Seven Faceless Saints

by M.K. Lobb

Genres: YA Dark Fantasy; Young Adult; YA Romance

Synopsis

Discover what’s lurking in the shadows in this dark fantasy debut with a murder-mystery twist, perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo and Kerri Maniscalco.

In the city of Ombrazia, saints and their disciples rule with terrifying and unjust power, playing favorites while the unfavored struggle to survive.

After her father’s murder at the hands of the Ombrazian military, Rossana Lacertosa is willing to do whatever it takes to dismantle the corrupt system—tapping into her powers as a disciple of Patience, joining the rebellion, and facing the boy who broke her heart. As the youngest captain in the history of Palazzo security, Damian Venturi is expected to be ruthless and strong, and to serve the saints with unquestioning devotion. But three years spent fighting in a never-ending war have left him with deeper scars than he wants to admit…and a fear of confronting the girl he left behind.

Now a murderer stalks Ombrazia’s citizens. As the body count climbs, the Palazzo is all too happy to look the other way—that is, until a disciple becomes the newest victim. With every lead turning into a dead end, Damian and Roz must team up to find the killer, even if it means digging up buried emotions. As they dive into the underbelly of Ombrazia, the pair will discover something more sinister—and far less holy. With darkness closing in and time running out, will they be able to save the city from an evil so powerful that it threatens to destroy everything in its path?

Release date: February 7, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 240

Sample

It was just past midnight when the paranoia set in.

Leonzio paced the length of the room, heartbeat so vigorous it was a foreign sensation in his chest. He was hyperaware of the cool air against his skin. The way his tongue—too dry, too dry—sat all wrong behind the cage of his teeth.

Unable to stand it any longer, he crossed over to the door, opened it, and peered into the corridor. It stretched out before him like an infinite passage, all but the first few steps consumed by oppressive shadow.

The guard who should have been standing there was gone.

And yet the disciple couldn’t bring himself to leave his room, unwilling to navigate the dark Palazzo.

The building had eyes. He’d felt their weight all week: first in the place where he prayed to the saints, then in the council chambers where he met with the other representatives of the blessed guilds. They tracked his every step, and not even the light of the stars could drive them away.

As he slipped back into his room, frustration nagged at the edges of his mind. What had he been doing prior to the fear taking hold? He’d been looking for the chief magistrate—that was it. Had needed to tell the man something crucially important. But what?

Leonzio swept a hand across his perspiring brow. The candle he’d lit cast slanting shadows up the walls, soft lines shifting as the flame quivered in the breeze from the cracked window. Staggering to the other side of the room, he shoved the glass pane open wider, letting the wind caress his face as he stared into the night-shrouded gardens below.

They stared back.

Pulse ricocheting higher, the disciple stumbled in his haste to yank the curtain closed. Something was out there. Something ghastly and inhuman prowled the Palazzo grounds. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the wrongness, the slimy, shifting weight of it a pressure at his throat.

He twisted his sweat-slick fingers together, muttering a prayer to the patron saint of Death. His saint. The one from whom his family was descended, blessing them with the gift of magic. And yet tonight his fervent murmurings brought little comfort, for the more he questioned Death’s power, the less he felt the saint’s presence.

Help me was the central request of his current plea, though he only grew hotter and felt sicker. Perhaps it was not enough, the disciple thought, to request protection with mere words. Compulsion gripped him as suddenly as the nausea had, firm and unrelenting. He let it carry him. He was a distant spectator, two eyes in a flesh prison.

Vision beginning to blur, he dragged himself to the room adjacent, using the wall as an aid. He imagined he left handprints against the gilded paint, swipes of rusted crimson that would draw the saints to him. As if they were no longer deities, but slavering beasts seeking a fresh carcass.

The saints were merciful. All the stories said so.

But the stories also said they craved blood.

Leonzio dropped to his knees beside an incoherent arrangement of debris he’d collected from the Palazzo grounds. He didn’t quite know when or why he’d begun stuffing rocks into his pockets and snapping twigs off bushes like some kind of compulsive pruner. The process had simply felt… necessary.

His hands shook as he knelt on the floor, redistributing the debris into a different shape. The stone beneath his knees grounded him slightly. As the disciple aligned the sticks, he whispered not only to Death but to all the faceless saints.

Then he picked up the knife.

