I walked Ash Flower past the scene, refusing to look back behind to make sure the others would follow. I refused to look back and see the dead Marakori man.

I didn’t know the circumstances. I didn’t know the man’s crimes. Perhaps he’d deserved it. Perhaps he hadn’t. But I knew one thing for certain.

In Jorat, what you protect is what you rule.

Brother Qown didn’t understand. He didn’t understand how standing up for some random Marakori refugee might be perceived as an act of rebellion.

I pulled the hood up over my head as I approached the gate, which always struck me as an underwhelming, tiny little door—because Kandor had designed it to be difficult, bordering on impossible, for horses to use.

What had Emperor Kandor cared for horses? He hadn’t come to save horses but to slaughter them.

If the front gate was small, the archery platforms were not.

“My count,” Sir Baramon said, “let me do the talking.”

I nodded, relieved, still not trusting my own voice. Brother Qown’s words had hurt like razors against my soul.

I had hoped for a subtle, quiet entrance to the city, but it wasn’t to be. All this business with refugees and improvised buildings parked on the bridge like a besieging army ensured the guards not only checked each entrant but wrote down particulars as well. Those reports would be compiled later. Entering the city unnoticed became complicated if I ended up in a file reported to my enemies.

Damn it all, but I do have such enemies.

“Name and reason for visiting?” the guard asked when we reached the front.

Sir Baramon laughed. “Reason for visiting? Tell me, my good man, does anyone answer with aught but tournament with the thing itself two weeks away? As well to say one is interested in moistening one’s brow, while swimming in the Zaibur!”

The guard cleared his throat and gave Sir Baramon a calculating look. “Watching or participating?”

“Starring!” Sir Baramon barked out. He then leaned in toward the man and lowered his voice. “Not me, you understand. It’s been a few years”—he patted his stomach for emphasis—“since I’ve been the star of a tournament. Still, surely you’ve heard of the great Sir Kavisarion of Dalrissia?” He lowered his voice again until he was whispering. “This year, I bring my newest protégé, Ember—it’s her first show, but you’ll be seeing her at the games, I promise you that—as well as our trainer, Bitsy, and her personal servant, Featherbottom.”

Brother Qown blinked in surprise. Dorna, on the other hand, grinned from ear to ear and puffed out her chest.