Disciples of Chaos E-Book

M.K. Lobb

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 514

Beschreibung

The #1 Sunday Times bestselling Seven Faceless Saints duology concludes. Romance, revolution and mystery intertwine as a young rebel and palace guard hunt a murderer in this gripping YA set in a world inspired by Florence, Italy. Perfect for fans of Leigh Bardugo and Kerri Maniscalco. Damian Venturi isn't aware of it yet. But as small shifts start to crack the foundations of the Ombrazian power structure after the Rebellion's attack, cracks are beginning to show in Damian's own facade. Uncontrollable anger is bubbling to the surface and can't always be pushed down. Can he keep everyone safe, even from himself? Rossana Lacertosa should feel victorious. She accomplished everything she set out to do, and more. The Rebellion's attack set countless prisoners free and brought attention to the unfairness in the Palazzo's structure. And Damian is back by her side where he belongs. Yet the war with Brechaat rages on and government officials are hellbent on keeping the status quo. Then an Ombrazian general arrives from the front lines, and orders dozens of arrests, shipping Roz and Damian's friends up north. Determined to free those who matter most, Roz and Damian set their sights on Brechaat. But on their journey to hell on earth, Roz will need to face the fact that Damian is not just shifting further from the boy she used to know, but down a dark path into chaos. The complications of love, magic, faith, and war will keep readers eagerly turning the pages as they head towards the gripping conclusion in the Seven Faceless Saints duology.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue Milos

1 Damian

2 Roz

3 Damian

4 Damian

5 Roz

6 Roz

7 Damian

8 Milos

9 Roz

10 Damian

11 Roz

12 Damian

13 Damian

14 Roz

15 Milos

16 Roz

17 Damian

18 Roz

19 Roz

20 Damian

21 Roz

22 Damian

23 Roz

24 Roz

25 Damian

26 Roz

27 Damian

28 Roz

29 Damian

30 Roz

31 Roz

32 Damian

33 Roz

34 Damian

35 Roz

36 Damian

37 Roz

Epilogue Kiran

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PRAISE FOR M. K. LOBB

“A dark and delicious murder mystery. M. K. Lobb has created a fantastical and evocative world, blending the genres of fantasy, romance, and murder mystery into one epic story. With lush prose, gripping characters, and an intricate lore that will keep you turning the pages, Seven Faceless Saints is an absolute hit.”

Adalyn Grace, New York Times-bestselling author of Belladonna

“Seven Faceless Saints is the rich taste of ceremonial wine, stolen kisses at midnight, a gallery lined by shrouded statues, and the flames of a corrupt system as it burns to the ground. M. K. Lobb has crafted an intricate world that is both dark and alluring; the perfect backdrop for the tempestuous romance of the two protagonists.”

Lyndall Clipstone, author of Lakesedge and Forestfall

“With an impressive and balanced command of gorgeous prose and compelling pace, Seven Faceless Saints draws its readers into a mystery as intelligent as it is intriguing. I thoroughly enjoyed the richness of Ombrazia, which perfectly complements the fresh, compelling characters Lobb has so artfully woven into this story’s every page. Truly, this is an exceptional debut, sure to find many, many fans.”

Ayana Gray, New York Times-bestselling author of the Beasts of Prey trilogy

“Bleak, bloody, and beautifully drawn, Seven Faceless Saints is a book with teeth.”

Nicki Pau Preto, author of the Crown of Feathers trilogy

“A dazzlingly sinister tale of magic, mayhem, and murder. Lobb’s debut has truly got it all… Prepare for your next obsession.”

Allison Saft, New York Times bestselling author of A Far Wilder Magic

“M.K. Lobb's debut is enthralling, taut, and utterly immersive… I devoured this book in one sitting.”

Emily Lloyd-Jones, author of The Bone Houses

“A thrilling mystery that is as full of twists and turns as it is searing romantic tension, Seven Faceless Saints is a heart-stopping saga about a religious elite teeming with corruption and the rebellion that works to bring them down from within.”

Kelly Andrew, author of The Whispering Dark

“Emotionally complex characters, rhythmic writing, and a cunningly crafted mystery distinguish Lobb’s series launch, which balances action and romance with meditations on faith and fate.”

Publishers Weekly

“The genre-bending high fantasy murder mystery concept is intriguing, and the narrative raises some interesting questions about the nature of faith and unquestioning loyalty.”

School Library Journal

Also by M. K. Lobb and available from Titan Books

Seven Faceless Saints

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Disciples of Chaos

Print edition ISBN: 9781803365442

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365459

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0>UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: February 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© M. K. Lobb 2024

M. K. Lobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For those who have mastered the artof sharpening edgesbut are still learning how to be soft

Prologue

MILOS

Night was falling, and the wind had teeth.

Milos fastened the top button of his jacket with unsteady fingers as he gave the house behind him a final glance. The details were scarcely visible beneath the impending dusk, but he knew the place as he did his own reflection—the simple rectangular windows, a wilting garden, and the cracked plaster walls revealing the dusty stone beneath.

He didn’t know whether he would be coming back. For reasons he couldn’t quite verbalize, he didn’t care.

He readjusted the leather bag on his shoulder, his blood alive in his veins. All at once, he couldn’t move fast enough. Something had changed these past few days. He felt it like an incurable itch just beneath the surface of his skin, and he only grew more certain of it as the hours passed. His body had felt the shift before the rest of him caught on, and until now he hadn’t been able to identify the sensation that plagued him.

Now he knew.

It was the need to flee.

Or at least, something of the sort. His heart pounded within the cage of his chest as if he was being pursued, but Milos had the odd, inexplicable sensation that he was running toward something. It was pulling him close, and he had little choice in the matter.

Framed that way, it rang of madness even to himself. But he could feel the truth of it as he could feel his magic coiled around his bones. It was that, perhaps, which urged him onward and stoked the excitement burning within him. He swallowed hard, lifting his chin to the darkening skyline. His lips formed a prayer.

If he continued heading in the direction he was going, such prayers were bound to get him thrown in prison. For now, though, he pictured his patron saint at the edge of the sky, listening. Watching.

The dark countryside stretched out before him like fields of oblivion. Beyond it the sea lapped against the cliffs bordering the pass separating Brechaat from Ombrazia. If he strained to listen, Milos imagined he could hear the waves. An impossibility, of course. But the world felt so very small when he couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead.

