Somehow, I do end up seated across from Captain Blakemore, but it doesn’t allow for much conversation. Harristan has been grilling the sea captain and his lieutenant on Ostriary and their infrastructure. It’s probably for the best anyway. I’ve been smarting a bit since Corrick told me that Laurel’s interest in my methods might be a farce to help put her father into power. It makes me glad I’m not seated next to her.

At the opposite end of the table, Quint has Allisander and Laurel engrossed in conversation about the demand for Kandalan silk coming out of Trader’s Landing, and it’s so detailed yet innocuous that I highly suspect that he’s been charged with keeping the consul occupied for as long as possible. Sablo sits beside Captain Blakemore, and he’s easily as imposing as Rocco, my favorite member of the king’s personal guard. Sablo is listening to every word that’s said, watching Corrick and Harristan as if he doesn’t trust them. To his left, Marchon the quartermaster looks bored by Allisander’s blustering with Quint, but he’s just a bit too far for me to engage in casual conversation.

So I sip politely at my soup spoon and wonder how something that should be so simple—providing more

medicine to sick people—could get so wound up in political negotiation and palace intrigue.

I want to pull on my homespun skirts and climb over the wall so badly that my feet almost twitch with the need to run.

“You look a bit sad, Miss Cade.”

I glance up to find Captain Blakemore studying me, and there’s a warmth in his gray eyes that’s tough to look away from. I expected someone older and stuffy, not a younger man with sun-kissed skin, black hair that gleams, and a set of shoulders that whisper of strength.

“Not sad,” I say. “I just don’t have much to offer when it comes to the demand for silk”—my eyes flick to the end of the table—“or the supply of steel.”

“I don’t have much interest in silk either,” he says with a small smile. “But when it comes to steel, I know Ostriary needs it. Badly. After the war, many cargo ships were damaged. The country is trying to rebuild, but without ships and bridges, transporting goods has become a massive challenge.”

“And you want to help?” “I do.”

Corrick would hear that with a skeptical ear, just like his doubt over Laurel’s enthusiasm for my work. That means I probably should, too. But unlike Laurel, whose father is just one more man volleying for power in Kandala, Captain Blakemore has nothing to gain here. He’s not making demands, and he’s not backing anyone into a corner with empty promises and imperious threats.

I know there are political levers at work. He’s asking for steel on behalf of Ostriary, and offering Moonflower petals in return. But somehow he’s made it simpler than that. He’s asking for help—and he’s offering it in return.

“I want to help, too,” I say.

“I know. As I said, I heard stories around the docks. Anyone who could break into the palace with a plan to heal people instead of harming them must be very brave indeed. Especially considering the harsh penalties for breaking the law here in Kandala.”

“I don’t know about brave,” I say, but I can’t stop the warmth that floods my cheeks. “Just determined.”

“They’re pretty much the same, don’t you think?” He takes a spoonful of his own soup, and it robs the sentiment of too much weight. “I was young when my father was sent to Ostriary, but from what I recall, the punishments issued by the Crown were never quite as severe as they are now.”

“Kandala was a different place six years ago,” Corrick says, and I’m startled to realize we’ve drawn his attention.

“In a lot of ways, it seems.” The captain takes another spoonful. His eyes return to mine. “Do you think the actions of the King’s Justice have been an effective means of keeping the peace?”

Beside me, Corrick goes still. He knows how I felt about the King’s Justice, well before I ever knew that the benevolent outlaw Weston Lark was the same prince who was executing thieves for smuggling and treason.

I hate the prince, I often said to him as Wes—followed by I hate you, once I knew he was Corrick.

The room has gone very quiet, as if the question, spoken gently, drew everyone’s attention just by virtue of the weight behind it. Even Allisander is watching me, waiting to hear what I’ll say.

My mouth is frozen, my thoughts spinning.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts,” says Harristan, and his voice isn’t harsh. One of my favorite things about Harristan is that when he asks me for my thoughts, he really wants them. But he’s still the king, and he never has to be harsh

to make my pulse jump. I set down my spoon and smooth my hands over my skirts.

“I think the King’s Justice was doing the very best he could,” I say, “during a very challenging time.”

Under the table, Corrick’s hand finds mine, steady and warm. He gives it a squeeze.

Captain Blakemore offers a wan smile and takes another spoonful of soup. “I didn’t intend for my question to make you uncomfortable.” He pauses. “Or to put you at risk. Forgive me, Miss Cade.”

I’m not at risk, but maybe it would be impolitic to say so.

This conversation is like walking a tightrope.

“You haven’t been here, Captain,” Corrick says. “You haven’t seen the desperation for medicine, or what people were willing to do to get it.”

“I see that the people within this sector’s walls seem rather healthy, while those outside are not.” Captain Blakemore doesn’t look away. His tone is just as unruffled as when he was speaking to me. “I see that I have brought you medicine, something you claim to dearly need, and you treat me with suspicion and hostility.”

