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“Her Glory of the Beautiful Twilight,” Dove gushes.

Clearly he was born in the same year as Lyric and Garnet.

As the man stands, he lowers his eyelashes while sliding his gaze just to the side of Iriset’s cheek, on her ear perhaps, somehow achieving an affect that is both flirtatious and respectful.

Iriset looks directly at him, studying the planes of his face.

Singix is a foreigner, after all, as so many want to remind her, so she might as well take advantage.

His eyes are too small for his nose, but their vibrant color makes up for it, and his jaw and cheeks are balanced and sharp.

“Do you sit on the council, The First Dove Song at Dawn?”

“I do, and mercy, Your Glory, just Dove.”

Sliding her eyes to Hehet, who boldly watches her back, Iriset asks Dove, “And did you argue for or against my marriage?”

Hehet’s eyes widen, and Dove laughs nervously. “My Silence,” he says. “ For , Your Glory, I was in favor even before I heard of your beauty.”

“I was too forward in asking directly,” she immediately demurs.

“Her Glory can ask whatever she likes,” the idler promises.

Looking at Hehet again, she tilts her face consideringly.

This is a good opportunity to fix another pin of her plan, so to speak.

Slowly, as if carefully picking her words, she asks, “If you are a leader of the miran, and you a gossip, one of you must know more about the man who attacked the royal platform.”

Dove lights up. “Ah, yes, when you so bravely threw yourself between harm and our Vertex Seal! What a story that is, Your Glory.”

“Instinct,” she says, letting her gaze fall to the crushed white shells of the path.

“Proof, I might say, that your marriage is blessed by Aharté,” he agrees.

“Do we need proof?” Iriset frowns as prettily as possible.

Hehet puts a lazy hand on his hip. His forehead gleams with sweat, and the same already gathers under Iriset’s breasts thanks to the sweltering morning. Standing here under the sun is not good for anyone. Hehet says, “Proof is elusive in most arenas these days.”

“I must have patience, then.”

“Bittor méra Tesmose,” Dove says, shifting as though to cut between Iriset and Hehet. “His name. He was from the Little Cat’s court, but there’s been no rumors regarding his whereabouts since the execution. That I’ve heard, at least.”

“Oh.” She tries to look and sound only vaguely disappointed.

“Shall I keep you informed?” Dove offers eagerly.

Iriset smiles her best Singix smile. “Thank you.”

“We’ve just come from the Moon-Eater’s Mistress,” Hehet says, and something about his confiding tone makes it sound as though he wants her to think he’s not a threat. “Her Glory is interviewing some miran in the Bright Star Obelisk Garden on your behalf this morning.”

“My behalf?” Baffled, Iriset doesn’t bother hiding it.

Dove grins. “Every good secretary in the palace of the Vertex Seal is an even better gossip.”

With a growing sense of dread, Iriset makes a distressed little hum and hurries away from them, toward whatever mischief—or worse—Amaranth is plotting.

The Bright Star Obelisk Garden was once a water garden, but after the death of Safiyah the Bloody’s brother Dalir, the waters were drained and the obelisk erected in his honor.

The water channels were replaced by blood-red tiles and rows of pristine glass-vein succulents both small and large.

In the sunlight they twinkle and glare, shining in every shade of green and yellow that glass can manage.

Crescents and circles of stretched linen have been lifted high with wire stalks and placed strategically to imitate yet more succulents while shading the low benches.

Rainbow bees buzz around looking for sweet ecstatic pops, and regular blue-and-yellow butterflies bob in the air.

Hidden force-fans circulate a breeze so that even at the height of summer it’s not terribly unpleasant.

Several of the benches and gazebos are occupied by loitering miran, and Iriset spots Amaranth’s handmaidens perched on low pillows, each engaged in one of their hobbies: Istof is practicing calligraphy and Ziyan repairing a long-necked lute, while Anis embroiders on radiant orange silk.

Beyond them, in the shade of a succulent-shaped umbrella, Amaranth sits on a stone bench speaking with a young mirané man Iriset doesn’t know.

Iriset sweeps in, her thin slippers crunching softly on the path. Everyone covers their eyes as she passes. When she reaches Amaranth, the miran with Her Glory stands and bows deeply, both hands over his eyes.

“Singix,” Amaranth says merrily. “This is Huya méra Luméri, and I believe he’ll make a very good secretary for you.

He knows everything there is to know about the schedules of mirané princes and various palace itineraries, and is aware of all the necessary levels of propriety.

Also, he came up through the army and has some combat-design training. ”

Iriset stares at Amaranth for a moment, then looks to Huya.

He straightens, eyes lowered. He’s a thin young miran with a beard shaved in repeating waves along his jaw, and a sheer green scarf wrapped through his thick braids.

