Page 12

Either way, I want to throw my tea at him. I settle for raising an eyebrow and tracing my finger around the rim of my cup. “You believe your crops have suffered that much?”

He shares what he must think is a conspiratorial smile. “We must protect our supply.” He hesitates. “If you feel that our pricing is too extreme, I can speak with Lissa. We can try to work within our current constraints.”

His voice is pleasant, unchanged, but I hear the veiled threat. Kandala needs their Moonflower crops. All of us do.

I think of Harristan’s coughing in his sleep yesterday morning, then quickly shove the thought out of my head before any shred of worry can manifest in my eyes. “No need,” I say. “Your position is understandable.” I pause. “I imagine Consul Marpetta will be raising her prices as well?”

Lissa Marpetta rarely says much in our council meetings, but it’s always assumed that she will act in accord with Allisander. Her sector, Emberridge, provides half as much of the Moonflower petals as his—but it’s enough for her to carry a great deal of influence.

“I believe so,” he says. “Of course we will happily pay taxes on our revenue, as always. If our supply runs remain safe, this could be quite a benefit to the Royal Sector—and therefore to all of Kandala.”

He thinks he’s doing us a favor. As if the bulk of these taxes won’t come straight from our own coffers when we buy our own supply.

SometimesI wish I knew how my father would have handled this kind of conversation. Or rather, how Micah Clarke, the previous King’s Justice, would have handled it. Father was a well-loved and temperate man, known for kindness and fair ruling. But maybe that was a luxury afforded to him by allowing someone else to handle the more challenging political intrigues.

Either way, I have no idea. Micah was killed when our parents were. And our people weren’t suffering like this when Father and Mother were in power. The fevers had only just begun to spread. People weren’t making choices between whether to feed their families or buy medicine.

Another rap sounds at my door, and I sigh. Does no one sleep?

“Enter,” I call.

The guard swings the door wide. “Your Highness. Master Quint would like a—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” says Quint, shoving past the guards with no regard for whether I’ll even see him. “I don’t need to be announced.” His red hair is a bit of an unruly mess, as usual, and I doubt his jacket was fully buttoned at any point today. He takes note that we’re not alone and all but skids to a stop. He gives a brief nod to me, and then to Allisander. “Your Highness. Consul.”

Aside from my brother, Quint might be my favorite person in the palace. He’s young for his role as Palace Master, but he was apprenticed to the last one, and when the man wanted to retire, I told Harristan to give Quint a chance. He’s honest as the day is long, and he keeps secrets better than a dead man. He’s also got enough energy for half a dozen people, talks twice as much as necessary, and has little patience for pomposity and presumption. He annoys Harristan to no end. He annoys pretty much everyone to no end.

Irather love him.

Allisander’s mouth forms a line. “Master Quint. We are in the middle of a private conversation.”

Quint blinks like that’s quite obvious. “I see that.” He makes no move to leave.

Allisander inhales with clear intent to speak words that will chase Quint out of here.

I pick up my cup of tea. “We’re nearly done, though, are we not, Consul?”

His mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t scowl at me, but almost.

I offer him an indulgent smile. “I believe we’ve come to an understanding.”

It’s the best sentence in my arsenal of courtly lines, because it means absolutely nothing, yet somehow always makes people believe I’ve acknowledged their point.

It does the trick now, too, because Allisander’s expression smooths over. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’ll draw up an order for guards for your supply runs in the morning.”

“Early, Corrick,” he says pointedly. “We’d like to return to the Plains before midday.”

I go still. He can raise his prices and make pains about his supply runs being in danger, but just like my brother, I have a limit. Allisander Sallister may have money and power, but he does not rule Kandala—or me.

He must read the change in my expression, because he says, “At your convenience, of course. With my thanks.” He pauses, then adds, “Your Highness.”

I set down my cup. “You’ll have it in the morning.”

Oncethe door swings closed behind him, Quint drops into the opposite chair. “Does he want to be fed to the royal lions?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Though really, it’s not tempting. I ordered it as a sentence once, for a man who’d killed an entire family in order to hoard their supply of Moonflower petals. Watching the lions tear him apart while he screamed for mercy was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen. Even Harristan, always stoic since we watched our parents murdered, had later said to me, “Don’t do that one again.”