional wisdom that man was blind compared to the goddess. That celebrations of military conquests used symbology so similar to the illustrae and their masks was recognition that it was the goddess, not the quintarchs, who brought victory to the empire’s armies.
A few military officers also attended: legates from the army, trierarchs from the navy, volarchs from the dragon legion. They wore crisp uniforms, but no masks—soldiers, the old chestnut went, received glimpses of Alra’s wisdom through the blood they spilled, and thus were more clear-eyed than the common man.
The gown Skylar had arranged for Lorelei had a crimson bodice, golden sleeves, and a flared collar. Her mask, fashioned after a vixen fox, was embroidered with tiny pearls to accentuate the eyes, snout, and ears. She’d dyed her hair with black henbane, transforming it from its normal flame red to a muted brown. She’d hardly recognized herself in a mirror, yet worried constantly that someone else would. Her breath was short, and every time someone looked at her, she moved to another part of the rotunda.
When a leggy nobleman seemed to be following her, she moved in front of the stage at the center of the room and pretended to be entranced by the four female Syrdian singers in robes standing on it. They had bone-white hair in tight braids, golden torcs around their necks, and broad bracelets covering their forearms.
Lorelei had her back to the crowd, and suddenly the nobleman was standing next to her. “Would you care for some wine?”
“My husband’s already fetching me some.”
The nobleman walked away, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Soon, she found herself enthralled by the Syrdian singers. Their soaring harmonies raised goosebumps along her arms. She didn’t imagine the women had come willingly, and even if they had, how could traveling to Ancris and singing for their conquerors be anything but shameful?
As their song ended, a bell rang, and they were led away. The guests turned their attention to Quintarch Lucran, standing on a dais at the other end of the room, holding a goblet. He was striking in his circlet-of-state and shimmering blue-white tunic. Standing side by side behind him were Tyrinia and Skylar in silver gowns embroidered with thread-of-gold. All three wore masks noticeably smaller than those of their guests.
Lucran stepped to the edge of the dais and gave a speech in honor of the sacrifices made by the military, but Lorelei listened with only half an ear. Her fellow inquisitor, Nanda, was standing near the dais in a canary yellow mask and a marigold dress. Lorelei recognized her pert chin, her full lips. It seemed curious that she would be at the ceremony. Though the inquisitors were not enemies of the military, the two organizations had always had a cold relationship, mainly because it was the duty of the special office in the Department of Inquisitors that investigated and charged soldiers for misconduct. Praefectus Damika might be extended an invitation to a celebration such as this, but the rank and file inquisitors most certainly would not.
On the dais, Lucran raised his goblet. “To our glorious victory.”
The assemblage echoed, “To our glorious victory!”
“To the might of the empire,” Lucran intoned.
“To the might of the empire!”
“To Alra’s blinding truth.”
With the final pronouncement, the guests closed their eyes and bowed their heads for a respectful moment of silence. Then Lucran continued, “Many preparations must still be made for the coming council in Glaeyand, so I take my leave, but I bid you all enjoy your evening.”
The guests applauded, and Lucran bowed and shared a quiet word with Tyrinia. In that moment, Skylar looked at Lorelei and nodded. Then Skylar left the rotunda with her father and several praetorian guardsmen trailed behind them.
Lorelei was just about to head outside to meet up with Creed when she spotted Vashtok approaching the table where Nanda was sitting. She thought there must be some innocent explanation why they were there, but when they left together through the rear entrance that led to the maze and the Sanctum of the Eternal Flame, Lorelei began to strongly doubt it.
Lorelei followed them to the patio. Overhead, Nox was approaching its zenith. The glimmer of the palisade made the stars and the dark sun waver ever so slightly. Beyond the patio, lanterns bordered the promenade to the Sanctum of the Eternal Flame, turning the gravel path into a river of gold. Nanda and Vashtok were strolling along the promenade.
Lorelei rushed down the steps and caught up to them near the entrance to the hedge maze. “Nanda, Vashtok, I would speak with you a moment.”
Both inquisitors froze, then turned to face Lorelei.