When the first drops of blood fell, it was almost a relief. Stark fear gave way to welcome inertia.

By the time he realized he was dying, it was far too late.

Damian Venturi was weary of death.

Truth be told, he was weary in general. The night had long shifted closer to dawn than dusk, and it was increasingly difficult to focus on the dead disciple before him. He adjusted the collar of his Palazzo-issued coat, hoping it might ease some of the pressure building in his throat.

Leonzio Bianchi, former disciple of Death, showed every indication of having been poisoned. His pallid lips were slick with a distasteful layer of foam, and the veins lacing his forearms stood out in stark, bruise-like relief. Despite it all, his expression was peaceful, the curve of his mouth soft, as if he’d resigned himself unflinchingly to death.

Damian leaned away from Leonzio’s body, repressing a shiver. The disciple’s bedroom was cold, and dim candlelight cast shadows on the gilded walls. Perhaps it was merely situational, but there was something oppressive about the darkness nipping at the edges of that orange glow. Something unnerving about the way Leonzio’s face was turned so as to reflect in the mirror across the room.

“Well?”

The chief magistrate’s voice interrupted Damian’s examination of the body, startling him enough that he lurched away from the bed. Sweat beaded on his brow. Death always brought him back to his time in the war. It made his chest tighten, his blood race, and his feet feel as though they were being dragged through mud.

“I don’t know,” Damian said, turning to face the chief magistrate. He kept his tone clipped but polite. The chief magistrate’s fury was a presence of its own; Damian had felt it from the moment he’d walked into the room. “Is it possible it was a suicide?”

Chief Magistrate Forte, a tall disciple of Grace with impeccably combed hair and a thin moustache, peered at Damian over his spectacles. Forte had occupied his position for little more than a year, having been selected by the guilds’ representatives to replace his predecessor. It wasn’t often one of Grace’s disciples fulfilled the role, and Damian wondered if that knowledge had shaped Forte into the sharply uncompromising man before him.

“A suicide?” Forte echoed the suggestion derisively, hands roving the dead man’s clothes and bedsheets for whatever they could tell him. Disciples of Grace had a connection to such things: It was what made them expert weavers, able to manipulate fabrics into anything from trousers to tapestries without touching a needle and thread. “How convenient that would be for you, Signor Venturi.”

“I beg your pardon?” The reply slipped out before Damian could stop it. As chief magistrate, Forte was believed to be the saints’ earthly voice, but it hadn’t made him any more tactful. Damian had been back in Ombrazia barely a year, and already that much was clear.

“Were this self-imposed,” Forte continued, “it would mean Palazzo security hadn’t failed to protect a top government official.” He didn’t look at Damian as he spoke but pulled away from the bed, a frown settling between his untamed brows. “Leonzio certainly died in these clothes, but there’s nothing otherwise unusual about them.” With a wave of his hand, the bedsheets wriggled free and swept up to cover the disciple’s body.

Damian was grateful not to have to look at the dead man any longer, but his relief faded at Forte’s next words.

“Speaking of Palazzo security, where were you last night, Venturi? Is it not your job to ensure this kind of thing doesn’t happen?”

Frustration pulsed through Damian’s veins, but he gritted his teeth to cage in the retort he wanted to fling. “My apologies, mio signore. I was at the Mercato.”

The city’s weekly night market was a chance for disciples to sell and exchange their wares. The four guilds who dealt in craft—Strength, Grace, Patience, and Cunning—were the backbone of Ombrazia’s economy, and the reason it was the hub of trade. Grace’s affinity for fabrics was matched by Strength’s affinity for stone, Patience’s affinity for metal, and Cunning’s affinity for chemicals. As such, their major function was to churn out weapons, textiles, stonework, and all manner of potions to be shipped to other lands.

All disciples were descendants of the original saints, but not all descendants had magic. Sometimes, Damian’s father had told him, the revered abilities possessed by disciples skipped a generation or disappeared entirely when the bloodline became too diluted.

Descendants without magic—people like Damian—weren’t disciples. They were little better than the rest of the unfavored citizens.

As such, acting as security was the only way Damian would ever be able to attend the Mercato. Crafted items were not for people like him. Mingling with disciples was not an option for those with nothing to offer society. In case the unfavored chose to ignore that fact, security officers were there to keep them away. Damian’s occupation was the closest he would ever get to experiencing the life he might have had.

