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He had reached out a hand to steady her, but his grip tightened painfully on her arm. His sharp face grew even sharper in the patchy light. “
What?
Greggorio is
dead
? That can’t be.”

“I found his body—in the maze,” she said, still gasping for air. “Lying by Garameno’s wheeled chair, as if he’d fallen to the ground and tried to crawl away.”

“By Garameno’s chair?” Lorian repeated. “Then it’s Garameno who’s dead.”

“I took off his mask. I saw his face.”

“It has to be Garameno,” Lorian repeated. “It has to be.”

She suddenly remembered something that Liramelli had told her.
Greggorio was always Lorian’s favorite.
Right now, Lorian seemed in shock, unable to believe a terrible truth. She wished she could soften the blow, but there was no time.
Someone
had killed Greggorio, and if it wasn’t Garameno—

“I’m sorry,” she said as kindly as she could. “Greggorio is dead and I think someone murdered him. There are bruises on his body—”

With a suddenness that sent her reeling, Lorian almost flung her away from him. “You’re wrong,” he snarled. “It’s
Garameno
who was strangled.”

He didn’t stay to argue, just spun on his heel and raced for the maze, knocking fairgoers out of his way with brusque impatience. Caught by surprise, the three footmen followed in a disjointed, uncertain manner, trading glances that betrayed their astonishment.

Corene stared after him, her mouth open in stupefaction. She’d never seen the imperturbable Lorian so rocked off balance. But the death of any heir would undoubtedly unsettle the steward, who guarded the whole compound as possessively as if it belonged to him alone. Though he had seemed more distraught by the notion of Greggorio’s death than Garameno’s.
It’s Garameno who was strangled,
he had snapped.

I didn’t say he was strangled,
she realized.
I said he was bruised.

She supposed the only bodily bruises that were likely to lead to death were ones around the neck. Strangulation was a logical assumption to make.

More logical if Lorian had been the one to do the strangling.

That thought stopped her heart and froze her to the ground, unmoving even as other partygoers jostled past her.

If someone was trying to smooth Greggorio’s path to the throne, Lorian had certainly been in a position to do so. Just two nights ago, he had been standing at the door as Filomara invited Garameno to join her conference with Nelson Ardelay. He might have resolved at that very moment to eliminate Garameno as a contestant, and tonight offered him the perfect venue.

And he could have orchestrated every other disaster with equal ease. He could have murdered Sarona and set soldiers on Alette. Much earlier than that, he would have had ample opportunities to do away with Filomara’s brothers if he was afraid they would challenge her for the throne. Would he have murdered Aravani? Suggested Subriella’s ill-fated match in Berringey? Possibly. If he had been convinced either girl would make a bad ruler. If he had believed it was in the best interests of Malinqua to see a male emperor next on the throne.

For the past thirty years, Lorian could have fancied himself as a kingmaker, pulling strings and directing events to control the succession.
Everyone knew he had a fondness for Liramelli and was devoted to Greggorio—but no one realized just how far his affections went.

If he had strangled Greggorio thinking he was Garameno . . .

Foley’s there,
she thought in a panic.
Foley’s watching over Greggorio’s body and he’ll think Lorian is there to take the situation in hand. But Lorian will be crazed with grief. And Foley will realize why and Lorian will kill Foley—

It didn’t matter that Foley was a trained soldier with an athlete’s body and an outlaw’s array of weapons, while Lorian was an aging servant with soft muscles and no fighting skills. Corene was sure that Foley was in danger. She flung herself back through the crowd, back toward the dark corners of the property, back toward the maze of lies and treachery and murder.

She had gone maybe thirty yards when she saw the mob before her swirl with disruptive motion as determined figures cut through the fairgrounds, heading in her direction. “There she is!” she heard a voice call out, and she realized that the lead figure was pointing at her.

At first she thought it was one of Lorian’s footmen and she stuttered to a halt, wondering if she needed to run in the other direction. Then she realized it was a royal guard, and he was followed by three more, and they were all pushing through the crowd, shoving aside bodies and knocking over decorations in an effort to get to her.

