Maya held her breath until he was out of sight, trying to think. Ten squads is a big part of the garrison. That implied that Raskos thought Yora and Halfmask were a serious threat. So why doesn’t he want us “blundering about”?

She glanced around the doorway again. The torn envelope was still on the desk. I shouldn’t. But …

Before she could talk herself out of it, she slipped into the room. There was a sheet of folded paper still on the desk beside the envelope. Maya reached out, then hesitated. The dux just left it here. So how secret can it be? Jaedia probably would not have approved of that logic, but for the moment it quieted Maya’s pangs of conscience. She flattened the sheet with her hand.

She was almost immediately disappointed. It was written in neat, block capitals, on good paper, but the letters spelled only nonsense. Ciphered. Beq had mentioned that. No wonder Raskos doesn’t worry about anyone reading his mail. She glanced at the hearth. He must have burned the legible copy—

Maya paused. It had been a hot day, and the servants had only laid a small fire after dark. Flames leapt from the front of the hearth, but the back was dark and gray with soot. He threw it pretty hard. So maybe …

She touched her haken and closed her hand, and the fire went out. Yes! Wedged in the back of the grate was a small wad of paper, slightly singed but otherwise untouched. Maya knelt to dig it out, careful to avoid getting ash on her uniform. Excitement warred with guilt as she pocketed the crumpled page, straightened up, and reignited the fire with another brief touch to her haken.

Slipping back out into the corridor, she rounded a corner and found herself faced with a couple of footmen. Maya flagged one down.

“Yes, Agathios?” the man said with a bow.

“I was looking for the party,” Maya explained, “but now I think I’m feeling a bit poorly after all. Do you think you could direct me to my room?”

“Of course,” he said. “Follow me.”

Maya followed, fingering the stolen letter, heart thumping hard.

Chapter 10

The sketch on the table was growing more elaborate by the moment. It had begun as a simple outline of Raskos’ private warehouse, an unassuming square building with a sloped roof and high, small windows. Then Nevin had started adding annotations in colored pencil, with accompanying mutters.

“Screamers here, here, and here. Reverser coils behind the walls here. Thread ward on the doors. Windows …”