“It’s easy to say you can’t change the world.” Zaira shook a finger at him. “But people do change it. I don’t know much history, but I know that. Don’t say it can’t be done if you really mean you’re too lazy to try.”

The memory of the mage mark boldly circling Aleki’s sweet, trusting eyes cut into my heart. I curled my hands into fists.

“Maybe you can’t alter the law,” I said to Marcello, “but I can.” I turned to Zaira. “It’ll take years. Maybe a lifetime. And we need to find a solution that will still protect both the mage-marked and the people around them. But I’ll try.”

Zaira snorted. “Raverra will never give up its grip on the mage-marked. We’re the source of the Empire’s power.”

“We can find a compromise. You’re the one who just said—” I broke off.

Through the garden gates, across the Plaza of Six Fountains, the River Palace loomed in its grandiose brick splendor. The plaza teemed with all the comings and goings of the heart of Ardence’s government: people arriving and departing by foot, horse, and coach; courtiers and servants alike having discussions in the open plaza, or sitting on the rims of the fountains with a book or a snack. But one figure in the livery of the Serene Envoy’s household crossed the plaza toward the public gardens at a run, heading straight for us, waving urgently.

“Lieutenant Verdi!” he called. “Come quickly!”

Marcello’s back stiffened. “What’s wrong?”

The messenger shook his head, panting. “I don’t know the details. The garrison sent the Envoy’s Palace a message over the courier lamps, calling you back to deal with an emergency. A Falconer’s been attacked.”

The young officer’s eye and nose were already swelling and darkening, and bandages wrapped his forearm and chest as he lay propped in bed in the garrison infirmary. He apologized profusely to Marcello, his eyes glazed from whatever they’d given him for the pain. Marcello sat beside him, reassuring the man it wasn’t his fault. Zaira and I hovered perhaps a pace behind Marcello, toeing the awkward boundary line between a respectful distance and an audible one.

“Lemi, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.” Marcello’s voice stayed calm, but I could read the rigid tension in his shoulders. I knew he was remembering the same thing I was: the doge had said to consider any assault against the Falconers an act of war.

The officer nodded weakly. “A request for help came in just after you left, Lieutenant. Supposedly from a family on a farm outside the city gates, with a daughter whose vivomancy was out of control.” He drew in a shaky breath. “But it was a trap.”

“Who attacked you?”

Lemi gestured across his face. “They wore gray masks. And gray cloaks.”