There was no way someone who cared as much about appearances as Duke Bergandon would allow such an unkempt lot to serve in his guard. By the calculation in their narrowed eyes, they weren’t surprised to see me. My chances of bluffing my way out of this seemed slim, but I drew myself up anyway.

“This is your last chance to avoid treason,” I warned them. I tried to sound sure and unafraid, as if I had an army at my back, but my voice came out too thin and strained. “You can still save your lives and your honor if you surrender now.”

The men exchanged glances. Scars marred their unshaven faces. The man carrying the lantern set it down inside the door, drawing a flintlock pistol in its place.

“Potion,” one grunted to another.

I sucked in a breath and held it. A man in the rear rank meddled with his pouch, but I didn’t wait. I lunged at the ruffian in front, stabbing his hand; he dropped his flintlock with a cry. The broad-shouldered brute beside him lifted his sword, but a man with a scarred chin caught his arm.

“Careful! Alive, remember?”

Oh, that made this easier. I chanced a gulp of air and pressed forward a step, slashing at their eyes. My opponents seemed unsure what to do with their weapons, jumbling back out of the doorway in an undisciplined clump.

“Enough!” Scarred Chin called. The man in the back rank hurled something at me, and glass shattered at my feet. Liquid splashed my legs. I was sure if I breathed in, I’d smell peppermint.

The false soldiers slammed the door shut between us.

The potion seeped through my stockings. I headed for the winch, struggling not to inhale, desperate to free Marcello before I blacked out. But dizziness dropped me to my knees before I’d crossed the room, and I gasped in a sharp breath of peppermint.

The world upheaved, plunging my mind into blackness before I hit the floor.

Chapter Thirty-One

When I woke again, I felt dry and empty, like a leaf from last year’s autumn. Light tickled my eyelids open. I lay where I’d fallen, between the winch and the door. The lantern still burned, catching gleams from the golden spell wire binding the winch and portcullis to the mirror on the wall. A desk covered in papers stood against one wall, next to shelves bearing stacks of folded Falconer uniforms and a pile of Ardentine military badges with the Bergandon crest. More shelves bore jars of artificer’s paint with ground obsidian and a pile of gray domino masks. An empty coffin stood in a corner; the sight left me queasy.

I appeared to be in a veritable storehouse of the tools of treachery.