“Then you understand that even a random attack in the Gen Circus by simple vagrants is an event that has never and will never happen, as far as the citizens of the Capitol have been led to believe. Such news is shattering enough. This city… this entire nation is built atop the notion Gens are untouchable, and the protection of Crache is absolute. The idea that the head of a Gen was hunted by assassins, successful or not, will crack the entire Capitol.”

“I understand that, as well. I simply want a record of what happened here, as you see it, set down before anyone else becomes involved. I want those details preserved and protected against corruption.”

Daian nods. “That I can do. I promise you.”

“I thank you.”

“It’s my duty.”

“I am sorry to say not all your colleagues I’ve encountered are so… forthright in that arena.”

Rather than taking umbrage, Daian actually smiles. “A person in an Aegin tunic is still a person, Lexi. Some are good, some are pig shit on two legs.”

Taru visibly tenses, and even more visibly scowls.

Daian holds up a hand. “Excuse my language, Te-Gen.”

Lexi, however, has to stifle her laughter, not the least of which the chaos of the last hour would no doubt turn the brief bout of levity into hysteria.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she says, composed.

Daian bows his head. “May I involve my colleagues now?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Lexi.”

“Let us take you to another room in the tower while they work,” Taru bids her after Daian has taken his leave. “You don’t need to be here any longer, Te-Gen.”

Lexi permits herself one last view of the carnage she helped create.

“Very well.”

As she allows Taru to escort her from the room, past the baleful eyes of the other Aegins and the concerned well wishes and queries of the Circus residents, their assurance that Lexi need not be here any longer lingers in Lexi’s head.

She will never tell Taru, or anyone else, but Lexi already knows a part of her will never leave that room and the violence that will forever stain it.

WHEN GHOSTS SPEAK YOUR REAL NAME

THEY NEVER RETURN TO THE camp that hosted the Revel. Instead, the wounded and the surviving Savages are herded onto wagons and carted thirty miles along the Sicclunan front—at least, what used to be the Sicclunan front. At dusk Evie hears a thunderclap directly behind the Legion caravan that turns out to be riders from the victorious Skrain, specifically the battalions who moved in to sweep away what was left after the Sicclunan retreated from the Savages.