Sloane wiped her greasy boots on the wet grass before stepping onto the leather floor of the sedan.She sat on the edge of the seat, keeping her dirty gray pants from touching Lyra's clean white shirt. Her knuckles hurt from gripping the bulldozer controls, and her hair smelled of diesel smoke.The driver pressed the gas, and the car sped away from the docks toward the high-rise district.Lyra didn't say a word for the first three miles. She reached into the lunch basket, pulled out a warm white meat bun wrapped in paper, and tossed it into Sloane's lap."Eat," Lyra said, looking out the tinted window. "You look like you're about to pass out on my floor."Sloane didn't pretend to have manners. She tore into the bun, swallowing the warm pork filling in three bites."Why did you bring me along, Lyra?" Sloane asked, her mouth full. "Linnea told me she would throw me into the ocean if I came near the city towers.""Linnea thinks with numbers, and Vanessa thinks with her father's guns," Ly

The gold key fit into the brass lock of the iron door on the second floor of the warehouse.Sloane gave it a hard twist. The lock clicked open, and the thick wooden door swung inward.The apartment was large, clean, and smelled of cedar and fresh paint. There was a wide sofa, a low table, a small kitchen with a gas stove that worked, and a real bed covered with gray blankets. In the back corner behind the desk sat a tall green iron safe. Its door was unlocked and slightly open.Sloane walked over, her boots making soft sounds on the wooden floor.She pulled the safe door open.Inside was a single sheet of white paper with the city's red wax seal in the corner. Her eyes moved across the lines.Zenchip Logistics Yard Nine. Title Holder: Sloane Whitemore.Her hands started to shake.Twelve million credits.Just two days ago, Linnea had mocked her in front of a whole store of rich women for having twelve credits and sixty cents. She had washed greasy pots until her knuckles bled just to b

The lead western general drew his saber halfway out of its scabbard, the steel scraping loudly in the frozen hall."Insolent gutter trash!" the general roared, his gray mustache twitching with fury. "Who let this disgraced woman walk onto the High Platform?! Guards, cut her down where she stands!"Four palace guards in armor broke away from the wall, their short spears pointing straight toward Sloane's ribs.Sloane didn't flinch. She didn't lower her hands. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her ears, but her feet stayed planted on the second stone step.Clang!A flat, ringing shockwave blasted across the front of the platform.Riven hadn't stood up. With his left hand, he had casually pushed the handle of his sheathed black sword forward. The steel guard caught the tip of the first guard's spear, snapping the iron head off like dry chalk and sending the guard flying backward onto the carpet.The other three guards stopped at once, their boots sliding on the floor."Who told you to

The iron door of the cell swung in the draft, creaking once before Sloane reached the top of the stone stairs.She held the black leather folder tightly against her ribs with both hands. The cold dampness of the basement lingered on her bare arms, but under her skin, her blood felt like boiling grease. Every step up into the palace felt like walking through glass.She pushed through the wooden door leading into the private residential wing.Unlike the grand public hall downstairs with its banners and crowd of shouting lords, this corridor was silent, covered in deep navy carpet that swallowed every sound. Tall silver wall lights cast a soft yellow glow along the walls.At the end of the hall stood two guards in black high-collared uniforms, their hands resting on the grips of their sidearms.As soon as Sloane turned the corner, their hands tightened on their belts. One took a step forward, his jaw hard."No one enters the private quarters after assembly," the guard said, his voice fla

The grease on the door handle of the Municipal Maritime Bureau had been there since the previous winter.Sloane pushed the heavy glass door open with her hip at five minutes past eight. Her coat was still wet from the pier, the wool giving off a sour, damp smell, and her left boot made a small squeak on the brown linoleum floor.Behind the long counter sat three clerks in gray sleeve-protectors, sorting yellow slips into wooden cubbies. Nobody looked up. A ceiling fan wobbled above them, pushing cold, cigarette-filled air down onto a row of wooden benches where five small tugboat captains were waiting with their hats in their laps.Sloane didn't take a ticket from the red tin dispenser by the door. She walked straight to the center window, took the flat tin archive box from under her arm, and set it down on the counter with a hollow bang that made the inkwells jump.The clerk behind the wire grill, a bald man with a wart beside his nose named Vane, dipped his pen into black ink withou