His Signifer handed him a piece of paper of Thanese origin, crafted from their pine pulp and bearing the pale brown hue all their documents possessed. The original message was in the Thanese dialect, and inscribed in weirdly blocky lettering meant to disguise the handwriting. Magus had become familiar with the language, an expected duty of any Imperator, but spared himself the effort by skipping straight to the tight, looping writing of his Signifer, who had done the translation himself.

I trust my last message proved true. Heed this one well. In twelve days, I will deliver you the heart of the Vagrant. You must only be ready.

Magus read it twice, then folded the paper over itself until he could fit it into his suit pocket.

“What do you think it means?” Weiss asked.

“I think this is not the place to discuss it,” he said, and shooed the Signifer away. His attention returned to the actors, who were dressed in ludicrous mimicries of the elegant and flowing fashion of Old Eldrid. None of it looked right, not the ruffles at the ends of the woman’s dress, nor the length of the prince’s suit, nor the color of their wigs, unable to be dyed the proper white and so they seemed more of a piss yellow. Was that not the way of things? The Empire could bring its class and customs to these far-flung uncivilized worlds, it could gift them education and art, but in the end, they’d be poorly trained fools pantomiming in badly fitting costumes.

In twelve days, I will deliver you the heart of the Vagrant…

“Who are you?” Magus whispered into his hand as he held his fist to his mouth. “And can you deliver what you promise?”

Magus hated to admit it, but such information was in dire need. The Vagrant and his group of allies were growing bolder, and their victories more pronounced. Rumors spread like wildfire throughout Vallessau. Wildfire, or a plague.

Your cure is coming, Magus thought. We’ll lance you like the boil you are.

He settled in to watch the final act of The Handing of the Rose for what must have been the hundredth time in his life. At least that might offer him some entertainment while he pondered who might be the secret informant. He did hold out hope for the play’s climax. The final act involved a sword duel between competing lovers, and if there was anything these wretched islanders might know how to do right, it was murdering one another.

CHAPTER 36

CYRUS

More parties,” Cyrus said as he obediently stood in a circle of Keles, Thorda, and the Coin. They fussed about his clothes, his mask, the angle of the belts at his hips and the shine of his swords in their sheaths. “It’s enough to make one think these clandestine meetings are more important than our attacks.”