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CHAPTER EIGHT

Corrick

Six months before our parents were killed, there was an assassination attempt. The fevers had only just begun, but I was hardly aware of a problem. Then, my parents were still well loved, and I’d just begun to attend their meetings with the consuls. My brother had been attending for years, and I’d heard stories about them all. Allisander’s father, Nathaniel Sallister, was full of bluff and bluster, and he challenged my father on every issue.

I remember being presented with my own folio, my own fountain pen. At my side, Harristan was doodling horses and dogs in the margins of his own folio—but I could tell he was listening to everything said. I read every word twice, hoping to have an opportunity to share my “worldly” insights on something. Anything.

By the time the meeting pushed past two hours, however, I was bored and looking for any excuse to leave. I’d begun sketching caricatures of the consuls in the margins of my folio, complete with Nathaniel urinating on a pile of papers. Harristan glanced over, choked on a laugh, and drowned the sound in a sip of water.

Stop it, he mouthed at me, and I grinned.

Across the table, my mother gave us both a look, but her eyes were twinkling.

Then a crash and a shout echoed from the hallway, and the twinkle disappeared from her eye. Everyone at the table went silent. Another shout, followed by many more. My father was blocking my mother against the wall. Harristan grabbed my arm and shoved me behind him, but I wrestled to get in front of him.

“You’re the heir,” I hissed, like he needed a reminder.

Something hit the door with a loud thunk, and it didn’t matter which of us was in front, because my father gave an order, and two guards blocked us from view. My heart was in my throat—but what’s worse is that I remember being more worried that Consul Sallister would see my drawing than of anything happening.

Wood cracked and split, and men poured into the room. Crossbows fired almost instantly. The men fell—all except one.

Micah Clarke, the King’s Justice before me, caught one by the arm. He twisted it up behind the man, then slammed him facedown on the table, right where I’d been sitting. My eyes were wide, and I could hear Harristan breathing.

My mother peeked out from around my father. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are they here?”

Micah looked at my father. I don’t know if he was waiting for permission, or an order, or something else entirely.

But my father looked away.

Theman wrenched his face up from the folio and inhaled. Later, Micah would say he was going to spit at my parents, but to me, it looked like he was going to speak.

He didn’t get the chance to do either. Micah drew a blade and cut his throat. Blood poured all over my drawings.

We never found out who sent them. It’s long been rumored that they were the first attack sent from Trader’s Landing, but we’ve never been able to prove it.

I think about that day sometimes. The way my mother seemed confused. The way my father looked away. The way my brother kept trying to drag me behind him.

The way everyone was afraid, except the King’s Justice, who was forced to act.

Today, I expect Harristan to be furious after the riot outside the gates, but he’s not.

I am.

Listen to the Benefactors.

I don’t know what that means, but I’ve been turning it over in my head since the guards dragged us off the stage.

The consuls requested a meeting the very instant we returned to the palace, but my brother has been making them wait. He’s been quiet for hours. Thoughtful. Contemplative.

The longer he sits quietly and thinks, the more agitated I become, until I’m the one pacing his chambers.

Three of the prisoners escaped during the melee. Five were killed, but three slipped into the crowd when citizens began swarming the stage and the guards moved to protect Harristan and me. One of them was Lochlan, the man who smashed Allisander’s face against the bars.

Theconsul is probably boiling with rage. I’m surprised steam isn’t pouring from the other side of the door.

As if on cue, someone raps at the door. “Enter,” calls Harristan.

One of the guards swings the door wide. “Your Majesty, Master Quint would like to remind you that the consuls are gathered—”