Despite the rain, the bazaars are full, and children run past with barbecued kebab skewers and bread slathered with honey and ice plum jam. Dozens of merchants who have returned to the city call out their wares. Scores of people greet Livia and me with flowers and smiles, while glaring at Kinnius with hard suspicion. He has the decency to at least look chagrined.

When I’m certain Livia has the man well in hand, I return to my quarters in the palace. They are small and east-facing, unlike Livia and Zacharias’s expansive rooms, which, though only a few minutes away, face the Nevennes. The drop from their windows is a sheer fifty feet, while I’m on the ground floor. But my doors are unguarded, while Livia has four Masks outside hers.

“Why,” Dex says when he finds me a few minutes after I arrive, “do you not have guards at your door?”

“We need city patrols,” I say. “And the Empress Regent requires a full complement. I can handle myself. What news?”

“Our spy has returned from Adisa,” Dex says. “He’s outside, waiting to deliver a report. And this arrived from the Tribes.” He hands me an envelope. “Also, Darin of Serra has requested a private audience.”

“Send him in,” I say. “And find Musa. I promised him if I heard from Adisa, he’d be the first to know.”

Darin enters after I’ve heard from our spy and read the message from the Tribal lands.

“Laia contacted me,” he says. “She needs aid, Shrike. And I’m going to her.”

I briefly consider protesting—we still require more weapons. Armor. But the glint in Darin’s eyes tells me that he will not be swayed.

“I requested that you wait until we had taken Antium,” I say. “You waited. I won’t stop you. But I will ask that you go with the troops I’m sending.” I hold up the missive I’ve just received. “I heard from Laia too. The Tribes have agreed to support Emperor Zacharias in exchange for a renegotiation of their tithes and our military support. Five hundred men and two Ankanese sappers.”

“That’s quite an escort, Shrike.”

“If anything happens to you, it’s my throat your sister will tear out.”

Darin laughs. “She will indeed.” I wish suddenly that we had met when we were younger. That he could have been a brother to me too. He is, I think, a good brother.

“Give her my best,” I tell him. “And tell her I hope she’s practicing her bow.”

After he leaves, I congratulate myself on resolving the issue so neatly. But then Musa of Adisa arrives. He’s followed by Corporal Tibor, the spy we sent to the Mariner capital who has already given me his report.

“I could not get through to Marinn,” Tibor says. “And I couldn’t reach our people inside. No one can get in. I took the northern route, past Delphinium and out through Nerual Lake. As soon as I got to the Mariner coast, the weather was so bad I had to turn back.”

“Was it bad up until that point?” Musa’s chiseled face is as tense as I’ve ever seen it, and Tibor shakes his head.

“Gray skies, a bit of snow. Typical for late winter. But the seas raged near Adisa. I tried to get through. But I ran into a dozen others who said their ships couldn’t so much as approach the coastline. I thought it was more important to tell you than to keep trying and failing.”

When Tibor has left, I turn to the Scholar. His arms are crossed to hide his clenched fists.

“Does Marinn usually have storms so bad that the kingdom is completely cut off?”

“Never. And I’ve tried to spy on the Commandant, to see if this is the Nightbringer’s handiwork. But there are jinn all over the south, and the wights refuse to go near them.”

“My spies are more afraid of me than they are of jinn.” I rise, because if I’m going to rally five hundred troops to travel south, I must tell the Empress. Musa follows me out the door and into the busy hallway.

A window stands open and I breathe in Antium’s scents. Rain and mountain pine, roasting meat and clay-oven flatbread drizzled with butter and cinnamon. I glance out at the gardens, where a dozen Masks patrol. Amid the drizzle, Dex walks with Silvius, their shoulders touching as they pass a cup of some steaming drink back and forth. The wind carries the sound of Dex’s laugh, rich and joyful.

What would it be like to walk with Harper that way? To share a mug of cider. To touch him without feeling like I will come apart?

“Shrike?”

I snap back to Musa. “I’ll send my own spies south to infiltrate Keris’s network,” I say. “We’ll get news soon. I promise. I hate unsolved puzzles. I have too many as it is.”

“More?” Musa says. “Do tell.”

“Just the blather the Karkauns were spewing. Ik tachk mort fid iniqant fi. Haven’t been able to get a translation of it, but—”

“‘Death wakes the great sea,’” Musa translates, nodding a greeting to a group of Scholars as they pass. “Or—no, wait. ‘Death feeds the great sea.’”

I stop in the middle of the hall, ignoring the irritated grunt of a Mask who nearly runs into me. “Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Karkaun?”

“You didn’t ask.” Musa keeps walking, and now I am trying to keep pace with him. “The Mariners used to trade with the barbarians, before Grímarr became their high muckety-muck. The crown felt that Nikla’s prince consort should speak the languages of her trading partners.”

“Is that how you learned to fight too?” I ask. “Because Quin Veturius gives out compliments once a decade or so. If he’s feeling generous.”

“Perhaps that’s why I like him.” Musa stares off thoughtfully. “My grandfather taught me to fight. He was a palace guard. Saved old King Irmand’s life when he was a boy. Got a beekeeping estate for his trouble. My father became a healer, but I spent more time with the bees. I think they both thought training would toughen me up.”

“Did it?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He grins suddenly, and I turn to see Harper coming down the hallway. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s rain in his hair and glistening along his cheekbones. No distractions, Shrike. Do not stare at his forearms—or his face—

“Shrike, Musa.” He doesn’t slow, or even meet my eyes, and then he’s past. After he turns the corner I realize two things: First, that my heart is thudding so loud, I’m stunned people aren’t turning to stare at me. And second, that Musa is staring at me.

“You know—” he begins, but I wave him off.

“Do not,” I say, “give me some sad story about love and loss and your broken heart.”