“I would, my lady, but they are the ones who gave the order not to open the gates.”

“Did they?” Moria stepped forward, Daigo moving with her. “Go tell those old—”

Ashyn cut in. “Please ask Thea and Ellyn to come speak to us so that we may properly explain the situation. Under normal circumstances, we understand their concern, but the situation is far from normal.”

The older guard nodded and sent the younger to fetch the city’s Keeper and Seeker. Then he murmured, “It is good to see you, Gavril.”

“Thank you, sir.”

An awkward pause. “Your lady mother is well. She was at the palace last moon for the Cherry Blossom festival.”

“Good.” A pause, and Gavril seemed to struggle, finally asking, “Is she in the city?”

“No, son. She is not.”

Gavril didn’t seem surprised by the news. He turned his attention beyond the gatehouse, inside the walls to the palace grounds. Moria followed his gaze to see two warriors sparring. They were on a raised platform, which would have suggested they were performing for an audience, except the dais was unceremoniously placed at the rear of a government building. It was for training, then—get knocked off the narrow platform and the young warrior would suffer a bruised rump and ego.

In the silence, she could hear the faint click and clash of their blades. She moved to the fence for a better look. The two were dressed in battle armor. They wore sleeveless tunics and loose-fitting breeches, as Gavril did, but were also dressed in sleeve armor, shoulder plates, shin guards, and neck guards; all were made of fabric and covered in overlapping lacquered wood scales.

One of the warriors wasn’t much older than Moria. From here she could see little of him except dark hair tied back and arm tattoos, though only two pairs of bands, rather than full sleeves—one band circling his upper arms and one his lower, like ornamental cuffs.

“Is that how they sometimes do the tattoos?” she asked Gavril. “In stages?”

He shook his head.

Ashyn moved forward and murmured. “It signifies that he is a . . .” She seemed to struggle for a word, and her cheeks flushed. “He is not born of a wife, but a courtesan.”

“That’s Tyrus,” Gavril said. “He’s one of the emperor’s bastards.”

Moria watched the young man. His instructor was having a hard time keeping up, the youth’s sword flashing like quicksilver.

“Do you know him?” Moria asked Gavril.

“We trained together.”

“He’s very good.”

Gavril grunted. “Decent enough. We used to spar.”

“Until you weren’t enough of a challenge?”