Corrick draws himself up. “You’ve returned to Kandala for less than a day and you’re being openly critical of your king? You certainly don’t do much to demonstrate loyalty to your home country.”

“Do you want loyalty or do you want obeisance, Your Highness?”

The prince looks right back at him. “For a man who seems to want to protect his crew,” Corrick says, “you couldn’t go wrong with either.”

The captain goes very still. “Don’t threaten my crew.”

The words are spoken quietly, slowly, with emphasis on each syllable. They crack through the room like a bolt of lightning.

Corrick’s jaw is tight, and I know that there’s a part of him that wants to have this man dragged to the Hold. It’s the same part that made me think he would have cut that man’s throat in the candy shop.

My own chest is in a vise grip, and I want to say something to undo this. It’s like the moment I sat in the confectioner’s with Karri: there are too many sides at work, too many people to keep happy.

But it’s Laurel who speaks up.

“Your arrival comes at an interesting time, Captain Blakemore. Our sector is being forced to provide medicine to the people of Kandala, and here you appear, ready to negotiate the cost for another country.”

The captain hasn’t looked away from Corrick. “You have to force your sectors to provide medicine? When people are dying?”

The censure in his voice is impossible to ignore.

“There is no proof that you have more Moonflower,” says Allisander. “You want our steel, and a great deal of it. What proof do we have that you will arrive with the medicine you’re offering?”

“It’s a worthwhile question,” says the king.

Captain Blakemore spreads his hands. “I have no proof other than what I’ve already given. But I do have a ship. You’re welcome to return to Ostriary with me to complete the negotiations with their king yourself.”

“You can’t possibly think the king of Kandala would board a ship based on nothing more than your promises,” says Corrick.

“Then come yourself.” The captain casts a darkly amused look at Corrick. “If you’re interested, I highly suggest you leave my crew unharmed. You know your own sailors can’t make it.”

“Who says your crew needs their captain?” says Corrick.

“Corrick,” I whisper.

“I won’t sail for anyone else,” says Marchon, and it’s probably the first thing he’s said since sitting at this table.

“Nor will I,” says Lieutenant Tagas.

Sablo slaps the table and then his chest. He nods his agreement.

Captain Blakemore smiles, and his eyes brighten with something akin to true delight. “Now that,” he says, “is loyalty.”

“It’s impressive,” says Harristan. His voice is cool and low, undercutting all the tension in the room. “It speaks to your character.”

Even Corrick looks over in surprise.

The captain could gloat, and I half expect him to. But the smile on his face eases, and his expression is as earnest as it was when he was only speaking to me. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Corrick looks like a coiled spring waiting to release, but this seems to unspool some of his anger.

“I’ve sailed a lot of ships,” Marchon says. “Under a lot of captains.” He nods at Captain Blakemore. “When war first broke out among the islands, Cap’s the only one who stayed near the shoreline, picking up survivors. He didn’t care which side they were fighting for. If they were broken and bleeding, he’d pick ’em up.”

A raw note in his voice makes me wonder if Marchon was one of the broken and bleeding. I glance at Sablo, the man who doesn’t speak.

By choice? Corrick asked.

No, the captain said.

Captain Blakemore watches my eyes flick between the members of his crew. “We all have a story, Miss Cade. You’d do the same, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” I say. “I would.”

His eyes flick to Corrick, but he says nothing.

Servants stride into the room with loaded trays, bringing the distraction of the next course. Soup bowls are cleared, and fresh plates are delivered to the table. Light conversation resumes, spurred by Quint, who looks to Marchon and says, “Quartermaster and navigator, you say? Tell me, do you ever sleep?”

At my side, the prince is silent, his movements tight and precise. Corrick is too schooled in courtly politics, at hiding every emotion when the need arises. I want to reach out and rest a hand over his, to offer him a glance or a word or something to steal the rest of his tension. When we were outlaws in the Wilds, it was so easy to support each other.

Here in the palace, it always seems impossible.

Especially since we’re sitting directly in front of Captain Blakemore, and it’s very obvious that Corrick doesn’t trust one word that comes out of his mouth.

“Was your offer genuine?” says Harristan.

The captain takes a sip from his wineglass. “Which offer?”

“To return to Ostriary to handle negotiations with their king directly.”

“It was.”

Allisander stares from the opposite end of the table. “You cannot be serious. The consuls would never stand for it.”

Captain Blakemore glances between them. “The consuls rule the king? Have I been gone so long?”

“No,” says Harristan. He clears his throat, then drinks half a glass of wine.

I watch the movement and wonder if he’s covering a cough. He should call for tea, but I know he won’t.