Was it his saint that pulled him south? Something divine dragging him forth by magical tethers?

Milos shivered, though not from cold. Discomfort was a foreign sensation smothered by focus. He set his gaze southward and continued on.

Led by Chaos, or else toward it.

1

DAMIAN

As a child, Damian Venturi had always longed to be more story than boy.

He’d cut his teeth on tales of the saints and the disciples blessed with their magic. He’d dreamed of glory in the northern war, gripping weapons in hands that didn’t shake. He’d envisioned captaining ships across star-studded waters and standing at the edge of the world, shoulders squared in holy righteousness. He’d imagined falling in love.

He’d pictured it all with Strength at his side, certain that his father’s patron saint would one day bless him, too.

The thought made Damian’s lips twist as he knelt beside Battista Venturi’s gravestone. The glistening slab of marble was longer than his father had been tall, opulent and unnecessary. A grand bit of rock for a man who’d thought himself quite grand indeed.

No matter how many times he came here, Damian couldn’t shake the haze of bitterness. His frustration was an unforgiving thing. When his father had died, Damian had known despair. He’d watched crimson spread across the stark white of the Palazzo floor and felt the dull, inescapable thrum of that despair in his bones. It was as familiar to him as the sound of his own voice. Now, though, he was shedding layers of misery like ill-fitting clothes and replacing them with years’ worth of repressed anger.

He tented his fingers in the lush grass, nails scraping the dirt. The saints, if they were out there somewhere, weren’t in the business of liberation. Disciples died like any flesh-and-blood creature. Death made equals of them all.

Damian should know. He’d buried a bullet in a disciple himself. And perhaps that was the reason he kept coming here: to make himself suffer. To endure some sort of penance for the fact that he’d killed yet again, and this time had been the worst. Worse even than the swift deaths he’d carried out during his time on the northern front.

Because this time it had been so fucking easy.

“I bet you wish you’d seen that, don’t you?” Damian murmured to the gravestone, gaze sweeping the familiar epitaph: BATTISTA VENTURI—ESTEEMED GENERAL, HONORED BY STRENGTH. His father would be remembered not as a loving husband or doting father, but by his role and status. Given the man he’d become by the end, Damian supposed it was apt.

He brushed off his hands and pushed himself to stand, swallowing the acrid taste in the back of his throat. As he shifted, sunlight glanced off the flat stone. It felt like a mockery.

“I wondered if I’d find you here.”

Roz Lacertosa drew up beside him, mouth set in a hard line. She was as beautiful and unruffled as always: high-necked black shirt baring only a glimpse of her slender throat, long dark hair drawn into a tight ponytail. She stared at Battista’s grave, her expression of vague distaste unwavering. Damian couldn’t very well blame her.

“How long have you been out here?” Roz trailed her fingers up the small of Damian’s back. Her touch made him shudder, and he shrugged.

“Not long.”

It was a lie, and the weight of her cutting gaze told him she knew it. Her fingers found his chin, and she turned Damian’s face to hers in a grip that demanded no argument.

“He doesn’t deserve this . . . vigil. Besides, Enzo killed him—not you.”

Damian gently removed her hand from his face and pulled her into his chest, inhaling the scent of her skin. He pressed his lips against the side of her neck.

“Damian, please,” Roz said, gripping his bicep. The words, though, were tinged with humor. “Not in front of your father.”

He snorted, pulling her away from the Palazzo’s sparse graveyard. His spirits were already lifting. The summer wind was warm, a trailing caress through his hair, and he could hear the crashing waves of the sea in the near distance.

“Your hands are dirty,” Roz observed, holding up their intertwined fingers. The revelation didn’t appear to bother her, but Damian cringed, attempting to disentangle himself.

“Sorry.”

She held fast. “What were you doing?”

He gave up, not wanting to let go of her regardless. “The chthonium Enzo had left on each of the victims’ bodies? I buried it beside my father. I didn’t want to have to look at it anymore.” Truly, he didn’t know why he’d kept it as long as he had. He would never forget the way it had been shoved into the empty eye sockets of those the disciple had murdered.

“You should have thrown it in the sea,” Roz said, squeezing his hand tighter. “But good—I’m glad. Some things are better buried and forgotten.”

Damian didn’t bother telling her he could never forget what Enzo had wrought in their city. He changed the subject. “How did your meeting with the rebels go?”

She seemed to consider the question as she walked at his side, boots tapping against the cobblestones of the wide path leading up to the Palazzo.

“As well as could be expected, I suppose.” She gave a haughty toss of her ponytail. “Some of them are still hesitant to trust me. They’ll be at the meeting, though.”

“You mean they’re hesitant to trust me.” Damian was, of course, referring to how Roz’s friends hadn’t been at all pleased to discover she’d been working alongside a security officer.

She blinked against the late afternoon sun, lashes casting long, delicate shadows on her cheeks. “They trust you enough to guarantee their safety at the meeting. Besides, they know you helped solve the murders, and that we’re friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Damian said, thrusting an arm out to stop her in her tracks. “Did you say we were friends?”

Roz’s blue eyes darkened in feral amusement. “We’ve always been friends, Venturi.”

“I think you know that’s not what I meant.”

She made a low hum in the back of her throat, glancing skyward as she feigned consideration. “So we’re not friends?”

“Rossana . . . ,” Damian growled. They’d reached the side of the Palazzo, and Roz shoved him over to the wall until his back was flush against the cool stone. He could have resisted, of course, but he didn’t.

“Do you want them to know I can’t stand to be away from you?” she murmured, hands exploring the planes of his chest. There was wickedness in the curve of her smile. “Do you want them to know I’m obsessed with the sound of your laugh and the feel of your skin?”

Damian meant to answer, but Roz claimed his mouth with hers. It might have been a chaste thing, had she not been in the process of slipping her fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. A single touch of her lips, and he was consumed by fire. He never tired of kissing Roz. The press of her body against his, the familiar sweet scent of her hair, the way their mouths fit together as if they’d been created solely for that singular contact . . . But she pulled away too soon, taking with her the gasp she’d drawn from somewhere in his chest.

