“Good morning,” he declared, clapping his hands together. “By Ghezen’s hand, this room is frigid.”

“You’re late.”

“Am I? Duke Radimov serves a very fine lunch. A most excellent host indeed. Your king might take a page from his book.”

Radimov and the other West Ravkans were entertaining Kerch’s dignitaries in style. There had been rumblings of secession ever since the Fold had been destroyed and Ravka had been reunified. The west resented being saddled with the east’s debts, and the threat of war with Fjerda had unraveled much of the diplomatic work Nikolai had done to woo them to his side. They didn’t want to send their children to the front, and they didn’t want their taxes going to a war they doubted the king could win.

“While you dine, Ravkan soldiers may be marching to their deaths.”

Schenck patted his stomach, as if his digestion was essential to the war efforts. “Most distressing, of course.”

Diplomacy, she reminded herself. Pleasant. Zoya met Kirigin’s eye and gestured for him to pour the wine, an extraordinary vintage that had come straight from Kirigin’s legendary cellars, one that was almost impossible to get in Schenck’s home country.

“Join us for a glass, won’t you?” said Kirigin. “This is a Caryevan wine, aged in clay.”

“Is it really?” Schenck’s eyes lit and he seated himself at the table. The Kerch Merchant Council preached restraint and economy, but Schenck had a clear taste for luxury. Zoya waited for him to drink and endured the nearly obscene look of pleasure that overtook the merchant’s face. “Exceptional!” he declared.

“Isn’t it?” said Kirigin. “I have several casks of it if you’d like me to send one your way. I’ll have to get one of my servants to deliver it by hand, otherwise the travel will ruin it.”

Zoya was grateful for the count’s merry aptitude for small talk. It gave her a moment to gather her wits and resist the urge to slap the glass from Schenck’s hand. If Ravka needed her to be gracious, she would damn well be gracious.

“I’ve heard tell Novyi Zem’s sea routes have been all but obliterated,” Zoya said, “their shipping interrupted, their ability to defend their ships undone.”

“Yes, terrible. I hear their vessels have been reduced to little more than sticks upon the waves, nothing found but splinters. No survivors.” Schenck was struggling to keep his face solemn, his glee straining his voice like an eager dog on a leash. “Pirates, you know.”

“Of course.” But these tragedies had not been the work of pirates. They had been the work of the Kerch, using Ravkan technology the Merchant Council had demanded for the courtesy of extending Ravka’s loans. It allowed them to attack Zemeni ships without risk or concern for discovery, never emerging from beneath the waves to reveal themselves or become targets.

“The Zemeni economy must be suffering,” Zoya noted. “I imagine the price of jurda and sugar must be at an all-time high.”

At this, Schenck frowned. “No, not yet. The Zemeni have shown no signs of financial strain, and every attempt to raise the price of jurda has been met with resistance by our customers abroad. It’s simply a matter of time before they capitulate.”

“To pirates?”

Schenck fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. “Yes. Exactly. To pirates.”

“You continue to trade jurda with Fjerda and the Shu Han,” Zoya said. “Even though you know that jurda is being converted to parem and used to torture and enslave Grisha.”

“We know no such thing. Idle speculation, colorful tales. The Kerch have always maintained a policy of neutrality. We cannot allow ourselves to be drawn into the squabbles of other nations. We trade with all, fair coin for fair purchase. The deal is the deal.”

Zoya knew he was not just talking about the trade of jurda. He was making his country’s stance clear.

“You won’t come to Ravka’s aid.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible. But please know our thoughts are with you.”

Zoya slanted him a glance. To a certain extent, she knew that was true. The Kerch didn’t like war because it tended to disrupt shipping routes, and peaceful, prosperous countries made for better trade partners. But the Kerch could just as easily make their profits in weapons and ammunition, in the selling of steel and gunpowder, lead and aluminum.

“If Fjerda invades Ravka, are you sure the Shu will be able to keep them in check?” Zoya asked. The Shu had a massive land army, but no one knew the true extent of Fjerda’s military might. Kerch might be next on their list of acquisitions.

Schenck just smiled. “Perhaps the wolves will have a few less teeth after a prolonged fight with their neighbor.”

“So you’re hoping we’ll weaken Fjerda. You just aren’t willing to help us do it. There are ships from the Kerch navy anchored off the northern coast. We have a flyer. There’s time to send a message.”

“We could rally our ships. If the Kerch had sent me here to offer aid to Ravka, that’s precisely what we would do.”

“But they didn’t.”

“No.”

“They sent you to waste our time and keep me from where I belong.”

“While I appreciate the wine and your charming company, I’m afraid I see no point to this meeting. You have nothing to bargain with, Miss—”

“General.”

“General Nazyalensky,” he said, like an uncle indulging his most precocious niece. “We have everything we want.”

“Do you?”

Schenck’s brow creased. “What does that mean?”

This was Zoya’s last gamble, her last opportunity to salvage this parlay.

“Our king has a gift for making the impossible possible, for building extraordinary machines that can conquer new frontiers. He has assembled some of the greatest scientific minds among Grisha and otkazat’sya. Are you sure you want to be on the opposing side of that?”

“We choose no sides, Miss Nazyalensky. I thought I made that clear. And we do not bargain against the future. Ravka may have a gift for inventions we have not yet seen, but Fjerda has a gift for brutality the world well knows.”

Zoya watched him for a long moment. “You were willing to wed your daughter to Nikolai Lantsov. You know he is a good man.” Simple words, but Zoya was too aware of how rare they were.