The Girls’ Own guard, a step behind, had her musket up before the old man could get to her. Winter saw her pull the trigger, and the old man threw himself sideways before the shot went off, staggeringly loud in the tight quarters. The ball zinged off the stone wall and the ceiling, raising sparks, before it embedded itself in Winter’s desk with a thok. The guard didn’t give the old man a chance to recover himself, charging through the cloud of powder smoke with her bayonet fixed, forcing her assailant to scramble backward to avoid being spitted.

Winter was pulling herself to her feet, looking for her sword. It was where she’d left it, in its sheath on her sword belt hanging from her desk, on the other side of the big table. Cyte had her own sword belt closer to hand, however, and she tore her rapier from its scabbard. Before she could move to help the guard with the old man, the injured man just outside the door straightened up and gave a gasp, then slumped limply forward. Past him came another figure, dressed in drab gray and black. His face was obscured by a mask, a thousand tiny chips of obsidian shifting and glittering as he moved.

The sight of such a mask was burned into Winter’s memory. She’d last seen it in the Sworn Cathedral, the night Orlanko had attempted to capture the Deputies-General. The night Danton had been assassinated by a man who’d disappeared as quickly and impossibly as he’d arrived. The Penitent Damned. Infernivore was flinging itself against her mind like a starving predator against the bars of its cage.

“Colonel Ihernglass?” he’d asked. A realization crashed down around her like chill water. They’re here for me.

The black-clad figure had a knife in each hand. Cyte extended her sword, trying to keep him at bay, but the Penitent sidestepped and closed with her; when she flicked the blade toward his throat, he leaned back slightly, letting it pass him by less than an inch. His left-hand knife swung up, almost in passing, and slashed a deep cut across her arm. Cyte’s eyes went wide, and she stumbled backward but hung on to her sword.

Winter edged left around the table, toward where Bobby was standing. Her lieutenant, as though reading her thoughts, tossed Winter her own sword and darted back toward the desk to get Winter’s. Winter tore the short, unfamiliar blade from its scabbard and swung it overhand at the Penitent. He dodged the cut as easily as he’d avoided Cyte’s blade, but it forced him to give ground, giving Cyte the chance to regain her balance at Winter’s side.