“You’re the heir,” I hissed, like he needed a reminder.
Something hit the door with a loud thunk, and it didn’t matter which of us was in front, because my father gave an order, and two guards blocked us from view. My heart was in my throat—but what’s worse is that I remember being more worried that Consul Sallister would see my drawing than of anything happening.
Wood cracked and split, and men poured into the room. Crossbows fired almost instantly. The men fell—all except one.
Micah Clarke, the King’s Justice before me, caught one by the arm. He twisted it up behind the man, then slammed him facedown on the table, right where I’d been sitting. My eyes were wide, and I could hear Harristan breathing.
My mother peeked out from around my father. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are they here?”
Micah looked at my father. I don’t know if he was waiting for permission, or an order, or something else entirely.
But my father looked away.
The man wrenched his face up from the folio and inhaled. Later, Micah would say he was going to spit at my parents, but to me, it looked like he was going to speak.
He didn’t get the chance to do either. Micah drew a blade and cut his throat. Blood poured all over my drawings.
We never found out who sent them. It’s long been rumored that they were the first attack sent from Trader’s Landing, but we’ve never been able to prove it.
I think about that day sometimes. The way my mother seemed confused. The way my father looked away. The way my brother kept trying to drag me behind him.
The way everyone was afraid, except the King’s Justice, who was forced to act.
Today, I expect Harristan to be furious after the riot outside the gates, but he’s not.
I am.
Listen to the Benefactors.
I don’t know what that means, but I’ve been turning it over in my head since the guards dragged us off the stage.
The consuls requested a meeting the very instant we returned to the palace, but my brother has been making them wait. He’s been quiet for hours. Thoughtful. Contemplative.
The longer he sits quietly and thinks, the more agitated I become, until I’m the one pacing his chambers.
Three of the prisoners escaped during the melee. Five were killed, but three slipped into the crowd when citizens began swarming the stage and the guards moved to protect Harristan and me. One of them was Lochlan, the man who smashed Allisander’s face against the bars.
The consul is probably boiling with rage. I’m surprised steam isn’t pouring from the other side of the door.
As if on cue, someone raps at the door. “Enter,” calls Harristan.
One of the guards swings the door wide. “Your Majesty, Master Quint would like to remind you that the consuls are gathered—”
“They can wait,” says Harristan.
The guard nods. The door swings closed.
“You can’t hide in here all day,” I say to him. “We need to address this.”
“I’m not hiding.” Harristan doesn’t move. “Do you think it was planned?”
“Which part?”
He looks at me. “All of it.” He pauses. “There were cries for revolution in the crowd, Cory.”
You can stop this!
Fight them! Fight back!
I run a hand across the back of my neck and sigh. “I heard them.”
“Everyone heard them.” He hesitates as if he has more to say, but he falls silent. He’s so quiet that I can hear the clock ticking on his desk. After a moment, he coughs, and my head snaps around.
That makes him glare. “Stop that. I don’t need a nursemaid.”
I study him, looking for telltale signs of the fever. His cheeks aren’t flushed, and his eyes are clear. I listen to his breathing anyway.
His eyes narrow. “If you want to worry about something, worry about what we’re going to tell the consuls.”
“I thought that’s what you were spending all this time thinking about.”
“Allisander will be furious.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Lissa will be as well.”
“I’ve already offered guards for their supply runs.”
“They’re going to want more. More assurance. More promises. More . . . more.”
Then I realize what he’s been waiting for. What he’s not saying. He asked for a spectacle this morning—and he got one. Not the one he wanted, surely, but it was a spectacle all the same. Now he wants another one. Something that will appease the consuls and stop the populace from thinking revolution is an easy path.
He’s been waiting on me.
I finally stop pacing and look at him. “Then let’s give them more.”
Allisander only has one black eye, but the bruising across his jaw and forehead seem to make up for it. It must have been too painful to shave around that perfect goatee, because it looks like he started before giving it up. Poor baby.
The pain doesn’t stop him from railing at me during the consul meeting. “They were all to be taken care of,” he snaps. “Now you’ve let three get away.”
“I didn’t let anyone get away,” I say evenly. “They’re not the first to escape, and they surely won’t be the last.”
“They can reorganize,” he says. “They’ll be after our supply runs. You’ll see.” He slams a fist down on the table. “You promised me, Corrick.”
“I’ve offered additional guards.” I glance across the table at Lissa Marpetta, who’s been sitting in silence while Allisander has a tantrum. “For your supply runs as well.”
“Who are these Benefactors?” she says, looking down her nose at me coolly.
“I have no idea.”
“No idea,” thunders Allisander. “No idea, yet you felt no need to torture them during questioning—”
“It’s concerning,” Lissa says quietly, her voice at complete odds with Allisander’s, “that your guards were unable to complete their duties in time.”
“Those guards should be tried for treason,” Allisander snaps.
“Those guards kept your king alive,” says Harristan, and there’s enough of a chill in his voice to remind them who’s in charge here. It draws some of the tension out of the room, though displeasure still hums in the air around us.
At the end of the table, Roydan clears his throat. “Consul Sallister. You wish to punish a dozen guards for failing to stop a thousand people from rushing the stage?”
Arella Cherry adds, “Should we assume you punish your own guards when your supply runs are attacked?”
Allisander turns his glare on her. “My sector is no business of yours.” He pauses for a rage-filled breath. “I understand that you asked for these smugglers to be pardoned.”
She doesn’t flinch, and her eyes are ice-cold as she regards him. “People in these sectors are dying, Consul Sallister. They’re not criminals. They’re desperate.”
“We can’t keep them alive if outlaws keep raiding our supplies,” says Jasper Gold, Consul of Mosswell. “I’ve heard reports of missing dosages from within the Royal Sector. Escaped prisoners always embolden others. Especially if they’re being funded by someone with means.”