Harper shakes his head. “All I know is that it was first spotted on her nearly two decades ago, a year or so after she abandoned Elias in the Tribal desert. She was stationed in Delphinium at the time.”

“I saw it back in Navium,” I say. “Just a bit of it. The letters ALW. The ink was different. She didn’t get all three letters at once. Initials, perhaps?”

“Not initials.” Avitas’s eyes light up. “Her Gens motto: Always victorious.”

Of course. “Look through the death records of Delphinium,” I say. “There aren’t many tattooists in the Empire. Find out if any of those who lived near Delphinium died around that time. She’d have to strip down to get that tattoo, and she’d never leave whoever did it alive.”

A knock at the door jars me from my plotting. A pale-haired Plebeian corporal enters and salutes smartly.

“Corporal Favrus, sir, here to deliver the garrison reports.” At the blank look on my face, he goes on. “You requested reports from all northern garrisons last month, sir.”

I remember now. The Karkauns around Tiborum were too quiet, and I wanted to know if they were up to something. “Wait outside.”

“I can take the report,” Avitas offers. “You’ve a line of men waiting to give you more important information about Marcus’s enemies and allies, and an appearance in the yard for some training wouldn’t be a bad idea. Take your war hammer. Remind them who you are.”

I almost tell him I’m too tired, but then I recall something I heard Quin Veturius tell Elias once: When you are weak, look to the battlefield. In battle, you will find your vigor. In battle, you will find your strength.

“I can handle intel and a bit of training,” I say. “You’re the only one I trust to find this out, Harper—and quickly. After Keris gets here, everything will become far more difficult.”

Avitas leaves, and moments later, Favrus is gabbling to me about the Karkauns.

“They have retreated into the mountains for the most part, Shrike. There has been the occasional skirmish, but nothing unusual. Tiborum has reported nothing more than a few smaller raids on the outskirts of the city.”

“Details.” I’m only half listening to him as I scan a dozen other things that need my attention.

But he doesn’t respond. I look up just in time to catch his fleeting look of disquiet before he describes the skirmishes in bare-bones terms: how many died, how many attacked.

“Corporal Favrus.” I am used to more detailed descriptions. “Can you tell me which defense maneuvers were successful and which failed? Or which clans the Karkauns hailed from?”

“I didn’t think it mattered, Shrike. The garrison commanders said the skirmishes were unimportant.”

“Everything to do with our enemies is important.” I hate having to turn Centurion on him, but he is a Mask and a Black Guard. He should know better. “What we do not know about the Karkauns could be our downfall. We all thought they were crouched around their fires, practicing unholy rites with their warlocks, when in fact famine and wars with the south pushed them to build up an enormous fleet that they used to lay waste to our largest port.”

Favrus pales and nods sharply. “Of course, Shrike,” he says. “I’ll get details on those skirmishes right away.”

I can tell he wants to leave, but my instinct tingles. Something strange is afoot, and I’ve been a Mask for too long to ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut.

As I observe the corporal, he remains stock-still, other than the sweat rolling down the side of his face. Interesting, since my office isn’t particularly warm.

“Dismissed.” I wave him away, pretending I haven’t noticed his nervousness. I consider it as I make my way to the training yard. When I arrive, the men of the Black Guard, still wary of me, give way. I swing my war hammer and call a challenge. One of the men, an Illustrian Mask from Gens Rallia who was here long before I arrived, accepts, and I tuck the issue of Favrus at the back of my mind. Perhaps a good fight or two will rattle some answers loose.

It has been so long since I trained. I forgot the way my mind clears when all that is before me is an opponent. I forgot how good it feels to fight those who know how to fight. Masks, trained and true, bonded by the shared experience of surviving Blackcliff. I best the Illustrian swiftly, gratified when the men respond to my victory with a huzzah. After an hour, more of the men gather to watch the fights, and after two, I have no challengers left.

But I also do not have an answer to the question of Corporal Favrus. I am still mulling it over when a soldier named Alistar crosses the yard. He’s one of Harper’s friends, a Plebeian who has served here in Antium for a dozen years. A good man—and trustworthy, according to Dex.

“Alistar.” The captain jogs toward me, curious. I’ve never singled him out before. “Do you know Corporal Favrus?”

“Of course, Blood Shrike. New to the Black Guard. He was transferred from Serra. Quiet. Keeps to himself.”

“Follow him,” I say. “I want to know everything about him. No detail is too small. Pay extra attention to his communications with the northern garrisons. He mentioned Karkaun skirmishes, but . . .” I shake my head, uneasy. “There’s something he’s not telling me.”

After Alistar is dispatched, I find the old Blood Shrike’s file on Corporal Favrus. I am wondering at the fact that he appears to be the most boring soldier ever to have entered the Black Guard when my door bursts open to reveal Silvio Rallius, his dark skin ashen.