“I’ve never tried to convince you of anything. I don’t give a damn what you think.” She frowned. “But no, I don’t think any of them are trying to start a war. They’re ready to piss themselves like little babies at the thought.”

I nodded. “They seem far too eager for Ignazio to solve their problems for them. They wouldn’t be turning to him for help if they were ready to fight.”

“Who’s ready to fight?” came a loud, slurred voice behind us.

I turned to find a broad-shouldered reveler staring at us across the echoing foyer. He listed off center like a breached ship, his beard bristling, more than a little drunk. Anger smoldered in his bleary eyes, and his hands made uneven fists.

He stared at Zaira. “I’m plenty ready to fight.”

Chapter Eighteen

Excuse me?” I tried to turn the interrupting gentleman away with my cold tone, but he was too drunk to hear it, let alone care.

“You’re the warlock.” He glared at Zaira. “The bitch threatening to burn down Ardence.”

Zaira snorted. “If I ever threaten you, you’ll know it.”

“First you sharks bankrupted me. Then you took my nephew.” His voice broke on the word, threatening to slide from rage to pathos. “Now you want to set us on fire.”

I recognized him, belatedly. Lord Ulmric, a member of the Council of Lords, on which Domenic also sat. “No one wants to set you on fire,” I said.

“Yet,” Zaira muttered.

“Seems to me if I break your neck here, we don’t have a fire problem anymore.” He took a menacing step toward her.

Zaira’s knife flashed out. “Try it. I’ll gut you like a fish. I don’t even need to cook you.”

“Stop it!” I stepped between them, one palm out in either direction, tensed for a blow. This wasn’t some dockside ruffian. This was a lord of Ardence. If Zaira murdered him, she’d kill our last hope for peace as well.

“Please.” I addressed this to the drunkard. “We’re not your enemies. Have the grace to respect your host. Don’t defile his home with blood.”

I suspected it would be his blood, not Zaira’s, but I let him think what he would.

Confused emotions struggled across the lord’s face, as if he couldn’t decide whether to punch me or spit.

Finally, his face crumpled into despair. “Give me back my nephew.”

“We don’t have your nephew.” I willed him to believe me, staring into his reddened eyes. “I’m trying to find the children. I swear it to you. We want nothing more than to return them to their families.”

His watery glare searched my face. “If you don’t have him, who does?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.” Graces help the boy, wherever he was.