“Two more wizards were found dead in Ragmarket,” Amon said, lowering his head so he spoke almost into her ear. “Same as the others. Throats cut, amulets gone.”

“Who?” Raisa whispered, scarcely moving her lips.

“Farrold and Alexa Gryphon,” Amon said.

Not Han, then. Adam Gryphon’s parents. Raisa breathed out, relieved, but ashamed to be glad in the face of someone else’s loss.

“What would they be doing in Ragmarket?” Raisa said, her dry throat sandpapering each word. “I can’t imagine those two walking that neighborhood.”

“It looks like they were killed someplace else and their bodies carried into Ragmarket.”

“Wouldn’t it be difficult to carry two bodies through the streets of Fellsmarch unobserved?” Raisa said.

“Maybe not, for a wizard,” Amon said, his words measured. “Or someone who knew the neighborhood very well.”

“Why? Did you see something or someone or…” Her voice trailed away under the pressure of Amon’s gray-eyed gaze. Her stomach clenched miserably. Suddenly she wanted to stop up her ears.

Amon faced forward again, done talking for the present.

Raisa stumbled, her feet now weighted down with dread. Amon took her elbow, making sure she didn’t trip on her cloak or slip on the slick cobblestones or flee back to the palace and hide under the covers.

Too soon, they turned off the Way of the Queens, twisting and turning through vaguely familiar alleyways.

It came back to her. She’d navigated these stony tunnels herself, the morning after the notorious streetlord Cuffs Alister had abducted her and she’d escaped from his hideout.

They turned another corner, and here was Mick, looking about as miserable as Raisa had ever seen him.

“Hallie’s with the dead ones,” he said, avoiding Raisa’s eyes.

Amon still had hold of Raisa’s elbow, and he propelled her forward to the end of the alley, where the Gryphons lay, guarded by Hallie and a handful of other guards. Two lamps lit the scene, the light careening off the alley walls as they pitched in the wind.

They lay on their backs, side by side, two finely dressed wizards of middle age. Steeling herself, Raisa looked into their faces. It was the Gryphons, all right. Growing up, she’d seen them at a hundred palace gatherings—she recognized their sharp features, their small, stingy mouths.

Don’t think ill of the dead, she told herself, making the sign of the Maker.

There was less blood than she expected, but, then, maybe the rain had washed it away. Or, as Amon said, maybe they’d been killed elsewhere and brought here. Their amulets were missing, but their other jewelry was there—their stiffening hands were loaded with rings, and Alexa Gryphon wore earrings that must have been worth a fortune.

Raisa went to turn away, but Amon gripped her shoulders. “Look closer,” he said. “There’s something painted on their clothing. It’s hard to see in the rain, but—”