She took a bite and gave a little sigh of pleasure. Gyre grinned and picked up his spoon, and for a few moments they gave the food the attention it deserved. The meat was vulpi, tender and juicy, with a thick glistening layer of fat rising to the top. It reminded Gyre of home, though his mother had never cooked anything so heavily spiced.

“You were about to tell me the bad news,” he said, when Yora was scraping the bottom of her bowl.

“We’ve had new information,” Yora said. “Raskos is moving the Core Analytica, shipping it out of the city. We think he’s finally found a buyer.”

“Plague it,” Gyre said. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. The information’s solid. So it sinks most of our plans, but it’s also an opportunity. It looks like they’ll be transporting it in a single wagon, with only a couple of guards. The dux doesn’t want to draw attention.”

“You have to figure he’ll have his people watching the route out of the city, though.”

“He will. But Nevin and I went over the maps, and we have a plan. He’ll be moving it through Sprayfall Tunnel, and we can block the road behind them, cut off any reinforcements.”

Gyre frowned. “Getting clear is going to be tough.”

“Sarah’s on it. She promised me she’d come up with something.”

“Right.” Gyre went over his mental map of the city, figuring distances. With a little cover from alchemicals, it could work. “When?”

“Tomorrow.” At his expression, Yora said, “I know, it’s not enough time. But this is our only shot. If he gets the thing away, then Kit’s out of luck, and we’re out fifty thousand thalers.” Her expression went stony. “And Harrow and the others died for nothing.”

“Then we don’t have much choice, do we?” Gyre looked down into his empty soup bowl, then back up at Yora. “I’ll let Kit know. Send Lynnia the details for the rendezvous.”

“I will,” Yora said. “Thanks for the meal.”

“You looked like you could use it.”

She snorted a laugh and walked away.

*

When Gyre returned to Lynnia’s, the old alchemist met him at the door, stone-faced.

“I’m telling you,” she said without preamble. “I won’t be responsible.”

“Responsible for what?”

“The consequences!”

“What con—”

“Just go talk to her,” Lynnia huffed. “And keep your head down.”

The alchemist clumped out of the way, and Gyre, puzzled, dropped his coat on a chair and descended the spiral steps to the basement workshop. The air was thick with a purple-gray haze, and one of the stone worktops had been cleared off, then freshly scarred with blast marks. Kit sat in front of it, about to tip a vial of something blue into a bowl of something green.

“Kit?” Gyre coughed, waving the smoke away.