“I will explain this once, boy. These horrors that are so new to you? They are a lifetime to us. They are the world Stasia has known since she was twelve, and Mari since she was eight. You panic and thrash about, demanding we act, but are blind to the wisdom that everything I have done these past decades is exactly that. Every dead magistrate, every slain paragon, every torched building and emptied prison, is a step toward salvation. You see only one step before you. I see the many steps ahead, and the thousands behind. If you wish for any hope of victory, you shall listen to the wisdom of your betters. Is that understood?”

Cyrus’s face was flushed solidly red, the heat reaching all the way to his ears. What little wisdom he still possessed shouted within his skull to swallow his pride and admit his error.

“Understood,” he said. “And for what little it means, I truly am sorry. I will do better. I swear.”

Thorda crossed his arms and looked away, instead staring into nowhere. What he thought of such a vow, Cyrus could only guess, for he did not mention it when he spoke next.

“I believe I can portray this as a warning, and not a true assassination attempt. On his part, Gordian will seek to downplay the danger to his life, so as to not appear weak. This will actually lend credence to the idea you were delivering a message. Yes, I believe I can make this work.” He shook his head, and his anger vanished behind a mask of calm Cyrus trusted not a wit. “At least you returned in time. I feared we’d have to cancel completely, but if we hurry, we should make it within a reasonable hour.”

“Make it where?”

“To the party you are already late for.”

“Late?” Cyrus asked. “For a party I didn’t know about? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I sought to avoid making you nervous,” Thorda said. “I see now my worries were displaced. I should have feared you running loose like a fool and getting executed. Three years. Stars have mercy.”

Cyrus’s ears burned red with shame.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“Make sure that it doesn’t.” Thorda put his hands on his hips and scanned Cyrus up and down. “At least you’re already dressed. Come with me. It’s time you experience the less savory side of fostering a resistance.”

“Less savory than the killing?”

His master grabbed his coat from a hook by the front door.

“There is a simple truth to fighting, young Cyrus. Tonight, you’ll discover a far more distasteful battle—dining among the wealthy and political.”

CHAPTER 22

CYRUS