But he knew as well as Forte that, as head of Palazzo security, it was a job he ought to have delegated. Unless he was doing his rounds of the temples, his job was to be here, in the Palazzo itself. His number one priority was to protect the disciples selected to represent their guilds.

“You were at the Mercato.” Forte’s voice was bland as he echoed Damian’s statement. “Did you not make your rounds of the temples yesterday?”

“Yes.” He winced to admit it. “I thought—”

“No, Venturi.” The chief magistrate cut him off. “You didn’t think. I’d say that’s abundantly clear.” With each word he took a step closer to Damian, jabbing a finger at his chest. “The guilds rely on us to protect their representatives. I rely on you to ensure the Palazzo is the safest building in Ombrazia. And yet, on the night one of our disciples turns up dead, you’re frolicking around the Mercato?”

Damian swallowed, protestations springing to his tongue. He longed to argue, to say that by no means had he been frolicking, but months of experience had taught him it wouldn’t make a difference. “Mio signore, I assure you no one could have been in the disciple’s room without my officers knowing. Besides”—he inclined his chin at the body—“there’s no injury to his person. Either he had some kind of sudden aneurysm, or he was poisoned. I assure you we keep a very close watch on who comes and goes from the Palazzo.”

The chief magistrate’s nostrils flared. “Clearly not close enough.”

Damian had no response to that. There had already been two unexplained deaths in Ombrazia in a short amount of time: the first a young girl, the second a boy around Damian’s age. Their bodies had been carted off to the city morgue, and Forte hadn’t bothered assigning officers to investigate. The unfavored fought among themselves all the time, he’d said. What did it matter if a couple had fallen?

But this was different. The disciples of Death had chosen Leonzio Bianchi to represent them in the Palazzo. His sudden demise would frighten and infuriate people.

“It’s too convenient,” Forte growled. “Targeting Death’s representative so that no one is around to read the body?”

Despite himself, Damian nodded. He’d had the same thought. Blessed with the ability to make contact with the deceased before their souls fled, a disciple of Death might have been able to glean what happened to Leonzio.

Of course, given that Leonzio was the Palazzo’s disciple of Death, they were likely out of luck. Souls didn’t tend to linger very long.

“I’ll get someone here,” Damian assured the chief magistrate. “Just in case.”

Forte drew a hand across his forehead, unappeased. “Fix this, Venturi. We won’t be able to keep it from the public, so we’d better have answers for them soon. I’m starting to wonder whether my general made a mistake appointing his son head of security.” He pulled a silver watch from his pocket as if he had somewhere of great importance to be in the middle of the night. “I let Battista bring you back from the north, and I can have you sent away again just as easily.”

The words were scathing, and they cut deep. Damian didn’t think he could handle being sent back to war. His nerves were frayed enough as it were.

“I’ll figure out what happened,” he muttered. “I won’t let you down.”

Forte leveled him with an incensed look. “You’d better not. Report to me tomorrow. If you suspect poison was involved, I take it you know where to start.”

Damian’s cheeks burned, but he bowed to Forte as the man slipped out of the room, large form swallowed up by the dark hallway. Another sleepless night, then. Sometimes he wished his father hadn’t bothered promoting him after he’d returned.

To keep you busy, Battista Venturi had told Damian at the time. Because I know what it is to be alone with thoughts of darkness.

Damian had waited for those thoughts to go away. How was he supposed to get closure when he knew the war was ongoing? The Second War of Saints was stretching into its twentieth year. Men and women had battled in the north for far longer than Damian’s two-year stint, but as it turned out, that meant little. Death still stalked his every waking moment. It traced cold, malevolent fingers down his spine and hissed garbled nothings in his ear.

Once, he might have distracted himself with memories. Would have pictured the face of the girl he loved and used her smile to drive away the fear. Now, though, three years on, he couldn’t imagine Rossana Lacertosa as anything other than furious.

It was why Damian stayed away from Patience’s sector whenever possible. He’d seen Roz in passing, but they hadn’t spoken to one another since his return to Ombrazia. The Roz of his subconscious already knew what sins he’d committed; the reality of telling her would be so much worse. Besides, her magic had shown itself, meaning she was a disciple now. And Damian? He was but a fractured boy playing at commander.

He shook his head to clear it, then raised his voice to be heard outside the room. “Enzo?”

