The news about Zivah makes me wonder if I should delay my plan, but in the end, I can’t see the good of it. Waiting won’t help her, and the longer I wait, the more likely that supplies will be under greater guard. It’s best for me to continue as before and see what I can do for Zivah after that.

First order is figuring out how to set a good fire. I don’t know where the palace keeps its supply of lamp oil, but I do know that slaves come by the barracks and refill the lamps every evening. So I shadow one of the slaves—a young, pretty one so I have an excuse if I get seen. She makes the rounds to ten buildings, and I actually start feeling worried for her by the end, seeing how many catcalls she gets. Give the girl a knife and a few months with Gatha, and maybe those same catcallers would think twice about bothering her.

The slave girl makes it back to the main palace unscathed, and she takes her oil jar to a servants’ closet. There’s a steward waiting who unlocks the door for her. I duck into a corner to watch. Slicewing and Preener, who’ve been trailing me, settle on a window ledge nearby. A few more slaves come by to drop off their supplies, and then the steward locks up the closet.

Slicewing ruffles her feathers when she sees him drop the key ring in a pocket of his robe. Keys are one of her favorite things.

“Yes, we want that,” I tell her. “Just let me figure out how.”

I follow the steward as he heads back to the central part of the palace, weighing my options. I can’t exactly hit him over the head and pick his pockets, and sending a crow to snatch the key out of his hands seems too obvious. I need some kind of distraction.

Then a servant rounds a corner with five hunting dogs on leashes, and an idea pops into my mind. Not exactly subtle, but might be worth a try.

“Preener.” I point at the dogs. “Drive, that way.” And then I point in the direction of the steward.

The crow takes off eagerly—he’d happily harass dogs even without orders from me. One moment he flies high, and then he dives straight into the middle of the hounds. It’s only a moment before they break free of their hapless handler, and then they’re all charging down the path after a black blur—right toward the steward.

The shock on the steward’s face is priceless. As he braces himself for the canine stampede, I turn to Slicewing. “Get the keys.”