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The women surrounding Saoirse exchange nervous glances. It can’t be a surprise to them or anyone in this court what Lord Adley or his daughter are after.
Saoirse lifts her chin. “I haven’t heard of someone suggesting such a thing.”
Beside me, Annika chortles.
“I guess your sources aren’t reliable.”
“Dare I say, I think they are quite so.” Her gaze darts to my shoulder.
Does she know the truth about the daaknar attack? Or is she trying to con me?
I was proficient at swindling people in my old life. It went hand in hand with thieving—assuming fake identities, gaining people’s trust. There was always an endgame with dollar signs. Here, it’s about gaining information, about seeing a person’s cards without them realizing it. Regardless, the fastest way to force someone to show their playing hand is to bluff. Maybe that’s what she’s doing.
Unfortunately for her, I have a bit of practice with that as well. “Then I guess they would have also confirmed that an esteemed member of the court was seen with a Ybarisan, and given the only source of deliquesced merth would be from the Ybarisans, it would stand to reason that we should suspect that court member of having a hand in poisoning Lord Quill. Isn’t that right, Annika?”
Annika’s eyes widen, but her blond head bobs. “My brother the king was suitably appalled when he heard who was conspiring against him.”
“Who is it?” a willowy brunette whispers, and then clamps her lips as if having forgotten herself.
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly share names. Not yet anyway.” Annika’s frown is masterful. “Could we, Romeria?”
I mimic her expression. “No, certainly not until the king decides how he wishes to proceed. And we wouldn’t want to take that pleasure away from him.”
“Unlike Ybarisans, Islorians do not govern based on hearsay.” Saoirse holds her chin especially high, but in her coal-black eyes, I catch the faintest, fastest flicker of something.
“I wouldn’t call it hearsay, given it’s coming right from the source.”
Her eyes bulge with shock before she smooths her expression. “The prisoners have broken their silence?”
I hesitate, wondering how far down this bluff I should go.
“I believe the king has requested your presence at this hour.” Elisaf’s voice cuts through the tension as surely as if he’d swung his blade through the air. Bells toll in the distance.
“Always a delight, Saoirse.” Annika strolls on, and I quickly follow, not daring to steal a glance over my shoulder.
“Did Zander actually want me for something?” I whisper.
“He did not summon you.” Elisaf’s lips curve. “But I imagine he will want to learn of the trouble you and his sister have concocted.”
I replay the conversation in my mind, trying to find holes I might have inadvertently stepped in. “I just wanted to find out what she knows. And shut her up.”
Annika cackles. “I think I dislike this version of Romeria less than the other one.”
“Thanks?” Worry edges into my thoughts. “Is that vein in Zander’s forehead going to throb again?”
Elisaf’s smile widens. “I imagine so, Your Highness.”
Blades clang and shouts ring as I’m sketching Korsakov’s left eye—slightly higher than his right, the outer lid drooping thanks to a four-inch scar at the corner. I always wanted to ask where he earned that mar, but I never had the nerve. Korsakov didn’t like being questioned.
My ear catches approaching footfalls from the direction of Zander’s terrace. Zander normally moves like a wraith; he never makes a sound. But I know without looking that it’s him. I’ve been waiting for him since Elisaf deposited me into my room an hour ago, my anxiety growing with each passing minute as I pondered how angry he might be with me for provoking Saoirse. That I hear his slow, measured footsteps now must be intentional on his part, and it means one of two things—he doesn’t want to frighten me.
Or he does.
“How was your walk through the grounds today?” His voice is crisp and laced with irritation, and still it makes my heart skip a beat from nerves that I fear have little to do with my unease.
“Lovely, thank you for asking.” If he’s angry with me, then my answer will only antagonize him, and yet I can’t help it.
He stops at the rail, peering down at the sparring court. “Anything interesting?”
