The River Palace, the seat of the dukes of Ardence, always disappointed me with its massive brick facade. Imposing, certainly, but its blocky wings lacked the grace of the spun-sugar arches of the Imperial Palace back home. Once the liveried servants bowed me inside, however, my surroundings became far less utilitarian. The high, arching ceilings blossomed with elaborate white-and-gold carvings and dramatic frescoes; the Bergandons had missed no opportunity to display their wealth and power.

If the duke was as impressed by appearances as his surroundings suggested, I supposed it was just as well I’d changed to a particularly ostentatious gown for the visit. One of Ignazio’s servants, a maid called Beatrix with enormous brown eyes, had helped me dress. I missed Ciardha, who would have given me notes about the duke’s personality and any relevant news from his court while she directed the lacing of my corset and the selection of my jewels. I’d had to decline well-meaning offers of powder and star-shaped beauty patches from Beatrix, and suffered through an extravagant curling of my hair.

I supposed I looked lovely, but I’d far rather have any idea at all what the duke might want with me. Without knowing the reason for my invitation, I had to assume my decadent surroundings were enemy territory.

Some of the courtiers I passed in the cavernous palace entry hall shot me glances full of curiosity or hope, but others scowled and turned away, fury in the set of their shoulders. One old lady in a grandly bejeweled corset and skirts wider than my bedroom doorway muttered “Raverran eel” in my general direction. A sleek young lord dressed all in dove gray—a pointed nod to the Shadow Gentry, I had little doubt—fingered his rapier hilt with a hard gleam in his eye when he first saw me. His companion, a woman who accented her gown with a gray silk sash, murmured the name Cornaro in his ear, and his expression softened; he swept into a bow as I went by.

A footman led me through a series of impressive chambers to the Hall of Victory. Duke Bergandon awaited me in the opulent private audience chamber, beneath frescoes depicting Ardentine military triumphs. The Grace of Victory floated over all in a painted sky, her flaming sword in hand. All things considered, it was an unfortunately warlike choice of venue.