“Huh.” Zaira settled back in her chair and chewed that over. “It’s true he would’ve assumed I’d cut your throat and throw you in the Arden a few weeks ago. Maybe he finally passed that pike up his arse.”

That might well be the most flattering thing she’d ever said about Marcello. I was at a loss for a response, so I watched Gabril’s door out the window in silence for a moment. Still no sign of Lady Savony.

“We’re lucky she didn’t take a coach,” I said.

“A coach?” Zaira snorted. “She’s not that stupid. The driver would know everywhere she’s been, and she’d stand out too much. And besides, I’d lay odds she’ll visit streets too narrow for a coach before the day is done.”

“I wonder what she’s talking about with Gabril.”

Zaira didn’t swallow before replying, and I was treated to a view of masticated meat pie. “Well, what would you do if your scheme was at risk?”

“Move to the next step. Push the plan along until it’s too late to stop it.” I stared at the ornate carvings over Gabril’s door as if they might hold answers. “She’s probably making sure the Ardentines are riled up enough right now. Then she only has to do something to force Raverra over the edge into war.”

That was the one part I still didn’t understand: why did she want a war? Did she truly believe Vaskandar would help Ardence win its independence? Was it some power play to regain the ducal throne her ancestors had lost? Leodra’s warning tumbled in my head like a spinning coin; I couldn’t guess if it would come up heads or tails, and the fate of the Empire might depend on me winning the bet.

Zaira poked me with her fork, drawing my attention back to her. “We already know their plan for setting off Raverra.”

“Oh?”

“Kidnapping you.”

The meat pie lay heavy in my stomach. She was right.

And if I wasn’t careful, I might follow Lady Savony straight into their hands.

When Lady Savony emerged from Gabril’s town house, she wore a purposeful expression. When we emerged from the tavern, we wore different jackets, courtesy of Zaira’s bag.

The streets we traveled became narrower and dirtier as we followed Lady Savony to less attractive quarters of the city. Soon she looked quite out of place, with her fine gray gown and golden spectacles; the people we passed eyed her with dubious calculation. Zaira and I had donned tradesmen’s clothes for the occasion, and blended in well enough, at least to my unskilled eye.

“Get rid of the bag,” Zaira muttered at one point, glancing around warily.

“What? But it has our disguises in it.”

“They’re not disguises. And I don’t want anyone thinking we have something in there worth stealing.”