His father used to be a pain in the ass, but there’s something worse about hearing these words from someone not much older than I am. His tone is patronizing. His use of my given name is patronizing. His stupid goatee is patronizing. I have no idea how my brother was ever friends with this man.
I set down my cup. “I can offer armed guards for your supply runs into the Royal Sector.”
“I will gladly accept them. We will also be increasing our prices by twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent!” The absolute gall. He heard me refuse funding to Artis because they already suffer for lack of medicine, and now he’s raising his prices. I don’t know if this is simple greed or if it’s rooted in humiliation, as if he takes any opportunity to retaliate against Harristan.
Either way, I want to throw my tea at him. I settle for raising an eyebrow and tracing my finger around the rim of my cup. “You believe your crops have suffered that much?”
He shares what he must think is a conspiratorial smile. “We must protect our supply.” He hesitates. “If you feel that our pricing is too extreme, I can speak with Lissa. We can try to work within our current constraints.”
His voice is pleasant, unchanged, but I hear the veiled threat. Kandala needs their Moonflower crops. All of us do.
I think of Harristan’s coughing in his sleep yesterday morning, then quickly shove the thought out of my head before any shred of worry can manifest in my eyes. “No need,” I say. “Your position is understandable.” I pause. “I imagine Consul Marpetta will be raising her prices as well?”
Lissa Marpetta rarely says much in our council meetings, but it’s always assumed that she will act in accord with Allisander. Her sector, Emberridge, provides half as much of the Moonflower petals as his—but it’s enough for her to carry a great deal of influence.
“I believe so,” he says. “Of course we will happily pay taxes on our revenue, as always. If our supply runs remain safe, this could be quite a benefit to the Royal Sector—and therefore to all of Kandala.”
He thinks he’s doing us a favor. As if the bulk of these taxes won’t come straight from our own coffers when we buy our own supply.
Sometimes I wish I knew how my father would have handled this kind of conversation. Or rather, how Micah Clarke, the previous King’s Justice, would have handled it. Father was a well-loved and temperate man, known for kindness and fair ruling. But maybe that was a luxury afforded to him by allowing someone else to handle the more challenging political intrigues.
Either way, I have no idea. Micah was killed when our parents were. And our people weren’t suffering like this when Father and Mother were in power. The fevers had only just begun to spread. People weren’t making choices between whether to feed their families or buy medicine.
Another rap sounds at my door, and I sigh. Does no one sleep?
“Enter,” I call.
The guard swings the door wide. “Your Highness. Master Quint would like a—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” says Quint, shoving past the guards with no regard for whether I’ll even see him. “I don’t need to be announced.” His red hair is a bit of an unruly mess, as usual, and I doubt his jacket was fully buttoned at any point today. He takes note that we’re not alone and all but skids to a stop. He gives a brief nod to me, and then to Allisander. “Your Highness. Consul.”
Aside from my brother, Quint might be my favorite person in the palace. He’s young for his role as Palace Master, but he was apprenticed to the last one, and when the man wanted to retire, I told Harristan to give Quint a chance. He’s honest as the day is long, and he keeps secrets better than a dead man. He’s also got enough energy for half a dozen people, talks twice as much as necessary, and has little patience for pomposity and presumption. He annoys Harristan to no end. He annoys pretty much everyone to no end.
I rather love him.
Allisander’s mouth forms a line. “Master Quint. We are in the middle of a private conversation.”
Quint blinks like that’s quite obvious. “I see that.” He makes no move to leave.
Allisander inhales with clear intent to speak words that will chase Quint out of here.
I pick up my cup of tea. “We’re nearly done, though, are we not, Consul?”
His mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t scowl at me, but almost.
I offer him an indulgent smile. “I believe we’ve come to an understanding.”
It’s the best sentence in my arsenal of courtly lines, because it means absolutely nothing, yet somehow always makes people believe I’ve acknowledged their point.
It does the trick now, too, because Allisander’s expression smooths over. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ll draw up an order for guards for your supply runs in the morning.”
“Early, Corrick,” he says pointedly. “We’d like to return to the Plains before midday.”
I go still. He can raise his prices and make pains about his supply runs being in danger, but just like my brother, I have a limit. Allisander Sallister may have money and power, but he does not rule Kandala—or me.
He must read the change in my expression, because he says, “At your convenience, of course. With my thanks.” He pauses, then adds, “Your Highness.”
I set down my cup. “You’ll have it in the morning.”
Once the door swings closed behind him, Quint drops into the opposite chair. “Does he want to be fed to the royal lions?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Though really, it’s not tempting. I ordered it as a sentence once, for a man who’d killed an entire family in order to hoard their supply of Moonflower petals. Watching the lions tear him apart while he screamed for mercy was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen. Even Harristan, always stoic since we watched our parents murdered, had later said to me, “Don’t do that one again.”
“Sallister wants more guards?” says Quint.
“Among other things.” I take in his tousled appearance and try to determine whether he looks more harried than usual. It’s possible Quint doesn’t even know it’s so late. “Have you eaten? I can call for a meal.”
“Ah—no. I dined with Consul Marpetta at . . .” He pulls out his pocket watch and frowns at the face. “That can’t be right.”
I smile. “You sleep less than I do.”
“No one sleeps less than you do.”
True enough. “I’ll send for food. Wine too?” I stand and move toward the door. “Or should you be sober for whatever you came crashing in here about?”
“A runner just arrived at the palace. The night patrol in Steel City unearthed a group of smugglers. Two were killed in the fray. The other eight have been taken to the Hold.”
I stop and look at him. “That’s a large pack.”
“They had quite the operation, from what I understand.”
Quite the operation. It’s rare to have outlaws and smugglers working in larger groups. Ten is unheard of. The risk of discovery is simply too great. The punishments too severe.
Maybe Allisander wasn’t exaggerating about the threat to his supply runs. I was going to make him wait, but now I’ll be sure to draw up an order before I go to sleep.