When they paused at midday, and Luke left them to dine in a roadside tavern, Cade went to the kitchen, and returned shortly with meatrolls, a pitcher of water, cups, and bandages. He tended her wounded hand, tearing away the crusted handkerchief, and washed the wound with water from the pitcher. She hissed at the sting. From his pocket, he produced a small tub of salve.

“The headwoman in the kitchen was very helpful,” he said, and he slathered some of the herby smelling ointment on the back of Karigan’s hand. “Luke overreacted.”

“I’m not so sure,” she replied.

Cade raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“We’re in the Capital, Cade, and that makes everything more dangerous. He was right to correct me. Us. We can’t make mistakes like that—too much is riding on our being successful.”

He nodded his acceptance and tied off her bandage. “I didn’t like him hurting you.”

“I didn’t either, and I bet he feels bad about it. We see him acting his part, but he’s got a family back in Mill City that he must worry about, with the uprising and all, and who knows what it’s really like when he goes into those taverns pretending to be someone he is not. It must be exhausting.”

“You’re right,” Cade replied, and he led her to the shade beneath a maple with their meatrolls and water. “But if he ever raises a whip at you again, I will tear it out of his hands and use it on him.”

The fierceness of Cade’s expression made him look hawklike just then, and she did not envy anyone who got in his way.

When Luke stepped into the darkness of the tavern after the bright sunlight outside, he paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. The common room was very quiet, almost sleepy, with few patrons eating their meals.

A man approached and introduced himself as the tavern keeper. “You are Mr. Mayforte?”

Luke nodded.

“Ah, then you are invited to our private dining room.”

Luke’s spirits, already wearied by having to play this part and worrying about his family, not to mention feeling despicable after having lashed Karigan with his whip, sank to a new low. His overseer was checking up on him. He had no choice but to follow the tavern keeper into the small dining room with seating for four. Only one man, however, awaited him: an Inquisitor named Mr. Starling. The man sat there with his napkin tucked into his already straining collar as he cut into a hunk of beef.

“Ah, Mr. Mayforte,” the man said. “Please join me.”

Luke sat across the table from him, but did not speak, not even in greeting. A servant brought in a steaming plate of food for him and then left, closing the door to ensure privacy.

“Please, eat,” said Mr. Starling. “The beef is especially fine today.”

Luke did not, but the Inquisitor sawed into his own, unperturbed. He was stout with wobbly rolls of fat beneath his chin, and he wore an expensive, well-cut suit, with a spray of flowers tucked into his lapel. Sweat gleamed on his forehead as he worked on his food. Mr. Starling played the part of a buffoon so others would underestimate him. Luke knew that one should never underestimate an Inquisitor.

Starling, with his talent as a spy and interrogator, had been provided by Webster Silk for his son’s use in Mill City, or so Luke was told. The elder Silk had ultimate authority over the Inquisitors. He trained many of them himself.

Luke first met Mr. Starling the morning after the mill fire. He hadn’t gone into hiding and had been easily found at home. Mr. Starling greeted him by having the bodies of Luke’s stable lads dumped at his feet. Then he was questioned. He closed his eyes, trembling at the memory, a trickle of sweat slithering down his own forehead. There had been no reason to kill the lads, and that was precisely the point. Mr. Starling wanted Luke to understand that if he could easily kill the lads for no particular reason, it was best to cooperate and not give him a reason to do worse.

When Mr. Starling tucked away all that was on his plate, he slurped down a glass of wine and belched. He dabbed his mouth almost daintily with his napkin. His fingers were tiny, round sausages.

“Your journey goes well?” he asked.

“Yes,” Luke replied.

“Good, good. And your companions have not guessed?”

“No. They are bes—” Luke clamped his mouth shut. Starling did not need that particular piece of information.

“Besotted? Is that what you were going to say? They are besotted with one another?”

Luke did not reply. He did not have to. Starling had only managed to get it out of him a couple nights ago that Tam Ryder was not a he. There had been threats, and Starling was well-trained in the detection of lies and evasions. Luke was an ordinary stablehand. What was he compared to an Inquisitor of the empire?

“Well, well,” Mr. Starling said. “That is very interesting, indeed. Could be useful. He is taking care of her in her illness, then? Yes, well, not so uncommon for a frail girl to fall in love with her caretaker, eh?”

Luke cursed himself for his slip. He’d seen the bond growing between Karigan and Cade well before their journey had begun. Allowing them to have a bunkhouse of their own each night had only encouraged them, but what choice had he?

“My master was terribly delighted by the news that your servant boy was really the girl. Very delighted. He just wants you to keep traveling as you have been. We will take care of the rest. Have you found out any new details about the girl?”

“Just what the professor told me. Miss Goodgrave has been too sick to tell me anything. Besides, I thought asking questions was your specialty.”