Surprised, she turned and faced an altogether unkempt and greasy fellow jogging toward her. Shoulder-length hair that looked to have been steeped in oil was clumped in locks that fell across an equally slick face. Noting the extensive layers of dirt build-up on every inch of his visible skin, she estimated his last bath must have been around the turn of the century. Whoever he was, the filthy fellow must be new to the city and hadn’t yet discovered that baths were free. He wore a ridiculous wool tunic that—unless he’d lost an insane amount of weight and two inches in height—had belonged to a much larger man. Aside from the stains along the hem, which dragged despite his best efforts to hoist it, the tunic was remarkably clean. Farilane concluded the simple pull-over garment had been borrowed for the purpose of gaining entrance to the palace’s main floor, something his usual attire—if he wore clothes at all—would not likely have accomplished. He had the look of a nervous lamb foraging through a pack of wolves, but he had found the courage to address her, which suggested a certain degree of desperation. He certainly looked wretched enough to be in terrible need—but of what? Farilane began compiling an inexhaustible list of possibilities but realized the truth could only be discovered by asking.

“Yes?” She waited to hear the answer to the riddle.

The man looked shocked, as if he hadn’t expected to get this far. “Ah—I . . .”

He swallowed, then gasped for air. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he wiped the slimy hair aside, then dragged the same hand down his cheek. A furrow formed in the dirt as if the sweaty heel of his hand were a plow. “I have an invitation . . . I’m supposed to ask you to . . . if you want to . . . I mean, would you like to . . .”

Farilane reached out and placed her hands on the man’s shoulders. He stiffened, as if her touch had turned him to stone.

“Relax,” she told him. “Take your time. Think about what you want to say—then say it.”

His eyes looked as if they might fall out. His mouth was open, but no sound came. Realizing the man wasn’t even breathing, she let go. A second later, he began to thaw. Drawing a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes and started again. This time he spoke with such deliberate articulation that she knew his speech had been memorized.

“I am here to extend an invitation for you to meet with Master Proust on a matter of extreme urgency and importance, which concerns the future of the empire.” He opened his eyes once more and breathed.