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bordering directly onto those. It made sense, in fact, that the servant’s quarters should be closer, so that there was never a risk of a princely whim failing to receive its proper pandering. Put it all together and my tenuous evidence pointed towards the western wing.
    In any case, I had to start somewhere. I peeked to satisfy myself the passage was empty and darted left. Things would have been simpler had the palace been designed according to any sort of logic; common sense would have dictated a single main corridor circumnavigating the entire floor, but common sense had clearly never stood a chance in the face of royal capriciousness. Time and again I had to divert around some needless obstruction – first a fountain that had no right to be four floors from the ground and then a great light well, illuminating a small and apparently sealed off garden.
    It would have been less frustrating had every corner not required another pause to make certain I wasn’t charging into the arms of the Palace Guard. I could frequently hear footsteps, sometimes near, sometimes the faintest patter, and raised voices calling to and over each other. It was safe to say that Alvantes’s arrival had been more than enough to focus the guards’ attention, after their weeks of forced isolation. Still, the fact the diversion was working only made it more likely that I’d barge into some isolated sentry curious as to what all the fuss was about.
    As it turned out, though, it was the one time I didn’t look that nearly gave me away. My nerves were strung to breaking point by the palace’s wilful design, and a long streak of safety had made me careless. I raced around a corner and had taken three steps before my brain acknowledged the guard ahead. By the time I’d skidded to a halt, I was certain he must be aware of me, about to look round at any moment.
    However, the corridor was long, my soft-soled shoes all but silent on the patterned tiles, and his gaze was trained away from me – towards the ongoing ruckus caused by Alvantes’s appearance, no doubt. I retreated, literally walking backwards for fear of taking my eyes off him. I pressed myself around the corner I’d so recently burst from, held still until the blood stopped pounding in my ears.
    Lucky. I’d been lucky. More than I deserved for such sloppiness.
    And another thought, following close behind: what was there left to guard up here but Panchetto’s vacant quarters?
    It seemed unfair to expect any more of fate, and I was already mulling over the impossible-seeming task of making my entrance without the guard’s noticing, when a voice – distant but clear, presumably issuing from the far end of the passage – called, “Namquo, get here. There’s trouble downstairs.”
    I didn’t witness the man named Namquo’s response; but a moment later, I heard the tap of feet receding down the hall.
    I refused to let myself consider. I’d freeze if I did. I burst round the corner once more, ran to the door hanging, hoping my rapid footsteps were quieter than the booming of my heart. I actually saw the guard’s retreating back as he disappeared round the next corner, and for an instant it seemed certain he’d hear and turn. Then he was gone, and I was plunging through the curtain, exertion and fear making my chest quiver like a beaten drum.
    It was worth it. Before I’d even really taken in the sight before me, I knew it was worth it. As the rush of fear passed, I only became more certain: of all my less than wise, not always savoury undertakings, here was the one that might actually justify the risks.
    For Prince Panchetto’s chambers were a thing of beauty, of exquisiteness that mocked even the possibility of imperfection. Where an edge or surface could be painted, gilded, studded with jewels or inlaid with precious metal, it had been, and always with the most astounding artistry. More, there were so many cushions scattered round and so many sumptuous rugs upon the mosaicked