At the Warden’s side sat a reedy man in a waist-length white coat and black breeches that flapped in the wind. His silver hair was combed over a balding pate. Anji thought she’d never seen a man with a face so set in a grimace, like everything he saw was the color and smell of shit. His eyes were a purple so dark and brilliant they seemed to dim the light of day. A Maxia, so infused with time’s mysterious essence it was impossible to guess his true age. He looked into Anji’s eyes, and she felt the wind that had been buffeting them settle for an instant before picking back up again.

The Warden leaned over and whispered something in his ear, still glaring at Anji and the masked woman as the wagon came to a stop.

The Hawk stepped forward with a palm raised high, but she kept her other hand close to her belt. She dipped her mask and ran a slender finger down the middle of its face.

“Warmth to you, Illuminess,” she said, her mask muffling her voice. “My heart lifts to see a Warden of Sun so far—”

“You travel without your companions, Hawk,” said the Warden, her voice cutting the air like a knife. “Explain. And know you speak before Illuminess Hectate, Fifth Column Cleric of the Sun Wardens, under the One’s ever-watching eye.”

Anji chanced a glance at the Hawk, who inclined her head and went on with even more deference.

“My superior was ordered by High Cleric Escadora to dispatch the Menagerie, Illuminess. As to my traveling alone, it serves only to bolster the Menagerie’s precision and efficiency. To better spread Their Warmth.”

“Indeed,” said Hectate. “You have proof of this order?”

The Hawk produced a thick piece of folded vellum, atop which she placed a wad of Rhoda fastened into a shining silver clip.

Both figures atop the cart might have been statues for all they moved. After an interminable period of stillness and silence that made Anji want to scream, however, the Warden held out a hand.

The Maxia muttered a strange, complex series of words. The slip of paper and the Rhoda floated out of the Hawk’s fingers, across the space between them, and into Hectate’s waiting palm.

Without acknowledgment of the sheer amount of money the Hawk had just handed over, the Warden slipped the Rhoda into her robes and unfolded the paper, her eyes darting across the surface. After a moment of windy silence, she creased the vellum and tossed it spinning back to the Hawk, who snatched it out of the air.

“Your prisoner,” said the Warden, “of what is he accused?”

“I cannot say, Illuminess,” said the Hawk, her mask twitching toward Anji, who took an involuntary step back.

The Warden’s eyes widened. She drew herself up straighter and said, “You dare withhold information from me?”