Marcus had dispatched his report shortly after the queen departed, along with an urgent request for instructions. This involved leaving a folded message in a certain cubbyhole at a certain wine shop, one of several clandestine drop-offs that he’d been forced to memorize. He’d spent the rest of the evening and all of the following day trying to puzzle out what answer might possibly come back. It was a fruitless endeavor, as Marcus would be the first to admit. Unlike Janus, he had no head for politics. He’d watched the increasingly heavy-handed rule of the Directory and the Patriot Guard with a vague distaste, but it didn’t seem relevant to his own mission, so he hadn’t paid any particular attention.

Truthfully, Marcus wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing in Vordan City. It had all sounded very logical when Janus explained it before leaving for the front, but Janus’ explanations had a habit of evaporating in the morning light like demon gold, leaving nothing behind but vague memories of something very convincing. He was intended to be Janus’ representative in the city, but so far that involved little more than sending back reports on the state of affairs.

Janus had a habit, though, of putting the people he trusted into positions where he thought they might prove useful, even if he wasn’t exactly sure how. When the courier had arrived—dressed in plainclothes, but in possession of the prearranged password—Marcus had a strong suspicion it was his turn, like an actor waiting in the wings receiving a cue. Being treated like a game piece would have been more grating if he hadn’t long ago accepted that this was simply how Janus bet Vhalnich treated everyone.

He’d climbed into a battered carriage with FOR HIRE signs on the sides and found it occupied by two more young men, with the keen look and mountain accents of Janus’ Mierantai Volunteers. They’d given him the blindfold, and he’d tied it with a resigned sigh. There was a point, he thought, where security passed into paranoia, but he wasn’t confident in his ability to identify the boundary.

They drove for perhaps a half hour, changing direction frequently, the carriage’s poor suspension bumping and rattling over the cobblestones. When it finally came to a halt, one of the guards opened the door and took Marcus’ hand, leading him across a gravel drive. A gate squealed open.

“You can take the blindfold off now, sir,” the guard said. “My apologies. Welcome to Willowbrook.”