A thin serving boy about Damian’s age appeared in the doorway, clad in the slate-gray uniform of Palazzo staff. He’d been standing outside the room when Damian arrived, and clearly hadn’t moved. His grimace was animated as he took in the sight of Leonzio’s sheet-covered body. “Signore?”

Damian sighed. “Forte’s gone. You don’t have to call me that.”

Enzo relaxed at once, dragging a hand through the inky sheen of his hair. He’d been at the Palazzo less than a month, but he and Damian had become fast friends. “Merda,” he said, attention still fixed on the bed. “He’s really dead, isn’t he?”

“So it would seem.” An edge slipped into Damian’s voice. Enzo hadn’t yet spent any time up north, and had likely never seen a dead man. At his age, it was strange he hadn’t been drafted yet, but it was only a matter of time. Everyone able-bodied and unfavored found themselves there eventually.

“And Forte expects you to figure out what happened?”

Damian shot Enzo a sideways glance. “You aren’t even going to pretend you didn’t eavesdrop?”

Enzo was staunchly unapologetic. “Hard not to. How can I help?”

The question made Damian’s head spin, and he was quiet a moment as he began formulating a plan. “Can you fetch Signora de Luca for me?”

“Sure.” But Enzo didn’t leave right away, instead fixing Damian with a curious expression. “Are you okay? You look a bit… off.”

Damian let his shoulders slump, no longer bothering to maintain an air of confidence. He indicated at the bed. “This is on me. I should have been here.”

“You didn’t know this would happen. And it’s not as though you’re the only one on duty.”

“That’s not the point.”

Enzo hesitated, looking uneasy.

“Enzo, please. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“All right.” The words were heavy. “I’ll be right back.”

Damian sank into the dead disciple’s desk chair as Enzo’s footsteps retreated. His ears rang, the sound shifting into the echo of gunshots. In his head they multiplied a thousandfold, and the cold sweat that followed had nothing to do with the situation in the Palazzo. For a heartbeat he was ankle deep in mud, head spinning in terror, dragging a brother’s rigor mortis–stricken body away from the front lines. How many times had those moments reared their heads in his nightmares?

You’re a soldier. The head of Palazzo security. Pull yourself together, you—

“Just in here, Signora.”

Enzo reappeared in the doorway, now accompanied by the resident disciple of Cunning. Damian gave himself a shake, rising to beckon Giada de Luca into the bedroom.

“Thank you for coming. Enzo, can you head to Death’s temple? Tell the guild to send one of their disciples to the Palazzo. I don’t care who it is. I need a read on the body.”

Damian always felt a bit strange, ordering his friend around, but Enzo nodded. With another meaningful look at Damian, he melted back into the dark hallway.

Giada swallowed a dry sob as she caught sight of Leonzio’s body. She was older than Damian—probably in her midtwenties—but was a slip of a thing, with dark hair and a darker gaze. “It’s true, then. He’s really dead.” She touched her eyelids, then her heart, in the sign of the patron saints.

“So it would appear. I’m sorry to have called upon you so early, but I require your expertise. I need to know what type of poison killed him.” As a disciple of Cunning, Giada knew poisons better than anyone. She should be able to sense the chemicals in Leonzio’s veins—a partial autopsy with no incisions required.

“How could this happen?” Giada asked hoarsely. “You have officers in every wing of the Palazzo, do you not?”

She didn’t say it like an accusation, but it felt like one.

“Some things are outside my control, Signora. If you’d be so kind?” Damian pointed meaningfully at the body, and Giada sidled over to the bed, face wan in the dim light.

Her hands moved like pale moths across the dead man’s chest. She shoved the crimson fabric of his robe aside, lips forming words Damian couldn’t make out. He watched as she tipped Leonzio’s head back, prying open his jaw. Teeth glinted in the candlelight.

“Based on the color of his lips, I would guess he spent his last moments fighting for breath,” Giada said. “Yet the appearance of the skin suggests the poison was bloodborne, not an asphyxiant…. Something vile definitely lingers in his body, though it’s hard to say what. It feels a bit like dustweed—kills swiftly once it enters the circulatory system but, when taken undissolved in water, is liable to cause choking.”

Damian frowned. “You don’t know for certain?”

