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CHAPTER SIX
Corrick
Harristan never visits the Hold. If he wants to see a prisoner, they’re dragged into the palace in chains and deposited on the floor at his feet. To my knowledge, he’s never set foot inside the prison since the day our parents died. Possibly not even before.
I, however, am well acquainted. I know every guard, every cell, every lock, every brick. When I was fifteen, already drowning in grief so thick I could barely breathe past it, I quickly learned how to block emotion once I stepped past the heavy oak doors. We couldn’t afford one single moment of weakness, and I would not be the one to cause my brother’s downfall. I have heard every manner of scream without flinching. I have listened to promises and threats and curses and lies—and occasionally, the truth.
I have never hesitated in doing what needs to be done.
Today, Allisander has accompanied me to the Hold. After learning of the smuggling operation, he delayed his return home. Both he and Lissa have stated that they will remain in the palace until they can be certain there is no danger to their supply runs.
I’ve often imagined Allisander walking through these halls, but in my imagination, he’s usually in chains, a guard prodding him with a blade, instead of how he looks right now: exasperated and huffy, with a handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth.
“Is there nothing you can do for the smell?” he says.
“It’s a prison,” I say to him. “The residents aren’t motivated to make it pleasant.”
He sighs, then winces, as if it required more inhaling than he was ready for. “You could have brought them to the palace.”
“The last thing I need is eight martyrs being marched through the Royal Sector.” I glance over. “I told you they’re a sympathetic lot.”
He glances back and seems to be taking shallow breaths through his mouth. I have to force my eyes not to roll.
“Did they reveal the names of any other smugglers?” he says.
“No.” We reach the end of the hallway, which leads to a descending staircase. The guards here snap to attention and salute me. The smell is only going to get worse, but I don’t warn Allisander.
“Nothing?” he demands. “And you questioned them thoroughly? You were convincing?”
“Are you asking if I tortured them?”
He hesitates. Most of the consuls—hell, most of the elites, if not most of Kandala—don’t like what I do, but they say nothing because they believe it keeps them safe. They don’t mind it as long as they don’t have to talk about it. They’ll wrap it up in pretty language and dance around terms like torture and execution by asking if I’m encouraging forthright answers or terminating a risk to the populace.
Allisanderis bolder than most, though, and his hesitation only lasts a second. “Yes. That’s precisely what I’m asking.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because despite all outward appearances, I’m not cruel. I don’t delight in pain. I don’t delight in any of this.
And they’re all sentenced to die. The penalties for theft and smuggling are well known, and each prisoner knew it before they stole the first petals. Half of them are terrified. I only had to question one to discover that they were working together in the loosest sense of the word. One outright fainted when the guards let me into her cell.
Cutting off their fingers or whatever Allisander is imagining feels like overkill.
“In my experience,” I say, “those who are facing execution are not eager to share information that will help their captors.”
He’s frowning behind his handkerchief. “But there could be more. Our supply runs could be at greater risk than we expected.”
“They’re roughshod laborers, Consul, not military strategists. From what I can tell, they’re not very organized.” It’s likely the reason they were all captured so quickly.
We reach the bottom of the staircase. While the palace and many of the homes in the Royal Sector have been wired for electricity, the lowest level of the Hold has not. Outside, it’s morning, but down here, it’s dim and cold, lit by oil lamps hung at odd intervals, with gray walls and black bars. There are twenty cells, but they’re never occupied for long.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Question whoever you’d like.”
He looks at me like he was expecting . . . ?more. As if I were going to walk down the line of cells and personally introduce him to each captive.
I lean against the opposite wall, fold my arms, and raise my eyebrows. “You can’t very well do it after they’re dead.”
