Warad stood in the center of the dais on tree-trunk legs, filthy and sallow-cheeked. His hands were shackled in front of him and his shoulders drooped. At his knees was a sandstone block, covered in dried blood. Someone in the crowd screamed his name, and he blinked at her wearily in the blinding light. The surly young guardsman who had pointed his sicklesword at me in the Palace kitchens days ago stood behind him with several others holding maces and spears, sickleswords and daggers.

People surged around the platform, Warad’s name rolling off their tongues. As we neared, pushing to the edge of the crowd to stand in the shade of a tamarisk tree, a throaty trumpet announced the arrival of Uruku’s caravan.

He rode in from the dusty roads leading from the Palace in the back of a wooden chariot, garish red paint slashed along the sides. The black mares tugging him toward the dais were healthy and thick, their coats shiny. How well cared for the animals of Alu were compared to the people.

“I can hardly stand to look at his face. He was supposed to be dead!”

“You tried, Arammu,” Dagan said, but his words sounded hollow.

The caravan came to a stop, and Uruku dismounted from the chariot in ragged jerks, his face a sickly shade of amber.

Hope fluttered into my chest with tiny wings, beating desperately against my breastbone. But he is ill. At least somewhat from the gochala’s side effects. With him in a weakened state, any poison I gave him—even a few drops—would send him to the Netherworld. Delivering it, though, was proving to be a problem since we couldn’t get into the Palace. We needed another way.

Uruku took the stairs in two stumbling strides, and a few of the guardsmen on the platform took a half step backward. Some stared with open disgust. Not everyone wanted him on the throne. I looked around at the murmuring crowd. Did any of these people besides the wealthiest few approve of his rule?

Uruku opened his mouth to speak and winced, grasping his head with a trembling hand. I cursed myself for purchasing an ineffective poison.

And in fact—my guts twisted as a sinking realization raced up into my hairline—I should be cursing myself because of my idiocy. Not only had I bought a useless poison, delivering it had worked against us. My little stunt had actually alerted him that someone wanted him dead.

I was going to be sick.

“Gods of the skies, Dagan, we have to leave. Right now.” I tugged on his arm. “Uruku knows! He realizes he was poisoned, and that someone is out to get him. That’s why Warad is here! He’s—”

But Uruku interrupted me. “We have a traitor in our midst.” His voice was controlled, though agony twisted his features in a knot. “Someone seeks to gain the throne by killing me. Trying to kill my wife and heir. But we will not be torn down!” He pointed a shaking finger out at the crowd, and some shrank from him, although many of the wealthier citizens cheered. “I put some of the traitors’ heads on stakes, but there is another in our great city, still.”