Duilio stepped down, tucking the paper-wrapped book under one arm. He gazed up at the walls of the palace, asking himself whether he wanted to walk inside and practically proclaim himself a Sympathizer . . . but it was a moot point. He had no other way to seek out information about Oriana, so to the ambassador he would go. The palace rose above him, its fanciful turrets and walls painted in red and gold. Merlons topped each wall, suggesting a military usefulness that this palace had never actually exercised. It was decorative rather than defensible. It was also a maze, Duilio had heard, with several different levels, dozens of stairwells, and patios that looked out over the Golden City. The newest addition to the palace, built by the current prince’s father, was a square structure rising two stories above the clock tower that had once been the palace’s highest point. Its whitewashed walls failed to capture the whimsical spirit that the older parts of the jumble displayed.
