A sharp ping rings through the hall. I look down and find half a fork in my hand. I've snapped the silver clean in two without noticing how tightly I was holding it.
Fuck.
"Torgan," Saskia says under her breath. "What has gotten into you?"
"Lots on my mind." I set the broken pieces down. Then I raise my voice for the head of the table. "Apologies, my lord. I suppose orc utensils are sturdier."
"Of course my son will replace it," Ma says.
"It's fine," the Duke replies, unbothered. "His is not the first fork to break in these halls."
Maybe the first one shattered, but I keep that to myself.
A servant appears at my elbow with an identical fork. I accept it awkwardly. Orcs aren't waited on this way. Having someone hover close enough to anticipate every need feels wrong.
Fake.
"Thank you," I say. Then, because the question has been eating at me all evening and I am apparently finished pretending to be sensible, I ask, "Where are Lords Princeton and Caden tonight?"
Across the table, Mirelle's eyes promise me a slow death.
Nothing like angering an orc sister. I'm the warrior in this family on paper. My sisters are the ones who would tear out your heart, figuratively or literally, depending on the occasion.
The Duke either misses the look or pretends to. He blinks at me in that slow, sleepy way. "The Merreach Docks. They're supervising a textile shipment from the Mellica Continent and seeing that the tariffs are paid."
He swirls his goblet and studies the wine.
I want to drain mine. It would give my mouth something to do besides ask the question forming behind my teeth.
"And how do the Mellicans feel about the tariffs?" I ask. It's the polite version of the question I actually have, the one that would get us escorted out of the Starlit Reach.
"They understand it's the cost of doing business here," the Duke says. "Access to the human customer base requires coordination, protection, and knowledge of the territory. Other nations would struggle to manage without our help."
"Hear, hear," Pa says quickly, before I can respond.
He doesn't smile. He looks at me the way he did when I was a boy and about to say something that would embarrass him.
Fine.
Pa is so focused on the gold and the growth of the Oakenshade name that he hasn't considered what these tariffs will do to everyone paying them.
Or he has considered it and doesn't care.
I care. That's the inconvenient thing about me.
"My lord," I say, trying for blithe and failing, "the Oakenshades have never struggled to trade with partners in any realm. No coordination required. So wouldn't this tariff mostly fall on your own people? The humans buying the cloth?"
The Duke's drowsiness disappears. His pale eyes meet mine, clear and alert.
So he has been listening.
"Ow."
Pain shoots through the top of my right foot.
Across the table, Mirelle gives me a look that would qualify as a curse if there were a drop of magic in it. She has driven her heel into my boot, and there isn't the slightest hint of apology on her face.
Only a warning that she'll do it again.
