Kyla clicked her tongue against her teeth as she considered their ascent into the vents. “No hope for it. We’re going to have to leave evidence behind.”

She reached down to her shoes and peeled off the outer layer of their soles to reveal the rough, sticky under layer. Similarly treated gloves from the bag at her waist that contained the smoke orbs followed. Clo did the same, wincing as her skin pinched against her prosthetic. She wished she’d had these when she and Ariadne had crawled through the dusty vents of the palace on Macella.

Kyla hadn’t asked about Clo’s leg—the commander didn’t know how much it could hurt sometimes. When Clo had sent her report on crawling through Macella’s vents and jumping off a damn building, she had made it seem fully functional, a minor inconvenience at most. Clo hoped it wouldn’t betray her.

With impressive aim, Kyla sent up a small grappling hook by the vent, wedged into the cornices of the ceiling. Then they began to climb.

Immediately, Clo wished the Evoli weren’t so fond of high ceilings and open spaces. The cables helped take some of the pressure off, and the soles and gloves held their weight, but everything hurt. Every footprint and handprint showed on the walls after them, leaving a clear trail of where they were going, like the salamanders that had crawled along the walls of the slums of Myndalia.

<That’s bad,> Clo commented.

<We can’t do anything about it now,> Kyla replied. <Come on. Time to crawl.>

They set off through the vents. Every fifteen seconds, the pendant against Clo’s chest buzzed, mapping another section of the palace as she moved.

Clo tried to reach Ariadne to make sure the building was mapping correctly. No response.

“Is something wrong with my Pathos?” Clo whispered to Kyla. “I can’t get through.”

A pause. “No luck for me, either.” Another pause. “The building might be blocking the signal.” But Kyla didn’t sound convinced. A Pathos’s signal could reach the ground from a ship in orbit.

Clo followed the map on her pendant until they reached the ballroom. The slats were wide enough to peer below. The ballroom was a riot of color: gold brocade, iridescent blues and greens. Clo couldn’t help but watch as people milled around the ballroom in their fine gowns and suits. They held flutes of sparkling wine, or cocktails with winged insects that fanned on the brim of the glass. Normally, Clo would have scoffed at such a display of extravagance, but she had work to do.

“I don’t see Sher,” she whispered to Kyla as she felt for the orbs at her belt. She lined them neatly below the vent. They’d chosen ones in reds, yellows, oranges, and blacks. A distraction that resembled firesmoke.