Dayo’s brow furrowed. “The assassin was a courtier?”

“No,” Bunmi replied. “But he was certainly hired by one.” She produced a foul-smelling rag from her pocket. Inside it glistened a putrid yellow stone, stained with blood. At the sight of it, a memory ticked in my thoughts—the glittering green gem in Melu’s cuff—the one my mother had used to enslave him.

Ai Ling recoiled at the sight of it, stroking her chin in the sign of the Pelican. “Is that—is that Pale Arts?”

Bunmi nodded grimly. “My warriors found this stone embedded in the assassin’s neck. It’s a practice called ibaje. Underworld artifacts bind the user to a task, give resistance to death, and bestow them with certain abilities. That explains, I imagine, why the assassin’s arrows rarely missed. Ibaje objects are often worn—but when inserted directly into the body, they provide stronger, permanent power. They are poison, however, killing the user slowly and cursing them with deformity. Only one guild of assassins is depraved enough to carry them: the Jujoka.”

I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“I have,” Sanjeet said, gaze haunted and distant. As he knelt by my salon chair, his calloused fingers traced my jaw and hairline, over and over. Memorizing them. Convincing himself I was still here, safe—not skewered with arrows beneath the Watching Wall. When he spoke again, his voice was cold with rage. “The Jujoka are the most exclusive guild of mercenaries in the center realms. They can be contacted exclusively through ancient family liaisons. Even then, only the very, very wealthy can afford them.”

“Someone within the guard—likely the child of a noble—must have provided the assassin tonight’s passcodes and given him access to the rooftop,” Bunmi agreed. “But we don’t know who.”

“It’s likely more than one family,” Ai Ling said grimly. “These nobles like to do things in coalitions.”

“But why would anyone want Tarisai dead?” Dayo asked. “She offered to sacrifice herself to the abiku, for Am’s sake. She’s a hero. Plus—”

In my head, I added what everyone was thinking, but not saying: Why bother having me killed, when the Underworld would likely kill me by my nineteenth birthday?

Bunmi made a scornful sound. “If those nobles are responsible, they are not only evil, but reckless. If the Empress Redemptor dies before fulfilling her promise to the Underworld, the abiku will wage war on us all. Even if we mobilize the Army of Twelve Realms, thousands will die. Millions.”

Bumps prickled on my skin. I generally avoided thinking of my journey to the Underworld, letting the new alagbato crisis, as well as the task of anointing my own council, distract me. But after seeing those dirt-covered creatures skittering up the high-rise, stinking of decay . . . my death seemed more imminent than ever before. Why in Am’s name had I thought I was strong enough to brave the Underworld? Had I gone mad?

I began to shudder violently, unable to stop. Immediately Sanjeet cradled my head to his chest, but I continued to shake. I felt his despair through the Ray as his Hallow searched me.