Maurisk shoved his chair back from his desk, scrabbling for the knife strapped to its underside. His fingers found the hilt, but he couldn’t get the damned thing out of its sheath, and before he figured out what he was doing wrong his slightly brandy-fogged mind had finally caught up with events. There was a man standing in front of the desk, a man who hadn’t been there moments earlier. He was young and handsome, with brown hair and a well-trimmed goatee, dressed in close-fitting black. The corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile, and in one hand he carried a bottle labeled with the image of a charging bull.

“I brought you a gift.”

“You,” Maurisk said, heart hammering in his chest.

“Hamveltai flaghaelan,” said Adam Ionkovo, placing the bottle on the desk. He sat in the chair Zacaros had vacated, as casually as if he had not just walked into the most heavily guarded room in Vordan without even opening the door. “It’s your favorite, if I remember correctly. I imagine it’s hard to come by these days.”

“I . . . yes.” There was dust on the bottle. A ninety-one, Maurisk noted absently. A good year, and rare even in the best cellars. A full bottle was worth several thousand eagles. He blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would check up on things,” Ionkovo said, folding his hands in his lap. “Given how circumstances have . . . evolved. Your attempt to eliminate the queen did not go as planned, I take it.”

Maurisk’s hand twitched. His office was as secure as it was possible for a room to be, but speaking those words aloud still made him cringe. He fought down the urge ruthlessly, sat up a little straighter, and pulled himself back to the desk.

“She left the box too early,” he said. “Regrettably. But I have her under control.”

“So I hear.”

“I can deliver her whenever you like. If our agreement still holds.”

“It does,” Ionkovo said. “Bring me Raesinia, Vhalnich, and the Thousand Names, and Vordan will have peace.”

“It would be easier to secure Vhalnich and the queen if we were to bring the war to an end,” Maurisk said. “As it is, the people—”

“The Pontifex of the Black is not in the habit of delivering payment without results. The agreement stands.”

Maurisk regarded his guest coldly, his fear finally coming under control. Ionkovo was the very embodiment of everything he hated about the Sworn Church: the ancient, hidden hand of Elysium, reaching out like a puppeteer to make the world dance to its tune. Once, he would never have consented to speak with such a creature.