Allisander says, “You haven’t replaced Leander Craft. Steel City stands without a consul. You never replaced the

head of Trader’s Landing after King Lucas died. You invite the rebel leaders to negotiate with this untested apothecary, all while your sectors languish, and now you will leave Kandala—”

“Enough,” says Harristan. “You are here by virtue of what you can offer your country, Consul, and you’ve already indicated you won’t be able to offer as much as you promised.”

I wonder if Laurel Pepperleaf will add a comment, but she takes a sip from her own glass. Happy to watch Allisander hang himself, I suppose.

Maybe some of Corrick’s cynicism is rubbing off on me.

Captain Blakemore looks across the table at me, and there’s something conspiratorial in his gaze. His voice drops. “Rebel leaders, Miss Cade?”

I wince. “Apparently you haven’t heard all the gossip.”

“I wasn’t intending to go myself,” Harristan says. He looks at his brother. “I was referring to Captain Blakemore’s offer to Corrick.”

At that, the prince startles. So does the captain. It’s a tiny movement of surprise, but it’s the first hint that he seems to be thrown off-balance by Corrick as well.

He recovers quickly. “As you like. I believe Ostriary would be very eager to hear your terms.”

“You said the government is a bit shaky,” says Corrick.

“Not as much now as they were. The old king passed away a few years ago. He had three sons and two daughters, all illegitimate. Several half-siblings, many nieces and nephews.” He pauses, and his voice slows, growing heavy with emotion. “As I said, battles for the throne turned into civil war. Island against island. For years.”

I study him. Those gray eyes are faraway for a moment, and he downs his glass of wine.

“You’re upset,” I say quietly.

He blinks, then looks at me. “No.” He pauses. “Well.

Perhaps. War is … war. My father died in those battles.” I frown. “I’m sorry, Captain Blakemore.”

His expression flickers, as if I’ve surprised him. “Thank you, Miss Cade.”

Corrick might think all of this is pretense, but the captain’s grief feels genuine to me. “Please,” I say softly. “Call me Tessa.”

He gives me a nod, then a small smile. “Then you must call me Rian.”

Harristan speaks through the emotion with casual efficiency. “Who won?” he says.

“Galen Redstone won the throne,” Rian says. “If you can even call it winning. He was an illegitimate son, and his primary rival was a man named Oren Crane, the king’s half- brother.”

“His uncle?” I say.

“Yes,” Rian says, “but I don’t believe they knew much of each other before the conflict. Power changed hands many times over the course of months.”

“And what happened to Oren Crane?” says Harristan. “Was he killed?”

“No. But he made enough enemies that his allies began to fall, one by one, until he had no choice but to yield. Now, the country has stabilized under this new leadership, and focus has shifted to rebuilding instead of fighting. Which is why I’m here now.”

“So you’re close with this new king,” says Corrick. “Close? No. But I spent enough time on their shores that

I’ve earned their trust. I truly do have an interest in helping them rebuild. I knew of the conflict with Kandala’s former kings, but I have my father’s ship and his seal. I offered to sail here to act in good faith.” He holds Corrick’s eyes. “It

would be my pleasure to escort the King’s Justice and act as liaison with Ostriary’s court as well.”

“I don’t need you to act as liaison,” Corrick says. Rian smiles. “I suppose I’ll just sail the ship then.”

“What about the fevers?” I say. “Do you worry about carrying disease to Ostriary?”

He hesitates, looking around the table. “Rumor says that it’s not contagious. That there’s no rhyme or reason to who is affected. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I admit.

He considers this. “Ostriary is desperate enough for steel that I’m willing to risk contagion, at least on a small scale. If it becomes an issue, we have more than enough Moonflower to go around.”

“What are your terms?” says Harristan. “What do you require, to bring this to pass?”

“My terms?” Rian sits back in the chair, and he glances between the king and the prince. “Do you expect me to ask for chests full of silver? Do you have many to spare?”

“Don’t play with me.”

“I’m not playing. I’m not doing this for myself. We need steel. You need Moonflower petals.” He casts a dark glance at the end of the table. “Since apparently your own countrymen are reluctant to provide them.”

“ ‘We need steel,’ ” Harristan repeats. “Your father may have been loyal to Kandala, but you’ve clearly changed allegiance.”

Rian hesitates, then frowns. “It’s not a matter of allegiance. I spent a quarter of my life there, Your Majesty. There was no escaping the fighting. I was forced to pick a side, just like everyone else.” He pauses. “I want both countries to have what they need, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t come to terms with the new king himself. He seems to be a reasonable man. He also wants to

rebuild.” He glances down at Allisander and Laurel again. “He doesn’t want to take advantage of suffering people to line his own pockets.”

My heart is a steady thrum in my chest. Maybe it is naive, but I believe him. I believe every word. And it’s not just the strength of his conviction. It’s the loyalty of his crew. The way Marchon looked to him when he said the words broken and bleeding. The way they all declared that they wouldn’t sail for anyone else. He just turned down silver, when surely he has the leverage to demand it. It’s the first time I’ve heard someone speak of hope and promise without caveats and conditions.

