“Aha!” called a tenor voice to Aeduan’s left. “There you are.” Leopold fon Cartorra hopped gracefully from a shadow—leaving Aeduan to wonder how he’d missed the fair-haired, green-clad prince lurking beside the bookcase.

Or for that matter, how he’d missed smelling the prince. Aeduan had recorded the imperial heir’s blood-scent at the ball: new leather and smoky hearths. Aeduan should have sensed it here.

His confusion was quickly swallowed up by a second voice and a second figure materializing from the shadows. Somehow Aeduan had missed this man too—which only irritated him more. Especially since this second man was at least a hand taller than anyone else in the room.

“You know about my niece,” the man slurred. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were red as embers, and his breath …

Aeduan’s nose wrinkled up. The man smelled stronger of wine than wine itself. It even dominated his blood-scent.

“Come, Monk,” Leopold urged, motioning toward his still-bellowing uncle. “We were told you have information on my uncle’s betrothed. You must tell us everything, and … oh, hey now.” Leopold had caught sight of his sleeve, which was dusted in soot. With a dejected sigh, he brushed halfheartedly at it. “I suppose this is what I get for wearing pale velvet into a world of ash. I imagine my hair is just as bad.”

It was—the reddish blond was almost gray—yet Aeduan did not utter a word about it. “The Emperor,” he reminded tersely.

“Right. Of course.” Leopold shoved unapologetically around soldiers and servants. Aeduan followed, and the drunkard—who Aeduan had deduced was Dom Eron fon Hasstrel—dragged behind.

“You know who has my niece,” the man said. “Tell me—tell me everything you know.” He grabbed for Aeduan’s cloak.

Aeduan easily sidestepped. Which left Dom Eron staggering toward the Emperor. Then into the Emperor. Henrick shoved Eron back with a snarl before his eyes landed on Aeduan. His lips curled up.

So this is the Emperor of Cartorra, Aeduan thought. He’d seen the man from afar last night, yet he’d never stood close enough to distinguish all the pockmarks on Henrick’s cheeks. Nor to see the single tooth that thrust out farther than all the rest. It jutted over his upper lip when his mouth was closed, much like a dog.

A very pissed off dog.

“Who has the domna?” Henrick asked. Despite being at least six inches shorter than Aeduan, the Emperor’s voice was full and deep. It was the sort of voice for yelling over cannons, and Aeduan smelled a hint of the battlefield on the Emperor’s blood. “Tell us what you know,” Henrick went on. “Was it the thrice-damned Marstoks?”

“No,” Aeduan answered carefully. Slowly. He needed to make sure no one knew that Safiya was a Truthwitch. Likely the uncle knew … though perhaps not. Aeduan suspected a man like Eron would shamelessly use a Truthwitch given the chance.

“See?” breathed the Doge. “I told you it wasn’t Vaness!” He tapped frantically at something on his desk. “The Empress’s signature would have vanished if it was they who had committed this!”

Aeduan’s lips pressed tight as he realized he stared upon the Twenty Year Truce. Or rather, the final page of it, where all the continental leaders had signed. He found Vaness’s childlike scrawl—she’d only been a girl when she’d penned her signature—was still firmly scripted at the bottom of the page. Either the Truce’s magic was broken, or the Nubrevnans hadn’t taken this domna against her will.

Aeduan turned back to Emperor Henrick. “The Nubrevnans have the domna. I saw them carry her to sea.”

A collective jaw-slackening settled around the room. Even Henrick looked as if he’d swallowed something foul.

“But,” Prince Leopold began, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb, “it was a Marstoki Firewitch who burned the palace to a crisp. And”—he glanced at Henrick, as if for support—“the Marstoks have left Veñaza City. The Empress and her entire Sultanate vanished shortly after the party. That suggests guilt to me.”

“Yes,” the Doge said with a nervous steepling of his hands, “but so did the Nubrevnans. They left right after the first dance between…”

“Between the prince and my niece,” Eron finished, standing a bit straighter than before. “Sodding Nubrevnans! I will crush them—”

“There will be no crushing,” Henrick grumbled with a disgusted glare. He angled toward Aeduan. “Tell us what you saw, Monk. All of it.”

Aeduan did nothing of the sort. In fact, he glossed over almost every detail and skipped ahead to the only thing that mattered: the fight between a Nubrevnan Windwitch and Carawen monks at the lighthouse. “He took the domna to sea with his winds,” Aeduan finished. “I could not follow.”

Henrick nodded thoughtfully, the Doge blinked furiously behind his spectacles, Dom Eron seemed to have no idea what Aeduan was talking about, and Leopold simply eyed Aeduan with sleepy disinterest.

“How did you follow the girl to the lighthouse?” Henrick asked. “With your witchery?”

“Yes.”

Henrick grunted, and a tiny smirk thrust out his fang. “And can you use your power again? Even across the Jadansi?”

“Yes.” Aeduan tapped out a vague beat on his sword pommel. “I will follow her for a price.”

Henrick’s nostrils fluttered. “What sort of price?”