She definitely needed to run.

She spun around and dove through a mass of revelers, ducking under outstretched arms and skidding around large men who were too bulky to push aside. Someone spilled one of those flaming drinks on her and she felt fire flash down her spine as a woman nearby screamed
She’s burning!
But either the tiny blaze was quickly extinguished or she absorbed it through her sweela skin, because it didn’t harm her. She only ran faster.

Behind her she heard gasps and cries of alarm, the occasional sounds of thuds and crashes, and she knew the soldiers were still in pursuit. She was in the main part of the fair now, and everywhere she looked the paths were brightly illuminated; unless she could find a place to duck and hide, the soldiers would have no trouble keeping track of her.
But I don’t have to make it easy for them,
she thought. She needed to create some misdirection.

There—a young woman was so focused on flirting with a man selling spiced oranges that she didn’t realized she’d dropped her scarf, a filmy strip of spangled white fabric. Corene bent down as if to fasten an errant shoe buckle and snatched the scarf as she straightened up. Once she’d moved a few yards away, she paused long enough to wrap it around her head and throat. It was a flimsy disguise, but it might turn away the attention of the guards who would be watching for a woman wearing a gray hood and mask.

She continued on, a little more slowly now. The guards would look for someone who was running, so she must appear to be just another fairgoer, relaxed, happy, and eager to see the next attraction. Then she had to make her way to someplace safe. Or she had to find Filomara.

The trouble was, she couldn’t imagine a place that would be safe. And she thought that Filomara might not trust Corene’s version of events, but take Lorian’s word instead—which didn’t bode well for Corene’s safety even if she found the empress.

Who would believe me? Who could help me even if they did believe me?
she wondered as she paused to watch a pair of acrobats do flips and cartwheels.
Who has the power and knowledge to circumvent Lorian?

She could think of only one person: Garameno. Who might very well be dead now, after all, if Lorian had summoned soldiers to accompany him through the maze.

Garameno dead—and Foley with him?

She stifled a sob.

Maybe Jiramondi could help—maybe the prefect. Both were steeped in court politics; both would instantly grasp the significance of Greggorio’s death. If she could find them, if she could convince them—if she could manage to find allies before Lorian or his soldiers caught up with her again—

She turned toward the front doors of the palace and practically into the arms of a royal guard. As she stumbled and almost fell, he raised a hand to steady her. “Thank you,” she murmured and stepped away.

Maybe it was her accent, even though she spoke so quietly; maybe it was the furtiveness with which she moved. But his head whipped around and he stared down at her. “Who are you?” he demanded, motioning to one of his colleagues nearby.

She took a step back. “I’m—”

“It’s the Welchin princess!” the other guard cried. “Lorian wants her detained!”

She whirled around and dashed away.

There was a shout behind her, and then another; a woman screamed and something crashed to the ground with the disastrous sound of breaking glass. Corene just put her head down and ran, shoving people out of her way, tripping over the ones who didn’t move fast enough, and leaping over prone bodies and decorative obstacles. Twice more, to her right and behind her, she heard the voices of royal soldiers calling to each other:
Stop her! Stop the princess!

She had no idea how Lorian had alerted the guards so quickly, what he had told them to make them believe she was dangerous. She had no idea how long she could outrun them. She had no plan. She had no hope. Her breath burned in her chest and her heart beat so hard it hurt. Her only coherent thought was
They will catch me and I will die
.

But she didn’t stop running.

Suddenly the crowd thinned out and she lifted her head long enough to get her bearings. She was on the far edge of the front lawns, almost to the limits of the fair. If she had had any chance of losing herself among the spectators, she had lost it now; there was nowhere left to hide. Maybe she could just keep running—down the straight, wide road that led to the wrought-iron gates—then past the gates—then out into the city itself, down to the docks, where she could fling herself into the ocean and swim all the way home to Welce—

She would never make it past the iron gate. Soldiers there would stop her, grab her, turn her over to the ones who were chasing her now. The ones who were so close she could hear their pounding footsteps, their cries of
I see her! I see her! There she is!
The ones she was too exhausted to outrun—

And then she saw it ahead of her on the lawn, only a few lingering admirers still clustered around it, touching its gleaming metal surfaces and its foreign dials and gauges. The smoker car. A gift directly from Welce to its most prodigal princess.

