She blew out a held breath. Seven or eight more minor nations to bribe, and only half an hour to do it in. All the members of the Spyre Council were here now. It would all be decided soon, one way or another.

Before she could reach her next target a majordomo in the livery of the Council approached and bowed. “They are ready for you upstairs, madam,” he said coolly.

She kept her gaze fixed on the top of his head as she bowed in return. All eyes were on her, she was certain. This was the moment when all would be decided.

As she clattered up the marble she tried to remember the lines and gambits she had crammed into her head over the past day or so. It hadn’t been enough time, and the hangover of her migraine had interfered. She was not ready; she just had herself, the passing lanterns, the looming shadows above, and the single rectangle of light from a pair of doors in the upstairs hall. She told herself to slow down, control her breathing, count to ten—but finally just cursed and strode down the newly laid crimson carpet to pivot on one heel and step into the room.

Jacoby Sarto’s leonine features crinkled into something like a smirk as he saw her. He was placing the final chair behind the long conference table in the high-ceilinged minor reception hall. Damn him, he’d moved everything!—Where Venera had contrived a single long table with chairs along two sides, with her at the end, Sarto—or somebody, but it sure looked like him from his posture—had turned the table sideways, crammed all the seats on one side of it (behind it, now) and left one solitary chair in the center of the carpet. What had been a conference room was now a court, with her as the defendant.

The rest of the council was standing around behind Sarto as the servants finished the new placement.

She had an overwhelming urge to pick a seat behind the table and put her feet up, then point to the solitary position and ask, “who sits there?” Only memory of how badly her recent outbursts had gone stopped her.

Well, he had won this round, but she wasn’t going to let him revel in it. Venera stopped one of the servants and said, “Bring me a side table, and a bottle of wine and a glass. Some cheese might be good too.” She sat graciously in the exposed chair and draped her skirts as she’d seen the other ladies do. Then she locked eyes with Sarto, and smiled.

The others began to take their places. There were twelve of them. Jacoby Sarto of Sacrus, who was rumored to be merely an errand boy to the true heads of the family, sat on the far left. The arch-conservative duke Ennersin, who had conspicuously arrived with Sarto, sat next to him, frowning in disapproval at Venera. She could count on those two to oppose her confirmation. Of the others…

Pamela Anseratte was smiling at something, but wouldn’t meet Venera’s eye. Principe Guinevera was trying to meet her eye, and apparently attempting to wink; he took up two spaces at the table and his fleshy hands were planted on the tabletop as if he were, at any second, about to leap to his feet and proclaim something. Next to him sat August Virilio, who looked contented, half asleep even—and probably was, after the heroic drinking he’d gotten up to after she forgave his nation’s debt. These three were on her side—or so she hoped.

The other great families were represented by minor members and, in three cases, by ambassadors. Two of the ambassadors were cloaked and masked; the families in question, Garrat and Oxorn, were mysterious, isolate and paranoid as only the ancients of Greater Spyre could be. Nobody knew what their nations produced—only that it went for fabulous prices and threat of death on exposure in the outside world.

Three out of twelve for sure. Maybe three others if her reckless divestment of Buridan’s wealth had done what she hoped. But it was a big if. She was going to need every ounce of cunning and every resource to get through the evening free and intact.

The Council all sat and waited while Venera’s new servants placed decanters of wine and tall glasses on the table. Then Pamela Anseratte stood and smiled around the table. “Welcome, everyone. I trust the nations are well and that the hospitality of our host has been sampled and appreciated by all? Yes? Then let’s begin. We’re gathered here tonight to decide whether to reinstate Buridan as an active nation, in the person of the woman who here claims to be Amandera Thrace-Guiles, heir of said nation. I—”

“Why are you alone?” Duke Ennersin was speaking directly to Venera. “Why are we to take this one person’s word for who she is? Where is the rest of her nation? Why has she appeared here, now, after an absence of centuries?”

“Yes, yes, we’re going to get to those questions,” soothed Lady Anseratte. “First, however, we have some formalities to clear away. Amandera Thrace-Guiles’s claim is pointless and instantly void if she cannot produce documents indicating her paternity and ancestry, as well as the notarized deeds and titles of her nation, plus the key.” She beamed at Venera. “You have all those things?”

Silently, Venera rose and walked to the table. She placed the thick sheaf of papers she’d brought in front of Anseratte. Then she unscrewed the heavy signet ring from her finger and placed it atop the stack.

This was her opening move, but she couldn’t count on its effect.

“I see,” said Lady Anseratte. “May I examine the ring?” Venera nodded, returning to her seat. Lady Anseratte took a flat box with some lights on it and hovered it over the ring. The box glowed and made a musical bonging sound.

“Duly authenticated,” said the lady. She carefully placed the ring to one side and opened the sheaf. Much of its contents were genuine. Venera had found the deeds and titles in the tower. It had been the work of several careful days to extend the family tree by several centuries and insert herself at its end. She had intended to use her own not-inconsiderable talents at forgery but had been indisposed, but Garth had come through, displaying surprising skills. He was not just a gigolo in his previous life, evidently. As the papers were passed up and down the table Venera kept a bland expression on her face. She tried the wine, and adjusted the fall of her skirt again.

“Convincing,” said Jacoby Sarto after flipping through the papers. “But just because something is convincing that doesn’t mean it’s true. It’s merely convincing. What can you do to establish the truth of your claim?”

Venera tilted her head to one side. “It would be impossible to do so to everyone’s satisfaction, sir, just as it would be impossible for you to prove that you are, without doubt, Jacoby Sarto of Nation Sacrus. I rather think the onus is on this council to disprove my claim, if they can.”

August Virilio opened one eye slightly. “Why don’t we start with your story? I always like a good story after supper.”

“Excellent idea,” said Pamela Anseratte. “Duke Ennersin asked why it is that you are here before us now, of all times. Can you explain why your nation has hidden away so thoroughly for so long?”

Venera actually knew the answer to that one—it had been written in the contorted bodies of the soldiers inside the tower, and in the scrawled final confessions of the dead woman in the bedchamber.

Steepling her hands, Venera smiled directly at Jacoby Sarto and said, “The answer is simple. We knew that if we left Buridan Tower, we would be killed.”

This was gambit number two.

The council members expressed various shades of surprise, shock, and satisfaction at her revelation. Jacoby Sarto crossed his arms and sat back. “Who would do this?” asked Anseratte. She was still standing and now leaned forward over the table.

“The isolation of Buridan Tower wasn’t an accident,” said Venera. “Or, at least, not entirely. It was the result of an attack—and the attackers were two of the great nations present at this table tonight.”