Nanda’s eyes narrowed behind her bright yellow mask. “Lorelei? What are you doing here?”
Lorelei motioned to the hedge maze. “We need to talk. Privately . . .”
Nanda shook her head. “For your own good, Lorelei, turn yourself in. Now.”
“Are those your words,” Lorelei asked, “or Tyrinia’s?”
Had Nanda and Vashtok not been headed toward the entrance to the catacombs, Lorelei might have thought they were there just to hear the quintarch speak, but they were headed there, which implied they had been invited by Tyrinia.
“We’re thinking of you, Lorelei,” Vashtok said. “And your mother. She’s worried about you.”
“Where is she?”
“Come to the Crag and we’ll sort that all out.”
Lorelei wanted desperately to see her mother, but Vashtok’s offer was a ruse. He wanted to get Lorelei where he and Nanda could trap her. When a small crowd on the patio burst into laughter, Lorelei glanced back. “We need to talk,” she repeated and headed toward the maze. She thought Nanda and Vashtok might refuse, then she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her.
Lorelei led them to the pool at the center of the maze. “How long have you been working for Tyrinia?” Lorelei asked.
Nanda glanced around, then whispered, “The department is in an uproar. You know that, don’t you? The quintarch no longer trusts Damika. Vashtok and I reached out to Tyrinia to try to smooth things over. She invited us here so we could start to rebuild the bridges you burned. That’s all this is.”
“Your chat with the Domina,” Lorelei said. “Were you planning on having it at the Sanctum?”
Nanda smiled. “We were out for a stroll. The curia was too crowded. Surely you of all people can sympathize.”
“Let me check your coats and purses, then. If neither of you has a catacomb token, I’ll tell you more.”
“Listen to yourself,” Nanda said. “We’re your friends. We’re trying to help you. Come with us to the Crag. We’ll help you navigate things. We’ll protect you, Lorelei, as much as we can.”
“How long have you been feeding Tyrinia information? That’s how she learned I was at the fire so quickly, wasn’t it? It’s how she found out I took Rylan from the Crag.”
“Alra’s sweet, loving grace,” Vashtok said, “do you even remember who you work for?”
“I do, and I remember what our job is. It’s to stop drugs from entering our city and, above all, to protect its citizens. It isn’t to look the other way so our matriar—”
“Enough.” Nanda grabbed her elbow. “You’re coming with us, Lorelei.”
No sooner had she said it than Creed appeared behind them as planned.
Nanda gaped at him, and Lorelei jerked her elbow away. Then she pulled a cloth soaked with a sleeping agent from the purse at her belt.
Creed rushed forward, ducked a hurried blow from Vashtok, slipped an arm around Vashtok’s neck, and clamped a similar cloth over his mouth and nose.
Nanda stepped toward Creed and Vashtok; Lorelei jumped her from behind and pressed the wet cloth to her nose and mouth. Nanda managed a strangled cry. Lorelei looked around, but no one else seemed to be near them. Vashtok went limp, and Creed lowered him gently to the ground. Nanda struggled, but Lorelei held her in a headlock and pressed the cloth harder against Nanda’s face. A few seconds later, Nanda slumped to the ground.
Creed stood over Vashtok and shook his head. “It just keeps getting worse.” They’d planned on luring two random fete-goers into the maze, not a pair of inquisitors. “Never imagined I’d be going to war with the people I work with.” He rifled through Vashtok’s coat. “Nothing . . .”
“I couldn’t let them go.” Lorelei took Nanda’s purse and upended it. “They would’ve recognized us.” A few personal effects fell out—a kerchief, a lilac sachet, some imperial coins—but no catacomb tokens. Lorelei worried they’d been telling the truth, but then she squeezed Nanda’s purse and in a secret pocket she found two dragonbone coins. She tilted one into the light. Etched onto the surface was a dragon’s head with long, twisting horns.
She handed one of the coins to Creed, and he grumbled, “I hope this bloody works.”
“Me too,” Lorelei said, “or the Anvil will have a fresh pair of burn marks come reckoning.”