“Don’t worry too much,” the Preacher said. “Nobody’s been telling tales. But sometimes I inspect those ships, when we’re sending cannon and powder, and I saw something I shouldn’t have. A few of the boys admitted it when I asked them, on the condition that I keep it quiet.”

“They shouldn’t have even done that,” Marcus grumbled. But he couldn’t bring himself to be too angry—the Preacher could be very persuasive.

“You’re doing God’s work, keeping those women and children from the Spike. You must be keeping them somewhere beforehand, so I thought if we could sneak this lot over the walls, then you could get them away to wherever the hideout is.”

Balls of the Beast. This is not what I signed up for. Marcus sighed. “We could probably manage it. But are you really sure this is necessary? It seems like—”

“They’re breaking in!” one of the young men at the window shouted. He had a broad Borelgai accent.

“What?” The Preacher whirled and sidestepped the desk, pushing the students aside. “What happened to the Patriots?”

“They just . . . left,” said one of the other students. “I was watching. Someone came to talk to them, and they just marched away!”

Marcus was only a step behind the Preacher, tugging the curtain farther aside. The window had a view of one of the main avenues through the maze of courtyards, ending in the Gateway of Wisdom. The halberds of the Patriot Guard were indeed nowhere to be seen, and the crowd—grown considerably since they’d passed through—had flooded past the walls out of sheer momentum. They milled in the first courtyard, uncertain what to do with their sudden victory, but before long a new wave of arrivals seemed to infuse the mob with a sense of purpose. Large groups fanned out in every direction, waving sticks, cudgels, and other impromptu weapons.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Marcus swore.

“Why would the guards leave?” said one of the students, this one Hamveltai. “Oh God.” He lapsed into his native language, muttering to himself. Another young man, who looked enough like him that Marcus guessed they were brothers, put an arm around his shoulders and spoke to him quietly in the same tongue.

“The Directory wishes to throw us to the mob,” Viera said. It was the first time she’d spoken, and her voice was as clipped and precise as her appearance. Her accent was hard for Marcus to place, with the Hamveltai tendency to turn W’s into V’s but without the broad vowels.

“Why would they do that? We swore to their inspector we were loyal to nothing but knowledge!”

“I do not think they care what we swore,” Viera said. She turned away from the window. “Colonel d’Ivoire. Do you have somewhere we can hide?”