Pippa watches with curious suspicion. All my fears return. They’ve stopped on the road in the middle of the night. What will they do with me, out here in the desert?

An official sets a hand on my shoulder as I exit. He leads me forward without violence, but it waits like a promise in his open palm. If I resist or flee, he won’t hesitate to punish me. A second flanks my opposite side. It’s never a fair fight with the Ashlords.

Other officials wait in the distance. The riders watch from their carriage windows, some curious and others simply bored. A new carriage sits in the road ahead. I note the three men standing in front of the unwelcome carriage. Their uniforms mark them well.

The Quespo.

Ashlord society has employed the question-police ever since the war. They’re the subtle threat that lurks in every tavern, a network of spies. As the officials lead me over, I note the insignias on each breast. Two of them are interrogators in the Ashlord army. One’s a police general. None of them are good news.

My eyes search the night. I wonder how far I could get before they caught me. One of the Quespo steps forward and speaks. It’s the only thing that stops me from breaking the hand on my back. It’s a voice that I know, because Antonio made me memorize it. The man’s uniform has changed, but he looks exactly as he did in the wine cellar. An Ashlord who styles his hair in a faux-hawk and looks far too old to wear it well. His dark eyes weigh me.

One of the ten faces I need.

His name is Atl. His favorite food is goose liver.

“Adrian Ford. You are to be arrested for the death of Capri. His family and the Empire Racing Board are invoking the third amendment of the contract you signed, which expressly forbids that you, under any circumstances, kill another contestant during the Races. Accused of this crime, we cannot allow you to appear in the ceremonies to come. You will come with us.”

Atl gives no sign that he’s ever seen me before. I realize that he’s acting, the accusation is a trick, and he’s clearly expecting me to play my part. I let my eyes narrow and my arms flex.

“That’s not fair!” I shout. “He stole my horse. You saw him steal it!”

I turn, struggling against my officials, so that all the other riders can hear me. I’m not sure exactly what Atl’s plan is, but I’m guessing that whispers of my arrest are the first move. It won’t be hard for people to believe that the Empire Racing Board attempted to imprison me on false charges. So I sell them my anger in the hopes that it’ll buy me my freedom.