“Wait.” Giada’s interruption was the crack of a whip. She shoved the sleeve of Leonzio’s robe up further, baring the delicate skin of the inner bicep. There was a mark there, Damian saw: a deep smudge like fresh ink from which black tendrils radiated outward. Giada touched the skin gently with a finger, only to leap back as if she’d been burned. “No, no. It wasn’t dustweed.”

Damian’s teeth came together with an audible snap. “Oh?”

“Dustweed leaves a latticelike pattern and almost no trace at the injection site. But these marks follow the veins from the point of insertion.” Giada leaned forward and, without touching this time, used a forefinger to indicate the lines climbing the dead man’s arm. “This is something else. I don’t recognize the appearance or the sensation of such a poison. And it’s too late to draw it out.”

Damian’s heart sank. If Giada didn’t know what had killed Leonzio, it would be more difficult to come up with a list of suspects.

Though he already had one, of course.

“Signs point to him having been dead around five hours,” Giada added, oblivious to his discomfort.

“Right.” Damian knew what he had to do. He extinguished the candle and reached for the cuffs at his belt. “Giada de Luca,” he said heavily. “I’m placing you under arrest for the suspected murder of Leonzio Bianchi. Should you attempt to struggle, your life will be forfeit. You will be subject to questioning forthwith, and thereafter as I see fit.”

Guilt roiled within him as Giada blanched, holding out her wrists. He sincerely doubted the soft-spoken woman was responsible, but he had to know for certain. He shackled her hands together before leading her down the stairs. She moved slowly, shakily, not breathing a word. As if she wasn’t surprised by the turn of events but rather disappointed by them.

The dungeons beneath the Palazzo were quiet as a tomb, currently empty of criminals and deserters. Damian ushered Giada into an interrogation room, all cold stone and grim shadows. She sat, studying him with a mixture of fear and apprehension. Damian remained standing.

Giada folded her shackled hands on the table before her, fingers interlacing, knuckles pale. Her dark eyes didn’t waver from his.

“Convenient, isn’t it,” Damian said, “that Leonzio turned up poisoned mere days after you two argued over a new policy initiative.”

It wasn’t much of a motive; the Palazzo disciples disagreed all the time. They had to, in order to come up with policy decisions that would best benefit the city. And despite Giada’s skill with chemicals, she wouldn’t have been foolish enough to kill Leonzio in such a way. Not when she knew it would make her the primary suspect.

But it didn’t matter what Damian thought. Forte’s instructions had been clear.

If you suspect poison was involved, I take it you know where to start.

As the Palazzo’s top official, both symbolically and in practice, Chief Magistrate Forte was not to be denied. The disciples trusted him. Revered him. They believed he spoke to the saints daily in order to discern their will. He was a fat spider positioned at the center of a political web.

Giada was the first person Damian would question, but she wouldn’t be the last. The Palazzo—the city—was teeming with people whose motivations he couldn’t discern.

Giada licked her lips, a sheen creeping over her eyes. “Officer Venturi, I swear I wasn’t behind this. I didn’t recognize that poison, and I doubt Leonzio’s death was self-imposed. I think…” Her voice trailed off in a whisper. “I’ve heard rumors, you know, from the other disciples. I think darkness has taken root in the Palazzo.”

Damian pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, confusion pulsing through him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A beat of silence hung between them, turning the air cold before Giada finally answered.

“Someone—or something—managed to infiltrate the Palazzo and kill a representative without drawing any suspicion. Without leaving any trace.” The words were halting, a desperate note to them. She leaned across the table, fixing Damian with a panicked look. “With all due respect, mio signore, you shouldn’t be accusing me of murder. You should be worrying about whether I’m next.”

Rossana Lacertosa detested crowds.

She hated the unnerving sense of pure anonymity as she waded through swaths of people, giving them a good shove whenever they didn’t get out of her way fast enough. Crowds were so infuriatingly slow, and Roz did nothing at a languid pace.

She scanned the colorful night market that spilled from the piazza into the side streets. Disciples moved among the stalls in groups, excited voices permeating the night air. Held every weekend from dusk until dawn, the Mercato was one of many things in Ombrazia that catered solely to disciples. There, an assortment of magical wares would be for sale: robes enchanted to repel flame, knives that never needed sharpening, locks that opened only at a specific person’s touch. The latter was a thing Roz herself had been working on intermittently for weeks. Given the recent rebel activity, the locks were in high demand, so she and the other disciples of Patience had slowed their creation of wartime supplies to meet it.