Her eyes lifted to his again, and Damian knew they were battling the same unspoken thoughts. They had been for days, and yet something kept them from voicing the subject. It was easier that way. Easier for Damian to go about his work at the Palazzo, trying to force some semblance of order following the deaths of Battista and Chief Magistrate Forte. Easier for Roz to spend time with her mother in the apartment that used to be Piera’s and focus on what came next for the rebellion.

“Just say it,” Damian said hoarsely, arms dropping to his side. “I can tell you keep putting it off, so just say it, Roz.”

She scanned his face, her own expression hard. Not suspicious, but searching. “I thought it might upset you.”

“That you can see what’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Roz, please.” Damian dragged a hand down the side of his face, still warm from kissing her. He remembered her words from last week: I see you.Even the dark parts. “When I killed Enzo, I felt good about it. There’s something . . . bad inside me.”

She gave an obstinate lift of her chin. “You thought he’d just murdered me. I’d be pissed if you didn’t feel at least a little satisfaction.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Damian waited, wondering if she would say more. If she would admit she’d noticed the flashes of wild fury that sliced through him when he wasn’t expecting it. He’d felt it that night, and it had been happening more frequently in the days since. After nearly three years at the front, he was accustomed to flashbacks, but this was something else altogether. There were strange, terrifying moments during which he felt too big for his skin. As if he wanted to rip free of his own body the way Enzo had stepped out of the chief magistrate’s form, letting the illusion of flesh fall to bloody pieces around him. Nothing about the feeling was right. When a disciple of Chaos was stalking Ombrazia’s streets, Damian had thought he was losing his mind. Now that Enzo was dead, shouldn’t that fear have died with him?

But it hadn’t. If anything, it was worse than ever.

“We went through a lot,” Roz said, interlacing their fingers and using her thumb to stroke the back of his. Although the action was intended to comfort, the words were not. They were simply a statement of fact. Roz rarely tried to soothe—she spoke what she perceived to be the truth. “You’re spending too much time worrying about how you ought to be reacting, instead of just letting yourself work through it.”

Damian wanted to believe her. But he’d known all manner of horrors in his life. Things that stayed with him, the guilt and misery forming a gradually tightening noose around his neck. This was different in a way he didn’t know how to describe. He could feel himself unraveling, yet couldn’t muster anything more than indifference when it counted. He felt violent. There was no other word for it. Unhinged and incognizant of consequences during those brief interludes where he was certain he’d lost hold of his sanity. He couldn’t shake the sensation that something horrible clung to him like an invisible shroud.

“You’re right,” Damian told Roz, because he couldn’t bear to continue the conversation. Perhaps sensing his dismay, she pulled him in the direction of the Palazzo.

“Come on. I want a good seat for the meeting.”

Damian wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a good seat for an event like this, but he didn’t bother saying so. He followed Roz to the Palazzo’s heavy front doors. The ancient stone building seemed to gather up the sea-tainted wind, compelling it to hush. Above them, metal-tipped spires rose to pierce the gray sky, the tallest of them hazy within the press of clouds. Once, Damian had thought the Palazzo beautiful. A shining refuge from the mud-laden front where he’d lost his friends and his innocence. Now, though, the very look of it sent cold threading along his bones. Death had followed him here, and he could not shed her. She lingered in the echo of his boots across the marble floors and peered at him from the eyes of the statues lining the main entrance. Every time Damian crossed the threshold, he could see his father’s body at the bottom of the stairs and smell the acrid scent of rust and gunpowder.

But he forced himself to nod at the officers on duty—Matteo and Noemi—before allowing the cool, quiet air of the marble entryway to envelop him.

The silence didn’t last long.

Damian’s surname rang through the foyer, a nasal bark of impatience that dragged a sigh out of him.

“Salvestro.” Damian turned to face the disciple of Death, casting his name like a whip through the space between them. “What can I do for you?”

Despite being the newest Palazzo representative, Salvestro Agosti had taken to leadership as though he’d been bred for it. Perhaps he had—it wouldn’t be unusual for a powerful disciple. Blessed by Death, he could glean the final moments of the recently deceased with a mere touch, but his air of superiority seemed to suggest he could read the living just as well.

Salvestro descended the staircase, his eyes on Roz. He looked impeccable as always: suit perfectly pressed, dark hair coiffed, obsidian rings glinting on his long fingers. His mouth stretched into a wide smile, though the rest of his face was set in icy composure. He walked as though balancing a crown atop his prematurely lined brow.

Damian had not known the man long, but he knew enough to hate him.

“Now, Venturi,” Salvestro said with an air of false pleasantry, “you told me no one would be allowed in the building until the meeting commenced.” The words were for Damian, but his gaze never wavered from Roz’s face. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, although not hard to guess.

Damian kept his spine straight, jaw tight. “Thank you, Signor Agosti. I’m well aware of the security plan. Signora Lacertosa is my personal guest.”

“Is that so?” Salvestro proffered a hand. “Salvestro Agosti the third, disciple of Death.”

Roz curled her fingers around his in a grip that looked painful. “Rossana Lacertosa the first. Disciple of Patience.”

Salvestro’s lips twitched. “An honor.” His voice was clipped when he finally bothered to look Damian in the eye. “Speaking of security, I’ve decided you were right. Too much of an officer presence will make the unfavored ill at ease.”

Damian frowned. They’d had a brief argument about this two days prior, when Salvestro had asked about his plan for the meeting’s security detail. The disciple had said it wasn’t nearly sufficient, ignoring Damian’s assertion that too many officers might make the unfavored feel scrutinized. “Double the numbers,” Salvestro had snapped. “That’s an order.”

Damian had bit his tongue to keep from pointing out the obvious: Salvestro was not chief magistrate, and therefore not in charge of him. But he’d complied nonetheless, knowing that doing so would put Salvestro in a better mood come the day of the meeting.

Now Damian was perplexed.

“That’s not what you said the other day.” He tried to keep his tone from venturing into accusatory. “What changed your mind?”

Salvestro waved an impatient hand. “I want this meeting to go smoothly. The fewer unfavored running their mouths, the better.”

Damian knew Roz would speak up before she uttered a word.

“If you’re hoping for this meeting to go smoothly,” she said, voice dripping with false sweetness, “best to keep your own mouth shut as much as possible.”

