“I do want prosperity for Ravka,” said Zoya. “But for all of Ravka. Not just the nobles in their palaces or the merchants with their fleets of ships.”

“Then we build that future together.”

“Together,” Zoya repeated. Her expression was troubled.

“What doomsaying is happening behind that gorgeous face, Nazyalensky?”

“If we survive the war … Once peace is struck, you should station me elsewhere.”

“I see,” he said, unwilling to show how much those words bothered him. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

“Os Kervo. We’ll need a strong presence there.”

“You’ve thought it all out, then.”

She nodded, two quick bobs of her chin. “I have.”

All for the best. Peace would mean seeking a new alliance, a bride who could help keep Ravka independent. A memory came to him, the fleeting image of Zoya at his bedside. She’d pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her touch had been cool as a breeze off the sea. But that had never happened and never would. He must have dreamed it.

“Very well. You may have any command you wish. Assuming we survive.”

“We had better,” she said, tugging at her roughspun sleeves. “It’s going to take me two days to wash off the stench of cheap perfume and bilgewater. How can we be sure Brekker will help us at all?”

“He’s a man who believes everything has a price, so I think he will.”

“But can he help us?”

“That I can’t be sure of. But we don’t have time to gather the intelligence we’d need to steal the titanium on our own. He knows this city and its dealings better than anyone.”

“Saints,” Zoya gasped as the Crow Club came into view. It looked like a great black bird of prey among a sea of gaudy peacocks. It was three times the size of any other establishment on the block.

“It seems Mister Brekker has expanded.”

“Why would anyone enter that place?” Zoya asked, even as two giggling Zemeni girls in country frocks stepped inside. “It looks like a demon dance hall.”

“Because they love a good thrill,” said a voice behind them—the old beggar had followed them down the Stave. But now he stood, unfolding from his bent posture, and cast off his foul-smelling cloak along with the gray wisps of what must have been a wig. The walking stick in his hand was topped by a crow’s head.

Kaz Brekker wiped the putty from his face and ran a gloved hand through his dark hair. “Didn’t you know, General Nazyalensky? Thrills are what all these pigeons come to the Barrel for.”

Zoya looked like she wanted to send the thief to a soggy death in one of the canals, but Nikolai had to laugh. “Mister Brekker. I should have known.”

“Yes,” Kaz said. “You should have. But I can see you have plenty to distract you these days.”