“We don’t have the men—”

“If you go to challenge Keris Veturia”—a Black Guard ally planted amid the crowd and dressed in Plebeian clothing speaks up—“then I will go with you. I have grievances of my own.”

“And I.” Two more men stand, both allies of Gens Aquilla and Gens Atria. I look to the rest of the Plebeians. Come on. Come on.

“And I.” The woman who speaks is not one of mine, and when she stands, her hands on a cudgel, she is not alone. A younger woman beside her, who looks to be a sister, stands with her. Then a man behind her.

“And I!” More chime in, urged on by those around them, until all are on their feet. It is a replica of the riot Mamie Rila planned—except this time, the rioters are at my back.

As I turn to leave, I note that Avitas has disappeared. He will bring the aux soldiers whom he turned to our cause, as well as Plebeians from the other shelters we’ve opened.

We spill into the streets, heading for the Island, and when Harper finds me with his people, I have a mob at my back. Avitas marches by my side, a torch in one hand, his scim in the other. For once, his face is angry instead of calm. Harper is Plebeian, but like all Masks, he keeps his emotions close. I never once thought to ask him how he felt about what was happening in the Plebeian quarters.

“Eyes ahead, Shrike.” He glances at me, and I’m unnerved that he seems to know what I’m thinking. “Whatever you’re feeling guilty about, you can deal with it later.”

When we finally reach the bridge to the Island, the city guards, alerted to our approach, close ranks. As I march up to them, an aux bursts through the crowd, exactly on time.

“The Karkauns have attacked the drum towers,” he says breathlessly to the captain of the city guard, a Plebeian himself. “They’ve killed the drummers and the guards. There’s no way for the Commandant to communicate with the men.”

“The city will fall if you do not move,” I say to the guard captain. “Let me past and be remembered as a hero. Or continue to defend her and die a coward.”

“No need for dramatics, Blood Shrike.”

Across the bridge, the large wooden doors that lead to the Island tower are open. The Commandant emerges, backed by a dozen Paters. Her cold voice shakes, the slightest tremor of rage. Behind her, the Paters take in the scims and torches and angry faces arrayed before them. Silently, the guards stand aside, and we cross the bridge.

“Shrike,” the Commandant says. “You do not understand the delicate workings of—”

“We’re dying out here!” an angry voice calls out. “While you dine on roast fowl and fresh fruit in a tower that doesn’t belong to you.”

I hide a smirk. One of the Paters had a shipment of fruit delivered to the Island three days ago. I ensured that news of that delivery got back to the Plebeians.

“General Veturia!” A runner arrives from the Southeast Quarter, and this time it’s not one of mine. “The Karkauns have made landfall. The warlock Grímarr leads the charge, and his men are pouring into the Quarter. There—there are reports of pyres being built. A group of Martials who were caught refused to swear fealty to Grímarr and were thrown on the pyre. Our troops need orders, sir.”

Keris hesitates. It’s just one moment. One instant of weakness. You want to destroy her? You have to become her first.

“I am taking control of this military operation.” I shove past her, past the Paters, and motion Avitas and the aux soldiers who have moved to the front of the crowd to follow. “You have been relieved of duty, Keris Veturia. You are welcome to observe, as are the Paters.” Let this work. Please.

I head up the winding stairs, Avitas and the auxes at my back. When we reach the Island’s command level, Avitas lights a blue-fire torch and we keep moving, up to the roof. All our hopes lie in that torch. It seems so small now, insignificant in the great dark night.

He waves it thrice. We wait.

And wait.

Bleeding skies. We can’t have gotten the timing right on every part of this plan only for it to go wrong now.

“Shrike!” Harper points to the western sea, where, from behind a craggy hook of land, a forest of masts emerges.

The Martial fleet.

Gasps echo from the Plebeians who I ensured followed us up to the top of the tower. To a man, the Paters appear either ill or terrified.

As for the Commandant—in the years I have known her, I’ve never seen her shocked or even mildly surprised. Now, her face and knuckles go so white she could be a corpse.

“The fleet didn’t sink that night,” I hiss at her. “It sailed away. And you had your jinn master stir up old shipwrecks to wash to shore so that our people would believe the Martial fleet had gone under and that I was to blame. I went to the beach, Keris, got past all your guard dogs. The masts, the sails, all the detritus that washed up—they were from ships that must have been under the sea for decades.”

“Why would I hide the fleet? That’s preposterous.”

“Because you need those ships for the Nightbringer’s war with Marinn and the Scholars,” I snap at her. “So you thought you’d wait out the Karkauns. Let a few thousand Plebeians die. Let that bastard Grímarr attack on land. Decimate his forces. Steal his ships. Suddenly, you’d have a fleet twice the size of the Mariners’.”