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Iblink. “Wait. What?”
But he’s standing, smoothing his jacket, his face transforming into the darkly beguiling Prince Corrick.
If he’s standing, I probably should as well. I shove myself to my feet. A man steps between the guards without hesitation, so he must be someone of importance. He’s not much older than Corrick, maybe Harristan’s age, with a goatee that’s so thick it appears to be glued onto his face. It does nothing to hide the sour pinch to his mouth. He looks like a man who isn’t attractive at all but clearly believes he is.
“Consul!” Corrick says joyfully, like he’s greeting a long-lost friend. “Have you dined this evening? Join us.”
The man stops short. His eyes narrow. “Corrick.” He glances dismissively at me. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner with your . . . guest.”
He says guest as though Corrick invited a sow to leave a mud pit to sit at this table with him.
I don’t want to throw my drink. I want to throw that dagger.
“Nonsense,” says the prince. “Tessa, you have the honor of meeting Consul Allisander Sallister.”
Consul Sallister. Moonlight Plains. The man who would volley for power if he could.
A serving girl appears with another chair for the table. Another fills Corrick’s wineglass before vanishing. Invisible.
I wish I were. The tension between these two men is palpable. My heart thrums against my ribs, but I paste a smile on my face and curtsy. “Consul. I am honored.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “I understand from Harristan that our argument in the Hold was a misunderstanding.”
“Our argument?” Corrick blinks as if startled. “Allisander,” he says smoothly. “Did you truly think I would ban you from the palace?”
“I question your actions,” the consul says, his voice low and vicious—but not so low that nearby tables aren’t getting an earful. “I question your motives. Last week, you had eight captives and three escaped. Today, I brought you a dozen rebels and instead of interrogating them, you’re coddling them.” He glances at me pointedly. “To be frank, I’m surprised they’re not at this table with you.”
I flinch.
Corrick doesn’t. “You brought me a dozen unconscious rebels,” he says evenly. “I will question them and punish them in due course.” He pauses. “I will not do it over dinner, however.”
I shiver at the chill in his voice.
Consul Sallister leans in. “You promised my supply runs would be safe—”
“I promised guards, which you received.”
“—and you promised an end to these attacks—”
“Which you know I cannot guarantee.”
“—which you’ve made no effort to stop, if the new evidence of these Benefactors is to be believed.”
Silence falls between them like a blade. Corrick’s eyes are blue ice. The consul’s cheeks are red, his shoulders tight. I twist my fingers together. I wish Quint were here to talk about the tablecloths or the design of the lanterns.
“Perhaps,” I say, and my voice sounds wispy. I swallow. “Perhaps if word spreads that your apothecaries could make the medicine more effective, the supply raids will lessen.”
The consul’s eyes don’t shift to me. “What is she talking about?”
“Tessa’s arrival in the palace was unorthodox, I’ll admit,” says Corrick, “but she has presented evidence to Harristan that perhaps the dosages could be made more effective.”
“Or more people could die,” says the consul.
A new tightness wraps itself around my chest. He’s not wrong. My theories are only that—theories based on the small population of people in the Wilds. More people could die.
“Or more could live,” says Corrick. “Which I believe is an outcome we should all hope for.” His tone is cold, and hope feels miles away. “Don’t you agree, Allisander?”
“You are going to contradict the royal physicians for some . . . ? some girl? You go too far, Corrick. If there is another attack, I will halt my supply runs until you have determined who is responsible.”
