“We choose no sides, Miss Nazyalensky. I thought I made that clear. And we do not bargain against the future. Ravka may have a gift for inventions we have not yet seen, but Fjerda has a gift for brutality the world well knows.”

Zoya watched him for a long moment. “You were willing to wed your daughter to Nikolai Lantsov. You know he is a good man.” Simple words, but Zoya was too aware of how rare they were.

“My dear,” said Schenck, finishing his glass of wine and pushing back from the table. “Perhaps the Shu have lower standards, but I sought to wed my daughter to a king, not a bastard.”

“Meaning what?” Zoya retorted, feeling her composure fray. Was this wart of a man brazen enough to question Nikolai’s parentage openly? If that was the case, they were worse off than even she had thought.

But all Schenck did was smile slyly. “Only whispers. Only rumors.”

“Be careful whispers don’t become talk. It’s a good way to lose a tongue.”

Schenck’s eyes widened. “Are you threatening a delegate of the Kerch government?”

“I only threaten gossipmongers and cowards.”

Schenck’s eyes bugged out even farther. Zoya wondered if they would bolt from his skull.

“I am due for a meeting,” he said, rising and striding toward the door. “And I believe you are due on the losing side of a battlefield.”

Zoya dug her nails into her palms. She could almost hear Nikolai in her head, counseling caution. All Saints, how did he meet with these spineless, self-satisfied toads without committing murder once a day?

But she managed. Only after Schenck was gone did she release a gust of air, hurling that fine bottle of Caryevan wine into the wall with a gratifying smash.

“Schenck never meant to offer us any help, did he?” asked Kirigin.

“Of course not. Schenck’s only purpose was to humble us further.”

Her king would face the Fjerdans and there would be no help from Hiram Schenck and his ilk. Nikolai had known the endeavor was futile but he had sent her nonetheless. Do this gallows deed for me, Zoya, he’d said. And of course, she had.

“Should we send a message to King Nikolai?” Kirigin asked.

“We’ll deliver it ourselves,” said Zoya. There might still be time to meet the Fjerdan tanks and guns beside her soldiers. She strode outside, where a servant was waiting. “Go, get our pilot to ready the flyer.”

“Our bags?” Kirigin asked, hurrying after her down the hall.

“Forget the bags.”