Luminaries glowed on the walls and in the ceiling of the Hall of Bounty, lighting the opulent carvings and frescoes and lending a soul to the faces of the dark oil paintings hanging in gilded frames on the walls. But the room itself stood quiet and empty. The footman shut the door behind us, leaving us alone. I hesitated, but Zaira strode across to the far door, her boots ringing on the marble floor. “Which one is the Hall of Victory? The next one?”

“The last one,” I said.

We passed through the Hall of Bounty to the Hall of Majesty, where the glory of the Bergandons lingered in the baroque ornamentation of their gilded throne hall. Portraits of great Bergandon dukes of the past stared down at us from the shadowed walls, disapproving of upstart Raverra holding sovereignty over their city.

One last door led to the final chamber, the Hall of Victory. I pushed it open myself.

The duke waited for us there, after a fashion. But he would no longer be seeing anybody. And he was not alone.

Lady Savony stood in the center of the room, a dagger in her hand.

Duke Astor Bergandon sprawled at her feet, his golden doublet stained with fresh blood.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

You’ve forced my hand, Amalia Cornaro.”

Lady Savony tossed the bloody dagger at my feet. It skittered across the marble floor, coming to rest against my boot. “Murderer.”

“You killed him.” The words forced themselves disbelievingly out of my throat. I sounded like a simpleton, but I couldn’t help myself—any more than I could look away from poor Astor Bergandon, lying twisted on the floor, staring with dead eyes at the ceiling fresco of the Grace of Victory with her flaming sword. “You were his voice and hands, and you killed him.”

“Because of you. He would have denounced me as a traitor; I can’t have that. Instead, he’ll die a martyr, murdered by a Falconer of Raverra.”

“Let’s make a complete set.” Zaira drew her dagger. “You can die murdered by a Falcon.”

Before I could shake off my shock, Zaira leaped at Lady Savony, her knife flashing. She crashed into the taller woman, and the two staggered into a marble-topped table.

“Release me!” Zaira cried. “Let me burn her!”

I drew my own dagger. “No. That would only seal our guilt.”

Lady Savony cried out as Zaira’s knife found her arm, blood blooming on her sleeve. With surprising strength, she tossed Zaira aside; Zaira landed in a cluster of chairs, bringing two of them down with her.

“Excellent.” Lady Savony regarded her bleeding arm. “This will lend me extra credence. Thank you.”

She sprang into a run, fleeing into the Hall of Majesty, calling, “Guards! Guards! Murder!”

Zaira scrambled to her feet, swearing. “Run! Before the whole palace is after us.”