There were at least a hundred things wrong that Marcus could think of, starting with the fact that Marcus had been ordered to try and protect the Queen of Vordan while she wandered around incognito playing at being a private investigator. He forced a smile. “I’m just worried that you won’t find the accommodations at Twin Turrets up to your usual standard.”

Raesinia waved a hand irritably. “Never mind about that. Are you ready to get started? I have a few ideas, but of course I welcome anything you can come up with.”

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment and blew out a long breath. All right. This was the assignment, the mission Janus had handed him. Marcus might not approve—the thought of being personally responsible for the safety of the queen while she wandered around the city might leave him a bit weak at the knees—but that was neither here nor there. Trusting Janus’ judgment has gotten me this far. It’s too late to stop now.

“Of course, your—Raes,” he said. “I’m at your disposal.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And, come to think of it, I may have a notion of where to begin.”

Chapter Five

MARCUS

“Hello, Colonel!”

“Preacher!” Marcus waved aside his old friend’s salute and shook his hand enthusiastically. “Thanks for lending a hand.”

“It’s nothing,” the Preacher said. He was a balding, wiry man with blotchy skin pockmarked by old powder burns. “God and the general have endowed me with this troop of half-wits, and I’m glad to be able to put ’em to some use.”

The half-wits in question, standing in a neat line behind the Preacher, bore this abuse without comment. Some of them had regulation army uniforms, but more wore only blue jackets over civilian clothes, like most of the volunteers. They had the soft look of a good upbringing in their faces, and they wore serious expressions. To Marcus’ surprise, one of them was a young woman, in a neatly tailored uniform with her hair tied up in a severe bun.

The skies had cleared, and the autumn sun warmed the flagstones of Farus’ Triumph. Patriot Guards were everywhere, patrolling by the half dozen or standing watch over the hulking metal shape of the Spike. Patriot-Doctor Sarton’s invention had been getting quite a bit of employment of late. Nearly every day, the broadsheets boasted of more traitors discovered and spy rings unraveled. The bleachers had been expanded since the day of the attack on the queen; apparently, the novel executions were a popular entertainment.