Trying to sleep would be pointless now. I sought out Istrella and the welcome distraction of her endless tinkering, and found Marcello visiting her.

They’d set Istrella up in her own suite of rooms, since she’d be staying in the garrison for several days. In the scant hour or two since we’d arrived, she’d already turned the sitting room into a workshop. Equipment, tools, paintbrushes, and oddments were scattered across the once-serviceable furniture. Istrella sat on the floor, bending over some project spread out on a low table. It resembled a lady’s fan, if a fan were constructed from brass knives, scribed with runes, and tangled up in beaded wire. Marcello hovered over her, turning a pair of pliers in his hands.

“Come in, Amalia,” Istrella called. “This design isn’t coming out well, so you may as well join the party.”

“Where’s Zaira?” I asked.

“The kitchens.” Istrella pushed her glasses up onto her forehead. “Eating dinner number two, I believe. I’m glad I’m not a warlock. I’d never have time to build anything if I had to eat that often.”

I examined her work. It didn’t seem to be very far along; there wasn’t enough of a pattern to the curls of wire for me to guess its purpose, though the runes seemed focused on protection. “What’s that?”

“Well, it was going to be a shielding fan, but I need to think some things through before I try again.” She pushed it away, sighing dramatically. “If only I had some new and interesting project to begin. An assignment from the doge, perhaps.”

I stared pointedly at Marcello. He grimaced and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. About that.”

Istrella perked up. “Oh, are you finally going to tell me?”

Marcello nodded, misery in his eyes. But instead of telling her, he laid the schematics and instructions for the cannon down on her table.

Istrella studied them for a moment. Her brows drew down into a frown.

“This is a weapon,” she said.

Marcello winced. “Yes.”

Istrella traced the lines of the schematic with a fingertip. “It’s a good design. So efficient. My designs always use too much energy. And look how precise these runic circles are.” She sighed. “This must be the doge’s Master Artificer’s work. The one who does the jesses. I’ll never be that good.”

Marcello reached out a hand halfway to Istrella, then dropped it. “Aren’t you … Are you all right with making a weapon?”

She cocked her head. “That depends. Who will they use it on?”

“No one.” I grimaced. “I hope.”

Istrella lifted skeptical brows. “They don’t make weapons to not use them.”