It’s time to go see Valentino.

“You’re very good at unarmed combat,” Iván observes as we walk together to the palace after lunch.

I’m not sure how to respond to that. “I had a good teacher.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “You react like your life depends on it. Every single time.”

Sometimes life is a good teacher too.

Like many of the empire’s most powerful nobles, Conde Astón keeps quarters in the Sky Wing, the finest part of the palace, where modern architecture promises fresh water plumbed from the underground river, glass-pane skylights, and high balconies overlooking interior gardens. The door to the Ciénega del Sur suite is not far from the royal apartments, where I lived before joining the Guard. Beside the door stands a spearman in full armor.

“We’re here to see Valentino,” I tell him.

“Lord Valentino is not receiving visitors,” he says.

“He’ll be happy to receive us,” I say.

The spearman plants himself in front of the door to bar our path.

Iván steps forward. He’s tall enough to look him dead in the eye; if it weren’t for the spearman’s pointed helmet, they’d be of height. Iván says, “Please tell Lord Valentino that Lady Red, ward of our beloved empress, and Lord Iván, brother of Lord-Conde Juan Carlos of the Quorum of Five, both wish a few moments of his time.”

I give Iván a sharp look. We’re recruits now, without title. But the spearman inclines his head slightly and says, “Wait right here,” and disappears into the suite.

“It wasn’t a lie,” Iván whispers while we wait. “I mean, not exactly.”

“Did I say anything?”

“You had that look.”

The spearman returns. “Lord Valentino will see you now.”

The parlor is dark with mahogany shelves, all filled with parchment and even several books. High clerestory windows fill the place with diffuse light, and a deep stone hearth—cool at the moment—gives off the sharp scent of pine ash.

A tapestry with the Ciénega del Sur crest hangs on the wall. It depicts a river flowing between two low mountains. In the center of the crest, where the river and the mountains come together, a sun rises. The design is so stylized that the sun looks like a crown resting on pillows.

Valentino sits at a writing desk, wearing blue silk robes with golden embroidery. His skin is sallow, and dark circles make hollows of his eyes. A walking cane topped with the head of a brass viper rests against the desk. When he sees us, his eyes light up and he struggles to his feet.

“Red! Iván! I’m so happy to see you,” he says, reaching for his cane.

“No need to get up,” Iván says.

“Oh, it’s good for me, or so the family physician says. Come join me on the divan. I’ll have my man fetch some . . . well, not wine, as I’m sure you can’t stay away from the barracks long. How about some chilled coconut milk with honey?”