them on a fool’s mission. Her sister was still committed to their cause.
They moved along the tunnel, swallowed by the dark.
ILLARION WAS ESCORTED TO THE COMMAND CENTER BY THE WARDEN OF Jaslyk, a stooped-over man whose wisps of white hair covered his scalp like a crown. The Warden’s vision was distorted by a pair of goggles. From behind the goggles, his blue eyes scanned the room. He dressed in a long white smock, cinched at the waist by a thick metallic belt sectioned into chambers. As a functionary, he wore no crimson: he wasn’t a member of the Ahdath.
Illarion scanned the command center. It was staffed by eight men, all members of the Crimson Watch, each with an area of jurisdiction patrolled with relentless regularity. Each man was junior to Illarion in the Ahdath’s hierarchy, and each accorded him the necessary signs of respect. He briefed them on the fall of the Registan, concluding by asking, “Could it have been orchestrated by prisoners held here?”
“There have been no escapes and no communications, as far as we are aware. But a prisoner has just arrived from Marakand. Marat can tell you more.” The Warden nodded at the man responsible for the Technologist’s activities.
The soldier named Marat saluted Illarion. “Captain Illarion. Or are you Commander of the Wall now?”
“No. The Authoritan sends Commander Nevus from Black Aura to take command. We expect him any day.”
The men in the room straightened at the mention of Nevus’s name. It was a name they feared more than Araxcin’s.
“He won’t be coming here,” Illarion clarified. “Unless he has some reason to suspect your prisoner’s involvement in the attack on the Registan.”
Marat considered this. “Perhaps he does. She was taken to the Technologist on arrival. She’s due to be moved to the Plague Wing tomorrow.”
Illarion straightened. He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. “When? If she’s who I think she is, she will need to be interrogated.”
But the men in the command center had their own sources, and another man spoke up. “She’s not the First Oralist. The First Oralist and the Silver Mage were captured some days ago in Black Aura. The Authoritan has them now.”
“I know that,” Illarion barked. “But your prisoner may be a Companion of Hira. She must have had some knowledge of the attack.”
“She is,” the Warden conceded. “I thought as much—two members of the Council of Hira would not make their way behind the Wall without a purpose. If there’s anything to know, the Technologist will have the answers for you tonight.” He nodded at a heavy-lidded pewter bowl on the table behind him.
“Why tonight?”
The Warden lifted the lid of the bowl. “The Companion of Hira took longer to break than one of the Basmachi. But once we removed her circlets, she fell to the persuasion of the needle.”
He did not touch the objects in the bowl, even though he wore gloves. Illarion had no such qualms. He gathered the golden circlets in his hands. He’d seen them once before, on the arms of the First Oralist. This pair must be Sinnia’s. “A pretty prize to take to the Wall.”
The Warden grabbed his arm. “The Technologist hasn’t finished with them.”
Illarion shook off the Warden’s hand. His voice was low and dangerous. “I will present them at the Wall. If you wish otherwise, you may explain your wishes to Commander Nevus.”
The guards in the room glanced at one another. No one intervened.
His face pale with alarm, the Warden cleared his throat. “What is it you wish?”
“I wish to be taken to the prisoner. You, man.” He snapped at Marat. “You will show me the way.” He slipped the circlets beneath his breastplate, taking the measure of the Crimson Watch. At last his gaze came to rest on the slack-mouthed Warden. “You may accompany us.”
“The Technologist is in the midst of an experiment. You cannot enter the room.”
Sinnia’s earsplitting scream sounded through Jaslyk again.
“I’m well aware.” He jerked another object off the table behind the Warden. A mask with goggles larger than the Warden’s own. He tossed a second mask at Marat.
“You’re coming with me. Before her mind collapses, I want to know what she knows.”
DANIYAR RESTED HIS HEAD AGAINST THE RIM OF THE GREEN-MARBLED tub. He was soaking in a bath prepared for him by two of the loveliest women he’d ever seen, slaves from the northernmost regions of the Transcasp, their skin translucent, their hair and eyes golden, their luxurious flesh softly rounded. They murmured to each other in dove-soft voices, and he recognized their tongue as the ancient tongue of the people of Russe.
His bath was scented with rose petals and a luminous gold powder that worked its way into the tissue of his deepest scars, easing his pain and healing his damaged skin. His forearms were wrapped in a soft leather binding, protecting his wounds from the water.
The Khanum’s maidservants hovered on either side of the tub, passing him lotions and oils, offering to scrub him from head to toe. He dismissed them with a frown, yet the instant they left, he missed their raillery, their utter absence of malice when everything else the Ark had to offer promised him unrelenting pain. And if he was honest with himself, the gentle feminine interest expressed by the doves’ attentions was a respite he welcomed as a man pushed too hard and too long by his trials.
He was forced to fight in the rites of the Qatilah, sometimes with a sword, sometimes with a club, oftimes bare-handed, falling back on his limited abilities with the Claim. Though each night’s trial concluded in hard-fought victory, his battered and bloody body was dragged back to his cell, his limbs aching from the effort it had taken him to resist, his thoughts inevitably darkened by the killing of so many men.
To be shifted from the Pit to Lania’s luxurious apartments was a contrast that weakened his resolve, testing the extent of his honor. He held fast to one thought in his mind—if he responded to Lania’s overtures, perhaps he might lure her to his side. If he could make her believe he was drawn in by her allure or her resemblance to Arian, an opportunity might arise: a chance to escape the Ark with Arian at his side.
He was half-dressed when Lania called him. Moving less stiffly now, he let her pull him down beside her onto a chaise cushioned in silk. Her feline eyes grew heated as she viewed his state of undress. She leaned close to him, resting a hand on the sculpted planes of his chest. “Another man would not deny himself the pleasures my courtiers offer.”
He met her gaze, his voice courteous but firm. “We’ve discussed this,” he said. “These girls from the north of the Transcasp are slaves. They’re compelled to your wishes by their servitude. I am the Guardian of Candour. I have never touched a woman against her will.”
Lania’s laughter sounded, low and quiet. When she was alone with him like this, she relinquished the adornments of the Khanum. She wore a plain silk dress and had left her face unpainted, her gold-flecked eyes soft and clear. She looked younger and more vulnerable, freeing the silk of her hair with a graceful movement of her arms. A traitorous thought slipped into his mind. He imagined her slender arms gilded by Arian’s circlets. Bound though he was to Arian, it was Lania who held his attention at this moment. Indeed, she looked so much like Arian, defenseless and unafraid, that his yearning and sense of loss expanded. Here was a woman who would grant him what he wanted, with a warmth he could take if he wished. She would gladly end the self-denial he’d chosen to endure too long, a temptation he’d thought himself immune to.
“You underrate yourself, my lord,” she answered him. “You would