Maybe that’s what gives me the courage to look at Corrick and say, “You should go.”

He hasn’t looked away from the captain. “Oh, I should, should I?”

“Yes. Because I want to go with you.”

He snaps his head around like I told him I want to leap off the roof. “Tessa!”

“I do!” I say. “Consul Sallister clearly has no desire to give us enough medicine. If Ostriary has Moonflower, this could help all of Kandala, Corrick. This could buy us more time to protect more people while we deliver a better cure. This could be the very key to finding a way out of this sickness.”

The table falls silent, and I realize my voice has grown loud, impassioned. Across the table, Captain Blakemore is regarding me with raised eyebrows.

“Forgive the prince’s pet apothecary, Captain,” Allisander says from his end of the table. “She understands little of politics and negotiation.”

“On the contrary,” says Captain Blakemore. His eyes don’t leave mine. “I sense that Miss Cade understands quite a bit.”

“Finding more medicine shouldn’t be a matter of

negotiation,” I say hotly.

“No,” Corrick agrees. “It shouldn’t.” His jaw is tight, and I can’t tell if it’s anger at Allisander or concern over what the captain is offering. Likely both.

“Your Majesty,” says Laurel. “Surely you have considered that this could be a trick or a ruse.”

“Why would I need to trick you?” says Captain Blakemore. “Ostriary has more than enough Moonflower to offer as fair trade. Put us back on the ship and I’ll fetch more to prove it.” He glances at the end of the table again. “But it would take me several weeks. Possibly a month or more. From these conversations, I sense you’re rather desperate.”

“We are,” I say. “Besides,” I add determinedly, thinking of the way the prince fetched me from the confectioner’s, “who else are you going to trust to inspect their supply?”

Corrick hesitates, and I know I’ve got him.

But then I glance across the table sheepishly. “Ah … if I’m invited.” If I call him Rian, I think Corrick might actually catch on fire, so I say, “Captain Blakemore.”

He smiles, and a light of true amusement flickers in his eyes. He’s no fool himself. “I would be honored, Miss Cade.”

“If we accept your offer,” says Harristan, “I will assemble a team of sailors to accompany you.”

At that, Rian looks up. “No.” Harristan’s eyebrows go up.

“As you are amenable to terms,” Rian continues, “I’ll place one restriction: no sailors, no navigators. One ship: mine. You’ve already indicated a worry about contagion— and Ostriary’s king is still dealing with a strained court. Their people are recovering from war. If you are able to reach a point of accord with their king, I will happily teach

your shipmen to navigate the open sea beyond the southern point. But until then, I will not be responsible for bringing the naval forces of a potential rival into the waters of Ostriary.”

Harristan says nothing for a long moment … but then he coughs.

I glance over in alarm. So does everyone else at the table.

It’s only one cough, brief and brought under control readily. Harristan casts a briefly annoyed glance at Corrick, who looks ready to spring out of his chair.

The captain watches all of this, then spreads his hands. “I understand your hesitation,” he says. “If you would prefer that I return with a letter, or a request, it would be my pleasure.”

Harristan considers, then glances at Corrick. “We’ll discuss your offer, Captain Blakemore.” He pauses. “If not sailors, I will send guards with my people. You cannot expect less than that.”

Rian nods. “Understood.”

“If Miss Cade will be in attendance, I would like to sail as well,” Laurel says from the end of the table.

“You can’t be serious,” Allisander says in a rush.

“I am,” she says. “I would like to be privy to these negotiations, to ensure fair trade is maintained.”

“Captain,” says Marchon, and the quartermaster’s raspy voice draws the attention of everyone at the table. “The Dawn Chaser is not a passenger ferry. We have limited quarters and staff.”

“Indeed,” says Rian. He looks at Harristan. “I’ll limit your number to six. Including guards.”

“Twelve,” says the king.

“Six.” When Harristan frowns, the captain adds, “This is not a negotiation. I’m thinking of the safety of my crew and

your people, Your Majesty.”

He’s so resolute. So principled. It’s a bit fascinating when compared to the king, who’s been forced to negotiate and cajole to maintain control. When compared to Corrick, who’s been forced to kill to maintain control.

Then again, Captain Blakemore has a ship and a small crew. Harristan and Corrick have a whole country overrun by illness and desperation.

“I’ll step aside in favor of more guards.” I glance at Corrick. “Or … whatever you think you’ll need.”

His eyes are ice blue, but they thaw when he looks at me. “I haven’t agreed to go at all, yet.”

Rian glances between the two of us. “I’ll await your decision, Your Highness,” he says. He gives me another smile. “Miss Cade, I certainly hope you make the cut.”