Before I could flip open my flare locket, or utter the release word, or do more than suck in a sharp breath of horror at what Orthys had just revealed, light flared in a circle around Zaira’s feet, and she jerked to a stop.

She’d run straight into an artifice circle, painted on a mat Orthys must have thrown down on the rug. Now it rooted her feet to the floor.

“That takes care of you,” Orthys declared cheerfully.

“Not hardly, you bloody-faced bastard!” Zaira crouched, ready to spring, straining against the circle’s power. “What are you waiting for?” she snapped over her shoulder at me. “Release me, now!”

“I wouldn’t.” Orthys raised a cautioning finger. “She’s already lost control, and she hasn’t even loosed her fire. Break your seal now, and she’ll take you along with us—and the whole city for good measure.”

“It’ll be worth it!” Zaira spat on the floor. “Do it, you simpering coward!”

He was right. He’d planned this too carefully. Even if Zaira retained control, some of his ruffians were behind me—Zaira’s fire couldn’t catch them without going through me first.

At this point, I doubted she’d care.

Be unafraid, Amalia. If you are without fear, they will assume there is a reason, and hesitate. And the Grace of Victory will favor you.

“You’re a fool, Orthys.” I let calm contempt fill my voice. “You’re only making matters worse for yourself. You might have bargained your way out of this before, perhaps. But now you’ve acted against a Falcon and the Cornaro heir, stolen the imperial seal—”

Orthys’s smile widened. “Oh, I came by that seal legitimately, from my father.” He chuckled. “Or perhaps I should say illegitimately.”

It took me a moment, but then I realized why he sounded familiar. I’d heard that voice in my drawing room, though less often since my mother muzzled it with blackmail. “You’re Baron Leodra’s bastard.”

“Yes.” It clearly pleased him to be able to make his claim at last. “And my dear father cannot allow his rival to discover his bastard son has been selling mage-marked children to Vaskandar. Can you imagine how that would stain his reputation?” He clasped his hands piously before him, then resumed a cynical expression. “My father has such a promising career, and it’s cursed difficult to get elected doge when you’ve been branded a traitor and stripped of your position.”

He was telling me far too much. A chill certainty settled in my bones. That could only mean one thing: I wasn’t leaving this theater alive.