I believed her—that someone was following us, that is; I still held some feeble hope for myself. I could think of enough reasons why various people might want to follow one or both of us that it was a wonder we didn’t have a whole train of spies, guards, and assassins trailing behind us like ducklings. Still, I quickened my steps. Zaira matched my pace without objection.

A tradesman in a leather apron rounded a corner ahead; as he saw us, his craggy face lit up in recognition. He hurried toward us at once. Zaira’s hand fell to her knife.

But as he approached, he pulled out not a weapon but a wax seal on fine parchment. He glanced around as if to make sure no one was watching. “Lady Amalia.” He dipped his head in a truncated bow. “I have a message for you from your mother.”

He flashed the seal at me. In blue wax, nine stars surrounded the winged horse of Raverra.

“Council business?” I asked. Zaira’s hand stayed on her knife hilt.

He nodded, tucking the seal away. “We just captured another of Orthys’s men, and there’s new information. The lead the Falcons are following is a false one. It might be a trap.”

“Grace of Mercy.” Marcello and the others were already on their way. They could be walking into an ambush right now. “Is someone telling the Falcons?”

“Of course. But we’re not certain if this new information is genuine. La Contessa hopes your Falcon can confirm whether this man truly works for Orthys, so we know whether to call off the raid.”

“Wait a minute.” Zaira’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “How would La Contessa know we’re here?”

I laughed, not without a trace of bitterness. “She always knows where I am. She knows everything that happens in this city.”

The man in the leather apron bowed, with a wry smile. “As the lady says. We’re holding our informant nearby. Will you come identify him?”

I exchanged glances with Zaira. Lips tight, she nodded.

“All right,” I said. “Lead us to him.”

The man in the leather apron led us across several bridges and through the twisting labyrinth of Tallows streets to a small, dingy theater. Paint flaked off the masks hanging over the door. It was closed for the day, but our guide unlocked the scratched wooden doors and ushered us in.

A waiting hush filled the shadowy cavern of the theater. Rows of empty seats faced the red-curtained maw of the proscenium. Our footfalls disturbed a thick silence, as if we’d entered an abandoned temple. Not much sunlight filtered in from the gaps around the door, which our guide shut softly behind us; with no windows, only two flickering lamps flanking the stage alleviated the gloom.

“Where is your informant?” I asked as our guide waved us down the aisle.

He didn’t answer.