“Imposter?” The Coin flailed his hands about with the skill of a man who had spent a lifetime in theater. “You mock the brilliant financier of our rebellion. I assure you I am no imposter, and I pray you are not stupid enough to say so in the presence of others.”

“Of course, forgive me.” He vowed to learn the real name of the Coin once the evening was over, if only so he might properly carry a grudge for being called stupid. It made sense, of course. If Thorda were to fund and plan insurgencies all across the empire, he couldn’t afford to be named or identified. It was the same logic that had Stasia disguising her eyes when she fought.

“I will await you at home,” Thorda said. He put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder and squeezed in a rare moment of emotion. “Do me proud.”

The old man faded into the starlight and vanished amid rows of roses. The counterfeit Coin put his hands on his hips and gestured to the back door with a tilt of his head.

“Now that we’ve made acquaintances, are you ready to make your grand reveal?”

Cyrus’s hands fell to his sword hilts, and absurdly, he was more nervous now than prior to his recent battles.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said, and followed the imposter Thorda inside the mansion. The Coin chatted as they walked through the kitchen, washrooms, and quarters dedicated to the servants. His movements remained exaggerated, but his tone lowered, and a bit of seriousness crept in almost unbidden.

“I pray you are everything we have hoped for. Thorda has a habit of promising much more than he can deliver. Remaining patient over these last few years has been…” He sighed, greatly exaggerated, while twirling his right hand. “Difficult.”

“Have you been with the resistance long?”

“From the very beginning. The empire took from me someone I loved dearly, and it seems even an actor in a mummer’s troupe must play their part in a rebellion.”

“You went from a performer of mummeries to impersonating Thorda to help lead a resistance? That’s a bit of a journey.”

The Coin laughed behind his mask.

“Not so much as one might think.”

The carpet shifted color, from a rugged brown to a much more flamboyant red. Painted portraits decorated the walls, and in the distance, Cyrus heard the deep hum of conversation. The Coin turned a corner, leading them into a short walkway and halting before a set of double doors painted white and lined with gold. Faint music played within, intermixing with the murmurs. A lone servant stood before them as a greeter, looking sharp in traditional Thanese finery, a sweeping, long-sleeved green outfit that opened up near the legs like a robe to expose his tight black trousers and emerald-studded belt.

“The guests are ready for your arrival,” the greeter said. “Would you prefer introductions?”