The look on Salvestro’s face would have been priceless if it hadn’t made Damian’s stomach plummet. Whatever interest the disciple might have shown Roz moments before was now replaced by disbelief and derision.

“Soft for the unfavored, are we?” Salvestro’s nostrils flared. “I’d say I expected better from a fellow disciple, but then again, you’re already in bed with them.” His cool eyes flicked to Damian, who ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

One of Roz’s brows ticked upward, a barely perceptible movement. Her smile was scornful. “If you’re jealous, Signore, you can say as much. Who could blame you?”

Damian wished vehemently for the earth to shudder open and swallow him whole. He wasn’t sure whether Salvestro could fire him, and he wasn’t keen on finding out. If the man was a shoo-in for chief magistrate, as many seemed to think, this could end very badly indeed.

“Forgive us, mio signore,” he muttered, the apology sticking in his throat. Heat flared behind his cheeks. “We’ll stick to the original number of security officers, then.”

His attempt to bring the conversation back around was a miserable failure. Salvestro drew himself up in a single, fluid motion, smile broadening as his gaze met Damian’s. “I bet it’s nice for you, isn’t it, Venturi? Wearing a fancy uniform, a disciple girlfriend on your arm . . . I bet it’s almost too easy to forget you’re unfavored. That you’re nothing.”

“Who the hell are youto—” Roz started, but Damian cut her off with a furious shake of his head.

It was too late. She’d taken the bait. Salvestro placed a hand over his heart, rings clinking. “Did you train her to speak up for you, or does she do it out of pity?” He tsked. “It’s embarrassing, I imagine, being unable to fight your own battles. But it’s your job to hold your tongue, isn’t that right, Venturi? And we all know how important this job is to you.”

Roz had frozen, finally catching on. Still Damian said nothing. Fury clouded his periphery and gathered at his center. It was a vicious thing, unfamiliar in its ferocity. He had the sense that it was scratching at his composure, clawing at his resolve, urging him to crack. His fingers longed to clamp around Salvestro’s neck, his nails eager to sink into flesh and coax forth hot blood. He yearned to feel the ineffectual pulse of the man’s throat as he fought for air.

“I said,” Salvestro repeated slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile, “it is your job to hold your tongue. Correct?”

“Yes.” Damian forced the lone syllable through gritted teeth. It tasted like bile.

Salvestro waited.

“Yes, mio signore.”

With an air of infuriating smugness, the disciple clapped Damian on the arm. “Such a good soldier.” He cut a glance to Roz, who was stone-faced. “I do so look forward to this meeting.”

Salvestro’s echoing steps were quickly swallowed up by the hallway, but the smoldering wrongness at Damian’s core remained a living, visceral thing.

2

ROZ

“I’m going to kill him,” Roz declared as she and Damian made their way to the council chambers.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Damian didn’t look at her when he spoke. Was he angry, or was he still thinking about what Salvestro had said? Everything that had gone wrong was her fault, yet Salvestro had made them both pay for it by humiliating Damian in front of her. Saints, Roz hated that man. His smug smile was emblazoned in her mind, and she longed to see it slide from his face. Preferably through force.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think that he would—”

“Let’s not talk about it.” Damian’s mouth was a rigid line as he wrenched open the wooden doors to the council chambers. He used more force than necessary, and the motion stirred the air. “You can wait inside. The unfavored are to sit on the far side of the room.”

Of course he knew she wouldn’t want to sit with the rest of the disciples. But Roz hesitated, brows drawing together. “You’re not coming?”

“I’ll be back once I make sure everything is in order. I need to brief the extra officers—let them know they’re no longer needed.”

Roz studied Damian closely. She felt she was seeing him for the first time that week. After everything, she would have expected him to look thinner, more strung out. Instead, the opposite appeared to be happening. His chest strained beneath the fabric of his navy uniform, and he somehow looked bigger, all muscles and broad shoulders. His jaw was hardened steel, set so aggressively that a tendon in his neck stood out. She was reminded of how he had looked in the vision Enzo showed her. Where she’d seen the disciple of Chaos carrying out every facet of his plan, right up to his own death—before it happened in reality.

She traced her disciple’s ring with an impatient finger. Right before the illusion had ended, she’d been looking at Damian. He’d been shrouded by the oppressive darkness of the Shrine, pistola in hand. She could only watch as Damian’s eyes turned to darkest obsidian, an unrecognizable smile ghosting his lips.

“All right,” Roz said, because there wasn’t much else to say.

Damian inclined his head. “Your friends are already here.”

Then he was gone. Roz turned to see Nasim Kadera and Dev Villeneuve looking her way. She approached them, passing the security officers stationed at the perimeter of the enormous room. A table longer than the entirety of Bartolo’s tavern dominated the center, though additional seating had been set up wherever there was extra space. The deep crimson walls were lined with colorful tapestries and portraits of people Roz assumed were previous Palazzo representatives, and an intricate chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, cut glass glittering like gems in the light.

Behind Nasim and Dev, Alix, Josef, and Arman sat huddled together in conversation. Farther back still were Rafaella and Jianyu, then Nicolina with Zemin and Basit. Alix smiled at Roz, their friendly face full of cautious optimism. Arman merely nodded, and Josef gave a half-hearted wave. Nobody was happy to be here, Roz knew. The unfavored—rebels in particular—didn’ttrust the Palazzo or its disciples. But they’d come because this was what they’d been fighting for: a place at the table.

A seat had been left open for her beside Nasim, who was sitting in the first row. Roz sank into the hard-backed chair as if it might assuage the turbulence inside her.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nasim demanded. Her inky hair hung loose around her face today, freed from its usual braid. Dev leaned across to better hear Roz’s reply, his shoulder pressing into Nasim’s.

“Nothing’s wrong with me. Salvestro Agosti, though, has a number of things wrong with him—the first being that he’s a complete and utter bastard.” Roz crossed her arms, glaring at the door as though the disciple of Death might appear there.

“You met him?” Dev’s brows shot up.

“I wish I hadn’t.”

His mouth twisted in a wry grin. Dev had fallen into a deep, self-destructive grief after his sister’s murder, but knowing Enzo was responsible seemed to have made things better. His face was still gaunt, his eyes dulled by weeks of sadness, but at least he’d pulled himself out of his ongoing drunken stupor. “I can imagine this is going to go well then.”

