Her eyes swept the crowd. Most of the recruits here were terribly drunk, but at the far end of the tavern stood four armed Hands, stone faced and frowning, fanned out in front of a hallway. Guards. There it was again—that reek.

Ranka tugged on Aramis’s sleeve and nodded at the guards. “Something’s back there.”

The princess’s dark eyes darted over the throng of twisting bodies, to the second floor and the closed doors leaking light under their frames. “Those rooms are positioned over the back hallway.”

If they got up there, they might be able to listen. But first they’d have to weave through a crowd of witch-burners who would know what Ranka was the moment they saw her hands.

Aramis crooked her arm through Ranka’s. “Dance with me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ranka. “We’re in a room filled with zealots who want to set me on fire. And you want to dance?”

“The drunk people are all dancing,” Aramis said slowly, as though Ranka was particularly dull. “So, yes, I want you to dance. For all those muscles of yours, it seems you never bother to exercise your brain. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Before Ranka could argue, Aramis wrapped her arms around Ranka’s waist and slumped against her, the very picture of a girl who’d had too much to drink. When Ranka didn’t budge, Aramis grumbled something about having to do everything herself, took Ranka’s hands, and slid them just under the hem of her shirt. Nerves fluttered through Ranka. Aramis was warm to the touch, her skin softer than she’d expected. It was to protect her, she knew—to an onlooker, they were just another pair moving amid the heat, and now her nails were concealed. But Ranka was so dizzy, she could hardly think.

“Quit stepping on my feet,” Aramis muttered.

“Quit stepping on mine.”

They danced at a languid pace, keeping distance between them and the armed Hands scattered throughout the crowd, Ranka’s head bowed, Aramis’s resting on her shoulder. It was all Ranka could do to keep up, her head swimming as Aramis guided her across the room, their pace languid and easy. They reached the stairs, but instead of breaking away from Ranka, Aramis hooked her arm through Ranka’s and shoved Ranka’s free hand into her pocket. Heat flooded Ranka’s cheeks.

“Come on,” Aramis muttered, tugging Ranka after her.

They reached the second level. The crowd was thinner up here, and far drunker, with most of the pairs sequestered in dark corners. All the rooms were occupied except for one. Ranka nodded toward it, and Aramis led them forward. They ought to be able to listen in to whatever was going on in the back room—if not find a way to spy through the rafters. They moved slowly, passing the first two rooms, weaving between drunken couples.