The long end flutters against his temple, ready to be pulled across his eyes as a cloth mask.

The only cause to argue his appointment is because Iriset wants to, not for any good reason.

She can handle a lightly trained combat-designer.

So she nods only a little stiffly. “Very well. Thank you for helping me, Huya. This is Shahd, and she can situate you.”

“Your Glory,” Huya says.

“Why don’t you do that right now, Shahd?” Amaranth suggests. “I’ll attend to Singix.”

Once they leave, Amaranth gives Iriset a slow raptor smile. “I saw my brother.”

Iriset ignores her and sits daintily beside Amaranth on the bench. “Who killed Iriset mé Isidor?” she asks, picking at her layered gown, hoping she can stop wearing these heavy chest pieces sooner rather than later. The pressure isn’t bad unless it’s too hot to breathe easily.

Amaranth groans. “Ah, Singix, what a question.”

“Your Glory,” Iriset says through clenched teeth. “It’s been nearly a quad since she died. We all owe her better than this.”

“We don’t know,” Sidoné says from behind Iriset, and Iriset startles hard.

The body-twin touches Amaranth’s shoulder to brush thick curls away and glances right at Iriset. Her black eyes are tired and serious.

Iriset frowns. “That’s it?”

“If we knew,” Amaranth says with false drama, “the culprit would be bound and arrested, and you would certainly have heard.”

It’s hard not to roll her eyes. Iriset barely keeps her expression soft when she stares at Sidoné. “Suspects?”

Sidoné shakes her head. The thick red paint across her eyes and the bridge of her nose gleams in the sun. “The truth is, the evidence was never much, and there is no good trail. We have conjecture and suspects, yes, but nothing to single anyone out.”

“We need more information,” Amaranth drawls.

“You mean another attempt on my life.”

“I do.” Amaranth lifts her eyebrows as if challenging Iriset to complain about it. When she doesn’t, the Moon-Eater’s Mistress continues, “But I’ve gotten you a secretary with excellent skills, and Lyric has already requested a larger rotation of Seal guard for you.”

“More security won’t encourage another attack,” Iriset mutters, thinking.

Amaranth laughs. “I can hardly leave you obviously vulnerable after what you’ve done to my brother.”

Reminding herself she can’t scowl with Singix’s face, Iriset only turns primly away.

“I’ll allow Huya to make me some appointments, then, with whomever you want, Your Glory.

And I want to go into the city. I’ll send a message to Nielle mé Dari, who was very friendly to me.

” She lowers her voice to add, “Being seen out and about might create some opportunities. And I can continue to investigate myself who was eager for this alliance between the empire and the Ceres Remnants, and who resented it. Was Dove méra Curro in favor of it?”

Surprise colors Amaranth’s answer: “Yes, but that’s because he loves nothing more than a stirred pot.”

Sidoné laughs once, but it’s not very amused.

“You asked him to recommend secretaries?” Iriset says.

“I did.” Amaranth looks past Iriset, in the direction from which she’d come. “You ran into him.”

“And Hehet méra Davith. He doesn’t like me.”

Both Amaranth and Sidoné flick disagreeing looks at her. “Hehet doesn’t have opinions like that,” Amaranth says after a moment. “He doesn’t care one way or another about anything that isn’t a fact.”

“Well. If you say so. Who does Hehet’s faction think poisoned my candy?”

“Ama already told you,” Sidoné says, leaning closer. She brings her body heat and a whiff of citrus perfume. “Hehet won’t think anybody did it until there’s proof.”

“But Dove thinks it was a conspiracy between two princes who support the supremacy of the Four Fronts general—Lapis mé Matsimet, you remember? And that the conspirators worked with Beremé’s approval.” By her wrinkled nose, Amaranth clearly doesn’t suspect her sharp-faced lover.

“Why would she approve?”

Sidoné says, “Beremé’s faction openly disdains alliances of any kind, preferring the empire to grow as it always has. By violence. Which murder is.”

Amaranth rolls her eyes. “Murder is beneath Beremé.”

That does seem likely to Iriset, but so does the idea that Amaranth and Beremé are engaged in a long-term game of their own that might or might not include murder. If it was Beremé, Amaranth is protecting her. Fine.

“Lapis is a strong suspect,” Sidoné says.

“If the empire stops conquering new people in favor of alliance, those alliances will come with ceding of territories, and if we cede somewhere, we must do so elsewhere and her power will lessen, especially compared to her brother’s.

She’s due home again soon, and perhaps will take the opportunity to complete what her subordinates could not. ”

Iriset grimaces delicately over the thought of playing bait for a long time, and anger tickles ecstatic force in her chest.

At least while she waits, she has plenty to do.