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“The woman who owns the shop indicated that Tessa was distraught after the failed execution. She said that the girl told her friend she was pregnant with a smuggler’s baby.”

Of all the things he could have said, that’s the most unexpected. I almost burst out laughing. “Truly, Allisander? You believe she’s pregnant with a smuggler’s baby and she found herself in the palace for . . . ?what, exactly? Last night in the salon half the courtiers thought she was pregnant with Harristan’s baby, so perhaps we should make a wager—”

“I’m not a fool, Corrick.” His voice is level and cold.

I draw myself up and stare back at him. He’s too close to the truth. If it were about me, I’d laugh him right out of my quarters. But it’s not about me. It’s about Tessa.

“Arella and Roydan have made it very clear that they do not take issue with these smugglers,” Allisander says, his tone unchanged. “Consul Craft overheard them getting into a carriage together. They clearly believe the Crown has taken too harsh a stance on thievery and illegal dealings.”

“This is idle gossip, Allisander. Consul Cherry has made no secret of how she feels.”

He pushes his chess piece one space to the left, then brings his gaze to meet mine again. “After your behavior in the Hold, I suspect you have begun to think the same.”

He’s drawing the wrong conclusions in so many ways—but the worst part is that I can’t give him the right ones. My heart pounds against my ribs as I remember the way I slit those throats last night. I’m beginning to wonder if Allisander will never be satisfied until we’re executing anyone who dares to look at him askance. “You saw me in the Hold last night.”

“I did. You looked like you wanted to cry.”

“You looked like you wanted to vomit. Ah, forgive me. You did vom—”

He slams a hand on the chessboard, and the pieces rattle and topple. My king falls to the floor. He inhales fiercely.

But then he stops.

The anger in his gaze speaks volumes, however, and I hold my breath and wait. I’m not sure what he was going to say, but I hope it’s something so brutally treasonous that I could call a guard in here to run him through on the spot.

But he doesn’t. And I don’t. We sit there in frozen fury for the longest moment, until the guards rap at my door to announce Harristan.

I want to wither with relief. My brother could ask me to read every single document in the palace while standing on my head, and I’d do it willingly if it would get me out of this conversation with Consul Sallister.

Harristan doesn’t wait for a response; he just strides into my quarters before the guards have finished speaking.

Allisander rises to his feet and smooths his jacket, any hint of anger vanishing. “Harristan.”

I can’t read his voice. I don’t know if he’s glad my brother is here—or disappointed. But Harristan looks back at him, and his voice is even. “Consul.”

For one brief second, I think Allisander is going to needle him the way he was needling me. But he must still hold some respect for my brother, because he takes in Harristan’s curt response and cold demeanor, and he turns wicked eyes my way. “Thank you for the game, Corrick. We will pick it up at another time.”

I don’t know what to say, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He exits through the door, and I’m alone with my brother.

I’msurprised to find the air between us is as prickly as it was with Allisander. It must be on my side: displeasure tinged with disappointment that my brother wasn’t the one to find me in the Hold. It’s ridiculous and foolish for me to have even hoped for such a thing—but I did, and I can’t seem to let it go.

Then my brother speaks.

“Rocco reported that he found you in a destroyed section of the Hold last night, with no guards. What were you doing?”

This is startling, and not at all what I expected him to say. I begin gathering the marble chess pieces to place them in their velvet and gold box. “Your guards gossip worse than mine do, Harristan.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I don’t know how to answer his question. We can’t afford to appear weak now, of all times. Each chess piece clinks into the box until Harristan steps over to the table and snaps the lid closed.

“Talk to me.” There’s a tone of command in his voice, one I’m used to hearing—but never directed at me.

Two chess pieces remain in my hand, and I slide them over each other in my palm. I give him a sidelong glance. “Am I speaking to my brother, or am I speaking to the king?”

“Both.”

Maybe I was wrong before. Maybe the tension isn’t all on my side.