In Roz’s opinion, that was the worst part about being a disciple: the expectation that one spend so much of one’s time creating magical items. She had no interest in using her affinity for metal to support Ombrazia’s already booming economy. In fact, she was hard pressed to give a shit about the economy at all. Not when it only benefited a portion of the population.

She cracked her jaw, pushing her way through another group of people. The Mercato didn’t consist only of magical wares. There were also regular items: weapons and expensive rugs, hand-carved statuettes and herbal elixirs. All things disciples could create in less than half the time required by someone without a magical affinity. All things that fetched a pretty price when exported.

It was beautiful, this part of Ombrazia, where moonlight gilded the flagstone in spaces the lamplight didn’t touch it. Where those descended from the saints could pretend the less savory parts of the city didn’t exist.

Across the way Roz could see a disciple of Cunning poised behind a display of vials, opaque black liquid swirling within them. The scent drifted to her, smelling strongly of sugar and iron. She let it draw her over, heeled boots clicking against the cobblestones, and smiled sharply at the vendor. “The usual.”

The red-haired disciple’s eyes flicked to the scowling man Roz had stepped in front of—the man who ought to have been next in line. But she didn’t argue, reaching under the table of wares to procure a vial of shimmering liquid. Roz took it, passing her payment over. “Thank you.” To the quietly fuming man behind her, she batted her lashes and said, “My apologies, Signore. I’m in a rush.”

She wasn’t, but he straightened at her direct address, looking appeased. “No matter.”

He seemed to hope she would say more, but Roz only shot him another vague smile before turning on her heel. She shoved the vial into the pocket of her jacket, thumb skimming the wax stopper.

Fire danced in her periphery as she passed a stall manned by a few of her fellow disciples of Patience. Surrounding them was the familiar metallic tang of their magic, and Roz quickened her step, keen not to be spotted. She slowed upon noticing two security officers at the edge of the piazza, and pretended to be interested in a display of silk dressing gowns. As she strained to listen in on their conversation, a third officer joined the duo, dragging a youth along with him. The boy was about Roz’s age, with a shock of ginger hair and an upturned nose. His clothes were so dusty they looked gray. The officers ignored his curses as he struggled against Patience-made handcuffs, trying to free himself.

Fool, Roz thought heavily. He should know as well as anyone that the cuffs wouldn’t budge for anyone save the officer to whom they’d been issued.

“I’ll give you five seconds to answer my question,” the third officer snapped, and Roz chanced a furtive look. He was a tall man, unsmiling, with a shock of black hair. A former soldier, no doubt. Most Palazzo security were.

It wasn’t him, though, and something within Roz eased.

She knew Damian Venturi was around—had seen him from a distance over the past year—but the idea of running into him here always set her heart racing. She wondered what the other officers thought of Damian as a commander. Whether they feared him the way people feared his father. She had no doubt her childhood sweetheart was following in Battista Venturi’s blood-soaked footsteps.

The dust-covered boy yanked his bound hands away from the guards. “What, no good-cop, bad-cop act?”

Roz grinned into the dresses as the officer scowled, not condescending to answer. “Why are you lurking around the Mercato?”

“I wasn’t lurking!”

“Sure looked like it to me.” The officer paused to dip his head at a passing disciple of Mercy before turning back to the boy. “No ring, no entry.”

Roz automatically glanced down at the slim band on her index finger that marked her as a disciple. As always, the sight of it made her grimace. She’d discovered her affinity later than most—when she and Damian were tested together at age thirteen, neither of them had shown any signs of magic. Her connection to metal hadn’t reared its head until three years later. By that time, Damian had gone off to the front lines, and her father had been killed for deserting them. Roz might’ve been able to hide what she was, but without Jacopo Lacertosa’s meager military stipend, Patience’s guild was her only option. She might hate what she was, but at least it was a way to support herself and her mother. When you were a disciple—traitor father or not—you were never left to starve.

The officer’s voice recaptured her attention as he asked the boy, “What do you know about the rebellion?”

Now this was new. Roz went preternaturally still, adrenaline surging in her veins. As far as she was aware, the chief magistrate and the Palazzo weren’t taking the threat of the rebellion seriously.

“. . .