“He’s not the chief magistrate,” Nasim pointed out.

Roz pursed her lips. “He seems to think he is, though. You should have heard how he spoke to Damian. But with any luck, there won’t be a chief magistrate going forward.” If they were going to make meaningful changes to Ombrazia’s political system, it was time to wipe the slate clean and start over. A handful of disciples in charge of the entire city, led by a chief magistrate believed to divine the will of the saints, had historically not been kind to the unfavored. Given that they had no magic with which to contribute to the economy, their needs were rarely considered at all. Regular blacksmiths and masons would never be as efficient as disciples of Patience and Strength, respectively. Tailors and alchemists couldn’t hope to compete with disciples of Grace or Cunning, and nonmagical healers were useless when one of Mercy’s disciples was available. Ombrazia had long decided what skills were to be rewarded, and the unfavored possessed none of them.

Dev wrinkled his nose. “You think the current representatives will be willing to step down?”

“No. I think they’ll have to be convinced. After everything, though, they’re definitely scared. They’ve seen what the rebellion can do, and they won’t want it to happen again.”

“And you’re certain Damian will have his officers under control?” Nasim asked for what must have been the fifth time this week. Roz knew Nasim wasn’t the only one who’d entertained the prospect that this might be a trap. Inviting rebels to the Palazzo, where law enforcement darkened every hallway? If Roz hadn’t known Damian and his friends the way she did, she might have doubted it herself. With both the general and the chief magistrate dead, however, the Palazzo was weak. Its best option was to make peace with dissenters before it splintered completely.

“Yes,” Roz said. “You can trust Damian.”

Nasim said nothing, but anxiety rolled off her in waves.

“It’ll be fine.” Roz squeezed Nasim’s wrist. “If things start going sideways, I’ll speak up on behalf of the unfavored. I’m a disciple—they’re not going to do anything to me.” Besides, if an argument started up, she wouldn’t be able to sit quietly. She needed to be involved, or there was the distinct possibility her head would explode.

“Roz.” Nasim’s voice was firm. “Just because you no longer live in Patience’s sector doesn’t mean you can side publicly with the rebellion. What if the guild kicks you out? How are you going to make money?”

“I live above a functioning tavern,” Roz reminded her, but her skin crawled. Could Patience’s guild kick her out? She’d never heard of it happening to a disciple before, unless a crime had been committed. She tried to keep her true beliefs a secret from the rest of the disciples, but it was foolish to think she could do so forever. Now was as good a time as any to give up the charade.

Dev was focused on his fingernails. “The tavern does okay, but it doesn’t make that much money. We can speak for ourselves, too, you know. We don’t want you to sacrifice everything.”

Nasim nodded, and Roz ground her teeth. We, Dev had said, making it painfully clear Roz wasn’t one of them. She had been, though. She’d been unfavored most of her life. She knew what it was to suffer under this regime—her father had died at its hands. Now that she was a disciple, was that supposed to just . . . go away? Was she supposed to forget, and be thankful for the blessing? To embrace her new status and simply move on?

She couldn’t.

They quieted then, as a number of people began to file into the council chambers. Disciples took their seats on the other side of the room, and Roz straightened as Vittoria entered alongside a group of friends. Her ex-girlfriend and the other disciples of Patience shot her curious looks when they saw where she was sitting. Roz offered a bland smile in return, as though nothing was unusual. She’d always felt separate from them, but now the proverbial line was a true one. Her days of creating metal weapons in Patience’s temple were over.

Palazzo representatives and guild leaders began arranging themselves at the table. The representatives were clad conspicuously in red coats with embroidered gold stars, but Roz’s gaze snagged on Salvestro. He sat at the place of honor, as comfortable there as if he’d already been put in charge. His hands were clasped before him, rings glinting in the light of the chandelier. The neck of his shirt dipped to reveal the pale hollow of his throat. He must have felt the weight of Roz’s attention; his eyes met hers for a moment before he turned away, utterly dismissive.

The representatives scoured the room in vague surprise. Despite the open invitation to the rest of the city, they obviously hadn’t expected so many to attend. The space was packed, and the differences between the two sides of the chamber were blatant. The disciples were well-dressed in clothing made by Grace-blessed tailors. There was no other explanation for the way their attire fit so seamlessly, flowing like silk regardless of fabric or texture. If any of them appeared ill at ease, it was only due to the proximity of the unfavored.

The unfavored themselves appeared tense. Though most had worn their best, evidence of poverty was obvious in frayed threads and worn shoes. There was a harshness about them that the disciples didn’t possess. Most were likely veterans of war. Roz couldn’t blame them for being uncomfortable in the presence of those who had sent them there.

On Salvestro’s right, an elderly man in a gray suit cleared his throat.

“As I’m sure many of you know,” he said, “I’m Mediator D’Alonzo. As an adviser to the representatives, I often head meetings in this very room. It is my honor to do so today, despite the circumstances being rather more grim than usual. I hope that, like myself, you have all been praying for the departed souls of those recently lost.”

Damian sidled into the room as the mediator spoke. He wore what Roz called his officer face: expression impassive, jaw wired tight. He tilted his head slightly, gaze pinned on Salvestro’s back. Dark fury still lingered about him like an unrelenting storm.

A moment later, Kiran and Siena slipped into the council chambers. Kiran shot Roz a small grin as they passed.

“Why are they late?” Nasim murmured.

Roz shrugged. Her focus returned to Salvestro, who kept glancing at the door as if he expected someone else to appear there. Unease thrummed beneath her skin, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. Anyone in Ombrazia worth worrying about was probably already in this room.

D’Alonzo was still speaking, his hands folded on the polished table. “We have a number of things on the docket to discuss. The reality is, we need to need to establish how to move forward.” His voice held a gravelly tremor. “Tragically, both our general and our chief magistrate have gone to be with the saints, but we can honor their memories by reestablishing order in the city they both cared about so greatly.

