“If you’re looking to kick Orthys in the privates, you’re too late,” Jerith said in greeting to Zaira. “By the time we showed up, one of his own men had already shot him in the face.”

“Oh, I arrived in plenty of time.” Zaira showed her teeth. “Though it’s true I didn’t kick him in the privates.”

“I need to talk to Marcello.” I could feel my composure slipping, minutely but inexorably, like a chip of ice sliding across a not-quite-level table. “There’s a problem.”

Balos took a long look at my face and nodded. “I’ll bring him out.”

While he stepped into the tavern, where I could hear Marcello asking questions and someone muttering answers, I glanced at Zaira. A few flecks of Orthys’s blood marked her face, like freckles, and the skin around her eyes looked strained.

“Are you all right?” I murmured.

“I’m fine.” She glared as if I’d insulted her, but her chin trembled. “Curse it, I told you I didn’t want to know what happened to them.”

“I’m so sorry.” My throat went hot, thinking of that little girl crying in the ashes, long ago.

Zaira shrugged roughly. “I don’t even remember them. I don’t need your pity.”

Jerith’s eyes narrowed with recognition, but he said nothing.

Marcello emerged from the tavern, ducking under its low lintel. He strode over to us, a disapproving frown his herald. “My lady. Zaira. What are you doing here?”

The question struck me right in the unsteady teetering at my center. I pressed fingers to my temples. “Making poor decisions.”

“Finishing your job,” Zaira said.

“More to the point, uncovering treachery.” I lifted my head and took a breath. “Marcello—”

His eyes widened with shock. I barely had time to think, But I haven’t even told him yet.

“Amalia, look out!” he cried. And he shoved me so hard I staggered into Jerith.

A shot split the air, and the crack of a bullet hitting flagstones. A chip of flying stone scored my ankle.

Marcello clapped a hand to his side with a hiss of pain.

“Marcello!” I grabbed his hand, prying back the fingers to reveal a torn doublet and a dark stain. “Graces, you’re hurt.”

He wrapped his free arm tight around me, turning his back to the direction the bullet had come from, trying to shield me with his body. I twisted free, furious, in time to see Jerith whirl toward a second-floor window down the street.

“Exsolvo,” Balos said softly.

Jerith snapped his fingers.

A purple-white spark leaped from them, flaring into a wire-thin snake of lightning. Another bang slammed my ears, louder than the gun. And a figure fell from the window, slack and limp, to hit the street with a sickening thud.

A flintlock clattered from his hand. A wisp of smoke rose from his leather apron.

“Revincio.” Balos bowed his head.