I snatch up the vial Sephine dropped and give it a tentative sniff. Instantly, I wish I hadn’t. Noxious fumes sting my nose and eyes more than the smoke billowing around us.

I rock back on to my heels. What is this stuff?

Surely it’s not … poison?

If it’s an inhalant, it’s probably too late. Still, I turn away and hold a finger to my nose, blowing from either nostril in case there’s any chance of getting it out.

But why would the Scent Keeper poison the Prince? More to the point, why would she poison herself? I’ve heard of people killing themselves after committing terrible crimes, but Sephine? History shows she’s made of sterner stuff.

No time to ponder. If the barked orders of the palace guard officers are anything to go by, they’ll be here in a whiff.

I think about slipping the vial into my satchel. But something tells me this isn’t going to end well, not least of all the way the Shield staggered off with the unconscious Prince in his arms, so I’m sure as stink not letting them find me with this. I place the vial on the cloth I’d been using against the smoke and tie it tight against my upper thigh, then pull my shift back into place.

Just in time, too. One moment I’m alone in the garden, crouched over the Scent Keeper’s lifeless body, the next I’m being surrounded by a group of guards.

“On your feet, girl.” The stone-jawed officer’s tone warns against argument.

Something tells me it’s not the time to put that to the test. I clamber upright and reach for my satchel.

“I’ll be taking that.”

Oh, that’s too far. “In the sixth hell you will. On what grounds?”

“Evidence.” He retrieves the satchel, then straightens, sizing me up like I’m simple, but possibly dangerous. Like he can’t decide if I’m a pet or a rabid stray. “Now walk.”

I do as I’m told.

The guards march me down the stairs toward the palace. Fires still glow in the hedges and dahkai plantation, though they seem to be under control. Buckets of water are being passed along a line of servants and soldiers alike, dousing the flames with greater efficiency than the earlier chaos.

Half the Aphorain court seems to have assembled outside the palace. The Rangers who arrived with the imperial delegation are there, too, as is the Commander and the Prince’s prickly little valet.

There’s too much commotion to pick up any single conversation, but the words being uttered over and over by the gathering crowd send a chill through me.

Prince.

Assassin.

Treason.

A familiar face emerges from the throng of guards. Barden’s jaw is tight, his usually smiling mouth set in a grim line. “Seems you’re making a habit of getting arrested lately.”

“You think I had something to do with this?” Is that an officer’s sash? How much butt sniffing did he do for such a swift promotion?

He shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know these days?”

I’ve always thought spitting a filthy habit, so even I’m shocked when the glob of saliva splatters across Barden’s face.

He draws close enough that I can see his cheek shine in the torchlight, see the warring anger and hurt in his eyes, smell the amber, the sweet orange oil, the tanner’s thyme that still permeates the leather of his uniform. He fondles the cuff of my shift. Stench of stenches, what is he going to do?

He takes my wrist and raises it, using my sleeve to wipe his face. I struggle to break free, my fingers curled into a fist that wants nothing more than to punch the same cheek.

Then the Commander’s towering presence is there, a sandstorm of fury in his eyes. “Get her out of here,” he orders his Rangers. “I’ll question her later.”

One of his men takes Barden’s place with a nod. “We can manage from here.”

Barden steps back like the good little guard boy he is. The Ranger begins to manhandle me away, pinning my arms behind me like a trussed sandgrouse ready for the ovens.

I take a last glance over my shoulder before we begin the descent into the catacombs below the Eraz’s manse. Barden is conferring with several of the imperial Rangers. He doesn’t spare a look after me.

He’s made his choice, distancing himself from the first whiff of suspicion.

So much for loyalty.