“Watch them,” I murmur with a touch to Tristan’s elbow. And then I’m weaving too, careful to keep my head angled at the ground. There are cameras here, enough to be wary of. Should the next few weeks go as planned, I might want to start hiding my face.

I see it as Crance passes his paper through the window. His sleeve lifts as it scrapes the betting ledge, pulling back to reveal a tattoo. It almost blends into his umber skin, but the shape is unmistakable. I’ve seen it before. Blue anchor. Red rope.

We’re not the only crew working this convoy. The Mariners already have a man inside.

This is good. We can work with this. My mind fires as I fight my way back. Pay for their information. Less Guard involvement, but the same outcome. And odds are the Mariner is alone, working the job solo. We could try to turn him, get our own eyes inside the Mariners. Start pulling strings, absorb the gang into the Guard.

Tristan stands a head above the crowd, still watching the other two marks. I fight the urge to sprint to his side and divulge everything.

But an obstacle sprouts between us. A bald man and a familiar sheen of sweat across his brow. Lakelander. Before I can run or shout, a hand closes around my throat from behind. Tight enough to keep me quiet, loose enough to let me breathe, and certainly enough to drag me through the crowd with Baldy keeping close.

Another might thrash or fight, but I know better. Silver officers are everywhere here, and their “help” is not anything I want to risk. Instead I put my trust in myself, and in Tristan. He must keep watch, and I must get free.

The crowd takes us in its current, and still I cannot see who it is marching me through. Baldy’s bulk hides most of me, as does the scarf my captor tosses around my neck. Funny, it’s scarlet. And then we climb. Up the steps, high above the arena floor, to long slab seats that are mostly abandoned.

Only then am I released, pushed to sit.

I whirl in a fury, fists clenched and ready, only to find the Colonel staring back, very much prepared for my rage.

“You want to add striking your commanding officer to your list of offenses?” he says. It’s almost a purr.

No, I don’t. Glumly, I drop my fists. Even if I could fight my way past Baldy, I don’t want to try myself at the Colonel and his wiry strength. I raise a hand to my neck instead, massaging the now tender skin beneath the red scarf.

“It won’t bruise,” he continues.

“Your mistake. I thought you wanted to send a message. Nothing says ‘get your ass back in line’ like a blue neck.”

His red eye flashes. “You stop responding and think I’ll let that go? Not a chance, Captain. Now tell me what’s going on here. What of your team? Have you all gone rogue, or did some run off?”