She managed a last burst of desperate speed, plowing through the young men gathered around the elaymotive, scattering them with her wild
gestures and frantic cries. She vaulted over the low door and slammed her palm against the ignition button before she was securely seated on the front bench. The engine growled to life with a guttural roar that was the sweetest thing she’d ever heard.

She heard the soldiers yelling behind her—heard the fairgoers nearby squealing with alarm—but she had no attention left for anything but the elaymotive. It lurched like an angry demon when she threw it into gear, shuddering so badly she was afraid she might have killed the motor. Then it shot forward, barely missing a couple who dove out of its path, and jounced over the uneven ground as Corene tried to remember how to steer, how to feed fuel consistently through the lines. She was going too fast as she hit the curb that divided the lumpy lawn from the smooth surface of the main road, and she almost pitched over the open side of the vehicle. But she hung on grimly, turning the wheels sharply to keep the elaymotive on the pavement.

And then everything was fine.

The road stretched out, graded and level, straight for the main gate. The celebration was winding down, so traffic was starting to pick up—carriages, horsemen, even pedestrians clogging the way—which meant Corene couldn’t stomp on the accelerator and race toward the gate like she wanted to do. But she could squeeze the little button that loosed a sound like a foghorn and caused horses to panic and pedestrians to leap aside, clearing a path for her down the middle of the street. She burned with exhilaration every time she blasted the horn and some other startled horse dragged its cart off the road. She could hear commotion behind her, but it faded fast. Within minutes, she had left the sounds of the palace behind.

The gate came up quickly, before she’d had time to plan. She didn’t know what she’d do if the metal grill was closed; she didn’t think the elaymotive would survive if she just tried to crash straight through. But that turned out not to be the problem. The gates were open—but a row of guards stood shoulder to shoulder, barring her passage with a human blockade.

She had never in her life even thought about killing another person, but she would run them all down if she had to.

She blasted the foghorn again, twice, three times, and pressed down
on the accelerator, so she felt like she was hurtling through a noisy tunnel of sound and wind. It was clear she wasn’t going to stop. And it was clear the soldiers realized it—they split for the two sides of the road, shouting as she roared past. Some of them threw things at her—rocks or knives, she wasn’t sure—but their aim was bad or her speed was good, because a few objects thudded against the car and then she was out of range.

Free of the palace!
Safe!

Oh, but this night was full of hazards.

She couldn’t slow down, because she knew the gate guards would quickly mobilize to pursue her. But she couldn’t keep up this hectic pace, because she didn’t even know where she was going.

And because within a half mile of the gate she rounded a curve and came smack upon a roadblock. How could she have forgotten? The entire city was one giant celebration. Directly in her path was a collection of vendor’s booths and happy citizens, clapping along to loud music and toasting each other with sloppy glasses of wine. There was no way to smash through that obstruction without killing a dozen people and probably destroying the elaymotive.

Cursing under her breath, she backed up the smoker car and turned down a smaller cross street that was quieter, darker, and much less crowded. On this back road, there was so little public illumination that she had trouble seeing what lay ahead of her, so she had to radically reduce her speed for fear of running over some helpless bystander. Not until then did she remember that Kayle had installed lighting systems on the newer models of the smoker cars, and she tried various buttons and switches until two side lamps on the front bumpers sprang to life.

She proceeded cautiously anyway because now she could see all the dangers nighttime had concealed from her—uneven surfaces, strange objects discarded in the middle of the road, holes in the pavement. And people. Standing on the side of the road, hanging out of windows, staring at her. She had to hope she was able to cover a lot of ground because the guards would have no trouble figuring out where she’d gone.