The hands holding her let go. Atlanta fell to her hands and knees, shrieking again when the stumps of her fingers encountered the floor. The pain was almost unbearable, but more than that, the brutality and suddenness shocked her. This was definitely not a staged test created by the Empress, designed to make her a better heir. This was not some exciting pleasure jaunt that would teach her new skills. She had been wrong about everything.

With equal ease, the woman pried her mouth open, inserted yet another device, and pulled the tooth from its socket.

Released, Atlanta curled around herself and her agony.

Niko eyed the assemblage of pirates, fists clenched as she awaited her put-down. It was not that she’d had any plans to overpower whoever came to collect them, but it was distressing to see a party that had been clearly and carefully assembled to handle whatever might pop up. That degree of planning spoke of someone with not only the imagination to conceive it but also the force of character to make it real, to bully pirates into some semblance of rosters and groups. Would that have been Ettilan Eff?

She’d read Skullduggery and Sacred Space Vessels over and over, gleaning everything she could, even petty gossip and personal predilections. From the way the author, whoever they had been, described Eff, the Skat might have been the sort of leader who could unite the pirates, make them effective, which was a frightening thought. The pirates, with their infighting, jealousies, and feuds, had always been their own worst enemies, and if they managed to move beyond that, turn that ferocity outward …

Well, the Known Universe had survived such things before. And yet it always took a while and only blood seemed to solve it, in the end.

What would the Empress have said, if she were told she’d entrusted her heir to someone who immediately took said heir into the heart of the IAPH? Niko winced. That thought was best avoided.

Her turn. She raised her hands above her head, and the two women ran their palms over her, checking for weapons and extracting a few token knives she’d left about her person for the sake of appearances, a dart from her hair, and a set of lockpicks from an inseam. The last was examined with a touch of surprise by the tiger man as the woman handed it to him.

“Very old-school,” he said approvingly. “Most people don’t realize a tumbler lock always works where an electronic one might fail.”

He eyed Dabry as the two women frisked him and removed two knives and a gun. “Who are you and what’s all this?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the stack of crates in front of the sergeant.

“The equipment of my art,” Dabry said impassively. “Spices and rare ingredients. Dabry Jen, Chef Class One.”

“Class One?” the tiger man demanded. “You know how the designations work, mate?”