“Now, my colleagues and I have spent the last few days in close consultation with the Palazzo representatives.” This he directed at the group of observers. “They will each retain their current roles, though naturally a new representative of Grace will need to be chosen. Chief Magistrate Forte’s death means that role has been vacant for the past week.” A curly-haired woman three seats down nodded—the leader of Grace’s guild, Roz supposed. “Of course, that means the role of chief magistrate must also be filled. After much deliberation we have decided that Salvestro Agosti, disciple of Death, is perfect for the role.”

Murmurs went up from the small crowd. Roz felt as though someone had thrown a brick at her. She widened her eyes at Nasim and Dev, who wore matching expressions of horror.

“He has to be joking,” Nasim hissed. Dev only shook his head. Roz was numb as Salvestro rose to his feet, smiling a wide, close-lipped smile.

“Thank you,” he said, although no one had clapped. Only a handful of people even looked pleased. The rest, Roz suspected, were put out that their own guild’s representative hadn’t been chosen. Salvestro scanned the room, managing to look even more self-important, and Roz tasted acid. What was it she’d thought about Salvestro that first day at the Basilica? He looked like a man who expected power. And now, just like that, it was going to be handed to him.

“Signor Agosti will be appointed chief magistrate in one week’s time,” D’Alonzo said. “A ceremony will be held at the Basilica after he has completed seven days of fasting and prayer. This will allow him to establish a relationship with the saints and prepare for his new role.”

Roz clenched her fists in her lap. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This was not the point of the meeting.

Across the room, the mask had begun to slip from Damian’s face. Roz could see the minute narrowing of his dark eyes. Anyone who didn’t know him well wouldn’t have suspected a thing; he didn’t move a muscle, his focus never wavering from Salvestro.

“Should the new chief magistrate not be another disciple of Grace?” asked the curly-haired woman. “No offense intended, Signore. It’s just that Chief Magistrate Forte hardly served for a lengthy period.”

“No one said it had to be a long time,” the curvy disciple across from her retorted. Mariana—leader of Death’s guild. Roz had met the woman while they were investigating Enzo’s murders and hadn’t much cared for her.

Displeasure settled in Salvestro’s brow. Before he could speak, however, Roz saw her chance. If others were going to openly voice their opinions, why shouldn’t she?

“I thought the whole intention of this meeting was to establish a new way forward. Possibly one without a chief magistrate at all,” she said loudly, keeping her tone polite. “Evidently people weren’t satisfied with the way things were, so how can you think it’s a good idea to keep them the same?” This question she posed to the table, not just D’Alonzo. In her periphery, Nasim tensed. Damian took a step forward, dismay in his face. Surely he hadn’t expected her to stay quiet?

D’Alonzo looked at Roz in bewilderment, as if he’d only just noticed that the other half of the room was occupied. “And you are?”

Salvestro waved a hand, silencing the mediator. “Allow me, Signore.” He leaned forward, his next words directed at Roz. “Changes are happening, whether we like them or not. Changes in personnel and the way this place is run. The system, however, remains the same.”

“I don’t recall everyone agreeing on that,” Roz argued. Her anger felt like something chemical that might bubble up and overflow.

Salvestro shrugged. As if it was nothing, and all of this was unimportant. “Decisions were made, then changed.” He considered Roz again. Was it a sort of vile pleasure she saw in his face? Or had he judged her and found her lacking? “You were blessed by Patience, correct? You’d do well to exercise some of that.”

“I’ve been patient. I thought we were here to discuss a new system of governance.”

“There is no need to change a system that works just fine. Deaths happen, and leaders are replaced,” Salvestro explained, as though she was an idiot. The rest of the watchful room might as well have evaporated. “That is the way of politics. Issues are identified and dealt with. Rebellions rise and are crushed.”

Icy cold shot through Roz’s veins. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought Salvestro knew. The way he spoke was almost too pointed.

“Would it not be preferable to have a system people don’t want to rebel against in the first place?” she shot back.

“There will always be those who are dissatisfied.”

“There’s a difference between dissatisfaction and being desperate enough to launch a full-fledged attack.”

“And yet the rebels are not even the reason we’re forced to make these changes. That was the disciple of Chaos’s doing.” Salvestro planted his palms flat on the table, fixing Roz with a disdainful glare. “Keep your fool mouth shut, girl, and leave the politics to those of us who understand it.”

Roz’s brows shot up. She could feel Nasim practically vibrating at her side and saw Damian go rigid across the room.

“I think,” Dev interjected, shifting beneath the stares that suddenly snapped to him, “the issue Signora Lacertosa refers to is that of the unfavored. Currently we have little say in the way Ombrazia is governed, and I understood today’s meeting was open to us so that we might provide input.” A number of the rebels murmured their agreement.

“And what do any of you know about running a city-state?” a broad-shouldered Palazzo representative piped up, making the woman beside him giggle. “Why should you need a say? You have nothing to offer Ombrazia.”

“Because you don’t allow us to offer anything,” Alix snapped, their usually calm voice laced with ire. “Anything we can do, a disciple can do better. Faster. That’s what you think, at least. We’ve all but had to establish an economy of our own, and it’s not sustainable.”

“You seem to be doing just fine,” the representative said, his words dripping condescension.

“Are you joking?” This was from Josef—he was on his feet, and the sheer size of him had several officers inching forward. “If we’re not struggling to make a living, it’s only because we’re being shipped off to fight in your pointless war.”

Mediator D’Alonzo slammed his hand down on the table. “Enough!”

Neither his command nor the resounding noise had much effect. Nasim was standing now, too. “How many of us have to die fighting the Brechaans? How many of us have to wonder if our loved ones are still alive?”

“You are doing your duty!” Mariana shouted from the other end of the council table. Her cheeks were flushed. “Given what you lack, it is the least any of you can do.”

From there, everything dissolved into pandemonium. Roz couldn’t have said how many people were yelling over one another; it was impossible to tell. Normally she would have lent her voice to the fray, but she couldn’t help noticing Salvestro had risen and backed away to where Damian stood guard by the door, as if he might make a run for it.

He wasn’t making a run for it, though. He was saying something to Damian, and whatever it was drained Damian’s face of color. Damian glanced over his shoulder to where a tall woman in military garb darkened the threshold. She had more medals pinned to her chest than anyone Roz had ever seen. Her expression was no-nonsense, and everything about her stance suggested utter confidence. Her graying brown hair was drawn back in a tight bun, and her flinty gaze was unyielding. Disgust rippled across her sharp features, and she barked an order that Roz couldn’t hear.

