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“I’m hopeful I can help that come to pass,” he says.
“We’ll see,” I say.
He finally looks back at me. “I suppose we will, Your Highness.”
Quint must sense the tension between us, because he says, “Captain Blakemore, I don’t believe we’ve met the other members of your crew.”
“Of course,” Rian continues smoothly, as if there’s no strain at all. “This is Sablo, my second lieutenant.” He indicates a heavily freckled man who’s well over six feet tall, thickly muscled, with a bald head, pink cheeks, and a dense red beard that’s neatly trimmed. “And Marchon, my navigator and quartermaster,” Rian says, indicating the other man, who’s as narrow and swarthy as Sablo is broad and pale. His hair is longer, slicked back and knotted at the back of his neck.
“Your Highness,” says Marchon, and his deep voice carries a rasp, and the same slight accent as Gwyn’s. “We are grateful for the invitation to dine with you this evening.”
Sablo gives me a nod.
“Sablo doesn’t speak,” Rian adds.
My eyebrows go up. “By choice?”
“No,” says Rian, and there’s a protective note to his voice that reminds me of how readily he spoke up for his people earlier.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” I say, but I take in Sablo’s size and wonder if he’s more than just a sailor. He carries himself with a certain stillness that speaks to military training. So does Marchon, now that I’m looking at them. He’s not as big as Sablo, but there’s a breadth to his shoulders that suggests strength. They could be bodyguards—or assassins. Surely the guards searched them for weapons before they came in here.
I cast a glance at the wall, where the guard captain has only stationed four guards. There will be more once Harristan arrives, but not too many to overwhelm the room, since this is supposed to be a casual dinner.
I stop these thoughts in their tracks.
Maybe Tessa and Quint are right. Maybe I am too cynical.
Across the room, Allisander is looking at the sailors with a curled lip. I don’t know if he’s more annoyed that they might have access to Moonflower—and might cut into his profits—or if he’s such a snob that he finds them beneath him. Knowing Allisander, it’s probably both.
But I look back at Rian, because Roydan gave me an idea.
“Captain,” I say. “One of our consuls has found some aged shipping logs from a southern sector that may confirm part of your story.”
His eyebrows raise. “That’s good news.”
“I hope so.” I pause. “You said there were five islands on the western side of what we know to be Ostriary.”
He regards me carefully, as if he suspects a trap. “Thereareislands. But I said there were six of them.”
“Name them.”
He looks startled by the command, but he holds out his left hand, palm down, then rotates his wrist so his fingers are pointing to the left. He taps the back of his hand. “If you imagine this to be the main island—Fairde—each finger is roughly where the others sit.” He ticks off each one, starting with his thumb. “Iris, Kaisa, Roshan, Estar, and Silvesse.”
Beside me, Tessa lets out a breath, and I know she recognizes the names from the list as clearly as I do. But I study Rian carefully. There’s no hint of guile in his expression.
I don’t know what this means—but itismeaningful.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Did I pass your test, Your Highness?”
A herald bangs his halberd near the main door. “His Royal Majesty, King Harristan.”
Everyone turns to face the door, to greet my brother.
But I lean close to Rian. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tessa