She could make out the shape of the woman’s lips, though, as a slew of officers appeared behind her and flooded the council chambers.

Arrest them, the woman had said.

3

DAMIAN

Damian’s mind refused to process the scene before him.

“We have guests,” Salvestro had said moments prior, looking far too pleased with himself. It had taken Damian a moment to understand what he meant. Of course they had guests—the council chambers were full of them. But he’d followed Salvestro’s gaze, glancing into the corridor to see a veritable army of security officers.

None of them were his.

He’d seen the woman with a general’s insignia on the shoulders of her uniform. Military green, not Palazzo blue. Had heard her harsh command and pressed himself against the wall as officers forced their way into the room.

There were dozens upon dozens of them. Certainly more than Damian had under his authority. They made a beeline for the side of the room where the unfavored sat, and that was when he realized what was happening. He bellowed a warning, but nobody heard him in the commotion. Roz didn’t hear him. These were military officers—the type who stood guard at the perimeter of the Ombrazian camps up north. The type who chased down deserters. And the woman with them was a military general.

Damian didn’t know her, but she was more decorated than his father had been. Being a military general was different from being a general who worked in the Palazzo. Battista’s job had been largely administrative. This woman, though, was from the front lines. She would have spent years clawing her way up, gambling with lives in the process. Damian knew without a doubt that despite technically being the same rank, his father would have bowed to her.

She watched the scene play out with cool impassivity. All around them, officers were taking the unfavored into custody. Only a few of the civilians had weapons—rebels, Damian assumed—but even so, they didn’t stand a chance. The officers moved with uncanny efficiency, snapping cuffs around wrists and fending off blows with ease. One of them had Nasim restrained, and although she bared her teeth at him, she didn’t fight back. Damian’s heart lurched as he mentally prepared for Roz to involve herself, but she had disappeared from sight. Hell, where was she?

He pushed off the wall, scouring the sea of bodies for her tall figure. All around him, disciples were ushered out of the room. Those who remained looked on with confusion. A number of Damian’s security officers did the same, or else tried to catch his eye for some kind of signal. Kiran and Siena were in the latter group, their expressions panicked, but Damian could only shrug at them in horrified bewilderment. Other officers had leapt into the fray and were conducting arrests alongside the military officers. Damian had one hand on his gun, the other clenched in a fist. They were going to get a fucking earful from him later.

“Damian!”

He spun, searching wildly for the source of Roz’s voice. He spotted her a beat later, an officer at her back, her knife on the ground by her feet. Her expression was sheer rage, but beneath it was disbelief. She was wondering if he’d known about this, Damian understood with a jolt. He gave a frantic shake of his head as he forced his way through the crowd. The officer who had detained Roz was trying to guide her to the edge of the room, but she was standing her ground. At least until he yanked her sideways, causing her to stumble. Damian’s anger flared white-hot. He didn’t know how he made it to her, only that he did, and the next second his fist was slamming into the officer’s temple. The man staggered, eyes unfocused. A hand wrenched Damian back, and he whirled to find himself nose-to-nose with Kiran.

“What are you doing?” his friend demanded, face devoid of its usual humor.

Damian heaved a breath. He knew hitting another officer was a mistake, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “They’re arresting her. They—”

Kiran’s hair was coming out of its knot, and he tucked a dark lock behind his ear as he spoke. “They’re arresting everyone who seems to be unfavored. I take it you didn’t know about this?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

The room was nearly empty. Only Damian’s officers, the Palazzo representatives, and a handful of military officers remained. The disciples had all been made to leave, the unfavored dragged out in handcuffs. Damian wondered where they were being taken, but had the terrible sensation he knew. He sought out Roz again, but the place where she’d been standing was occupied by somebody else. Slate-gray eyes rooted him in place.

“Signor Venturi, I take it,” said the general. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Damian gave a shallow bow, forcing himself to swallow the putrid anger still stirring in his throat. Had she seen him punch that officer? “An honor, Signora.”

She didn’t smile, or even react. When she spoke, it was to the rest of the room, her voice devoid of emotion.

“I am General Caterina Falco. You will address me as ‘General.’ I’ve held my current rank for the past five years. Prior to that, I spent nine years as head commander at the front, though my first promotion was in the training bureau. I’ve spent nearly my entire life at war, and the only reason I’m stepping away now is to help get this place back on track. I’m sorry to hear about Battista Venturi’s death—he was a great man. As long as I’m in this building, treat me the same way you did him, and we’ll get along just fine.”

There was a pause, but then everyone nodded. A few of Damian’s officers shot him accusatory glances, likely suspecting he’d withheld news of Falco’s arrival. At his place by the door, Salvestro was practically radiating delight, as if he could fathom nothing better than being around this brusque, unpleasant woman. With some effort, Damian managed to nod. That brief moment of uncontrollable violence had faded, and as logic returned, he formulated a plan. He would play nice with Falco. He would figure out where they had taken Roz, and he would get her pardoned. After all, they had no proof of any crimes committed.

“Now,” Falco said, “a considerable number of you already know me from your time spent up north. I did bring some reinforcements of my own”—she gestured at the green-clad officers—“in order to help boost your numbers.” Finally her gray eyes found Damian’s again, but he couldn’t identify the expression in them. Did she expect him to assist with this? Why hadn’t anyone sent word ahead of time?

“With your cooperation,” she went on, “I have no doubt we will be able to restore order to Ombrazia.” She laced her fingers together, disciple’s ring winking in the light. She had to be Strength, like Battista. If not that, perhaps Cunning. “I’d like to thank Signor Agosti for sending word about your circumstances. My letter replying to his request for help only arrived earlier today, but as you can see, we are happy to assist. We may be rather spread out at the moment, but our goals are shared ones nonetheless.”

Cold unfurled in Damian’s stomach. Salvestro had summoned General Falco to the Palazzo? He’d written to the front without telling anyone? No doubt that was the reason he had recanted his order to increase security at the meeting. With Falco coming, additional officers would only get in the way.

“Why weren’t we told of this?” demanded Eoin, the muscular representative of Strength who had spoken up during the meeting. He was a square-jawed, auburn-haired man in his early twenties, possessing the unfortunate habit of saying exactly what was on his mind at all times.

“I planned to tell you once I knew the general was sending aid,” Salvestro said, ignoring Eoin’s glare. “I know her personally, you see, and sent news of recent events. How we appear to have lost the confidence of the populace. Or,” he added, a sneer curling his lips, “some of them, at least. After last week, much of Ombrazia’s power is concentrated in the north, not at the Palazzo. I think you’ll agree that needs to change. Besides, General Falco will be able to take over Battista Venturi’s duties in his absence.” He said it as if Damian’s father were on extended vacation somewhere, rather than dead in the ground.

Lekan, Mercy’s representative, shifted closer to Eoin. “This still feels like something we ought to have been consulted on.”

“I had an idea I thought would help this city. I used my connections to execute it. Surely we both want the same thing? Surely your top priority is the safety and order of Ombrazia?” Salvestro surveyed Lekan with a gaze to cut glass. It wasn’t a question, but a challenge.

“Of course” was Lekan’s smooth reply.

Salvestro really had established himself as the authority here, Damian realized. Even the other Palazzo representatives weren’t willing to put up much of a fight. On Lekan’s other side, the disciples of Cunning and Patience stood in unreadable silence. From what Damian could tell, none of the representatives knew quite what to make of the past week’s events. These people were supposed to be leading the city, yet they hadn’t a clue what to do without someone to guide them. In the absence of Chief Magistrate Forte, they seemed content to fall in line behind Salvestro.

“Enough,” Falco said softly, and Damian got the immediate sense that she didn’t need to raise her voice to incite fear. “Salvestro was right to get in touch. I knew his father well as a youth—we were both disciples of Death, you see.” She assessed each representative in turn, her gaze passing over Damian entirely. “Now, you needn’t worry about the arrests we conducted here tonight. My officers will take care of everything. The unfavored will be thoroughly questioned at the prison so that we might glean the names of the rebels responsible for last week’s attack.”

“And if they’re innocent?” Siena dared to ask from where she stood with the other Palazzo security officers. “Will you let them go?”

Falco gave a curt shake of her head. “You bring me to the second reason I didn’t arrive here alone. Now more than ever, it’s imperative that we bolster our numbers in the north. You see, Brechaat’s general recently died from illness. In Brechaat, positions are passed on by name as opposed to merit, so this means his son now commands the southern front. The boy is young and inexperienced, and we continue to control the main port of trade on the northern river. No matter what the heretics try to take from us, we will not allow them to be successful. If we can double the draft, or perhaps even triple it, we may be able to win this once and for all.”

A few of the representatives nodded, pleased, but Damian felt sick. How many more unfavored were they going to sacrifice for this supposed victory? Had anyone thought of that? Did they care? People like Salvestro and Eoin had no real stake in this fight. Their families weren’t fighting and dying on the northern front. To them, the Second War of Saints was nothing but a faraway battle told through tales and news reports.

“So everyone you arrested here tonight will be sent to war?” Damian heard himself ask before he could think better of it. “Whether they’re guilty of rebel activity or not?”

“Correct,” Falco said, her uncompromising glare boring into him. “That is their duty to this city.”

He thought of Roz and knew she would allow herself to be shipped north with her friends. If the rebels were going to suffer, she would suffer with them.

At the realization, Damian felt as if he’d been injected with something debilitating. His pulse skyrocketed, his vision blurring. When it passed, he was left with nothing but rage and that now-familiar sense of wrongness. It made sweat bead along his spine. “One of the people you arrested today wasn’t unfavored. She’s a disciple—she just happened to be sitting with them.”

As a disciple, Roz had the choice to fight or not. Damian only needed to convince her it wasn’t worth it.

Falco’s thin lips turned up. “I’m aware of that.”

“You—what?

” “I know who she is. What she’s done.”

The world froze, then bottomed out from under Damian’s feet. Nobody knew Roz was the leader of the rebellion. Nobody except him and the rebels themselves. Kiran and Siena knew she was affiliated with it because Damian hadn’t been able to keep the secret from them, but they’d begrudgingly understood and promised to keep quiet. There was no way for Falco to know about Roz when she’d only just arrived here, unless Salvestro had discovered something and told her in his letter.

“I know that girl came for you on the boat, Venturi. I’ll admit, I had intended to do this in private, but your game is ended. A deserter, pretending to be an honorable leader?” Falco shook her head gravely. The weight of her stare was damning, and Damian’s mouth went dry, his brain disconnecting from his body.

What the hell was going on? Nobody who would recognize Damian had seen him leave that northern-bound ship. But if one thing was certain, it was that she knew. Somehow, Falco knew he’d fled the ship to avoid returning to war. She’d thought him a coward, a traitor, before she’d so much as laid eyes on him.

His cheeks burned as blood rushed to his face. Though he felt the weight of stares, he saw nothing save the general’s impassive expression. When she refused to break the silence—to spare him the misery of enduring it—Damian knew he had to speak.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It sounded like he was choking on the words. His eyes found Kiran and Siena. Neither appeared to be breathing.

The general followed his gaze. “Oh, yes, I know those two were involved as well. Did you all think you would get away with it? That you could simply return here and take up your old positions?”

Damian didn’t bother trying to deny it a second time. There was no point. All around him the silence was full of shocked apprehension. A few of his officers shot him sidelong looks but said nothing. Salvestro, on the other hand, looked like a starving man who had just been offered a feast.

At the same time, a slow trickle of relief flowed through Damian. This had nothing to do with the rebellion. They didn’t know about Roz or her role in what happened last week.

“Hand me your badge and weapons.” Falco’s tone left no room for argument.

Despite his horror and embarrassment, Damian nearly laughed. He pulled the badge from his chest and tossed it in one smooth motion. It clattered against the council table, suddenly appearing small and insignificant, and spun to a stop in front of Falco, who pocketed it.

“Weapons, Venturi.”

With uncharacteristic clumsiness, Damian pulled the pistola from his belt and the archibugio from across his back. He ripped the blade from his pocket, and another from his boot. Those, too, he set on the table, arranged in a line from largest to smallest. Falco motioned for an officer—one of hers, not Damian’s—to take them away.

“Is that it?” she asked, and he nodded. The silence in the council chambers was suffocating.