The Queen's Mage

Chapter 5: After the Lanterns

Allandra had been Queen long enough to know that disasters became paperwork with insulting speed.

Blood had still been drying between the stones of the First Sun square when the first reports arrived.

By midday, someone had organized them into folders.

Verya had labeled the folders.

Of course she had.

Allandra sat at the head of the council table and looked at the neat stack in front of her.

Security.

Prisoners.

Public Response.

Lyehira.

Infrastructure.

Casualties.

A kingdom reduced the previous night to screaming, steel, shadow, and fire had become six categories in Verya’s handwriting.

Somehow, that made it manageable.

Not better.

Manageable.

Allandra looked around the table.

Marielle’s chair was empty.

Good.

Marielle belonged in bed, regardless of what Marielle thought.

Harrek occupied his own chair under conditions Lia had apparently made very clear. A bandage remained visible beneath his hair. Daravan had already moved his papers within easy reach.

Daravan stood beside him rather than sitting.

Hagen had somehow acquired tea.

Verya had three folders open already.

Yvander looked exhausted.

Merrow looked offended by events in general.

And Serali—

Allandra did not look at her first.

That required effort.

She looked at everyone else.

Then Serali.

Dark blue today. Hair pulled back. No shadow. No blood.

Alive.

Safe.

For the moment.

Allandra folded her hands. “Reports.”

Daravan began. “The count is unchanged. Three dead, five in custody, four unaccounted for.”

Twelve people had crossed into the heart of Myrae beneath wards, guards, Watch lines, and half the court.

Allandra had been turning the number over since the square. Repetition had not improved it.

“The prisoners?” she asked.

“All five alive. Under guard.”

Verya’s pen moved. “And cooperative?”

Daravan’s expression did not change. “No.”

Harrek leaned back.

Too quickly.

His face tightened.

Daravan noticed.

So did Allandra.

Harrek pretended nothing had happened.

“All five have refused names, ranks, routes, safe houses, instructions, or mission details,” Daravan said. “They have not spoken since capture.”

“Nothing?” Yvander asked.

“Nothing.”

Merrow frowned. “Surely they understand their position.”

“They understand it very well,” Daravan said. “That is the problem.”

Allandra knew what he meant.

Lyehiran agents had a reputation for dying rather than being interrogated.

Daravan had spent much of the morning preventing five prisoners from doing exactly that.

“They are separated,” he continued. “Searched completely. No jewelry, charms, concealed spell components, blades, capsules, loose metal, or personal effects. Continuous watch. Food and water controlled.”

Hagen lifted his cup. “Comforting.”

“It is not intended to be.”

“Even more comforting.”

Verya ignored them. “The claim made in the square?”

Allandra knew which claim.

By command of King Vulmar.

The words had been spoken in front of hundreds.

Perhaps thousands.

Daravan said, “None of the prisoners will confirm it.”

Merrow shifted. “But they announced it publicly.”

“Yes,” Verya said. “Which gives us witnesses. It does not give us diplomatic authentication.”

Serali’s mouth twisted. “My father will deny them if it is useful.”

The room quieted.

Allandra kept her hands still. “Would he?”

Serali looked at her.

Not as mate.

Not here.

Royal Mage to Queen.

“Yes.”

Hagen leaned back. “And if we accuse him directly?”

“He will say Avalusia staged it,” Serali said. “Or hired mercenaries. Or mistook criminals for royal agents. Or that they acted without his knowledge.”

Merrow looked appalled. “After declaring his name in the square?”

Serali glanced at him. “You are assuming shame is relevant.”

Hagen coughed into his tea.

Allandra almost smiled.

Verya did not.

“We prepare a formal protest,” she said. “Factual. Twelve armed Lyehiran nationals entered a royal ceremony, attempted abduction, attacked civilians and Crown officers, and invoked King Vulmar’s authority. We request explanation.”

“Request,” Hagen repeated.

“Yes.”

“How polite.”

“It is much easier to accuse someone effectively after allowing them to lie in writing.”

Hagen’s smile sharpened.

Allandra said, “Draft it.”

Verya nodded once, then turned a page. “There is another piece of wording I want preserved exactly. Princess Serali Xuiven.”

Serali’s expression closed.

“They used it repeatedly,” Verya said. “They did not acknowledge your office here.”

“My father does not acknowledge inconvenient things.”

“Had he acknowledged that title before?”

Serali looked at her. “Not when it would have required him to treat me as one.”

Allandra kept her hands folded.

Verya’s pen paused. “Then we record both facts. How you were treated there, and what they chose to call you when demanding your return.”

“A title is not an order from Vulmar,” Merrow said.

“No,” Verya agreed. “It is wording chosen in public. I would like to know why.”

Serali said nothing.

Allandra looked at Verya. “Keep the witness accounts with the exact words. Conclusions can wait.”

Harrek drew the next report toward him. “The Watch is taking point on the four who escaped. Teams are working outward from the square. Gates remain under increased inspection. Harbor traffic is being searched.”

“Search locations?” Allandra asked.

“Warehouses, abandoned residences, cellars with exterior access, carriage depots, sewer junctions near the west district. No confirmed location yet.”

“Keep Daravan informed of anything that affects the palace or Crown movements.”

Harrek nodded. “He’ll have it.”

“You should be in bed,” Yvander said.

Harrek looked at him.

Yvander shrugged. “Everyone else was thinking it.”

Harrek returned to his notes.

Daravan opened the palace security folder. “I am increasing palace guard strength and restricting residence access. We will review service entrances, ward coverage, and protection for Crown movements.”

His gaze moved to Serali. “Pell and Orran will remain assigned to you.”

“They already are.”

“The assignment was due to end soon. That is no longer the plan.”

Serali looked at him. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“That is not a duration.”

“It is the answer I can give you while four of the agents who came for you remain missing.”

Hagen lowered his cup.

Serali’s fingers rested motionless against the table. “And after they are found?”

“We review the threat,” Daravan said. “I will not promise an end date before we know what we are dealing with.”

Allandra intervened before this became a constitutional crisis. “Pell and Orran remain.”

Serali looked at her.

There it was.

The difficult line.

Queen.

Mate.

Protection without deciding for her.

Allandra held her gaze. “Not confinement,” she said. “Escort.”

Something in Serali’s expression eased.

Barely.

“Fine.”

Daravan seemed dissatisfied by the lack of a fight.

He would survive.

“Public response,” Allandra said.

Harrek shifted a different page forward. “Quieter than expected.”

That surprised her.

“How quiet?”

“No disturbances tied to Serali reported so far. No crowding at the palace. No attacks on Night Fae residents reported since dawn. My officers are still collecting accounts.”

Serali went very still.

Allandra hated that she had clearly expected otherwise.

Harrek continued. “People are frightened by the security failure. Angry about the attack. In the reports we have, most of that anger appears directed outward.”

“Toward Lyehira,” Verya said.

“Yes.”

Yvander opened his ledger. “The merchant district reopened late this morning. Some stalls stayed closed. Most did not.”

“That quickly?” Serali asked.

Yvander looked at her. “People dislike missing a day’s trade.”

“Even after an assassination attempt?”

“Especially after an assassination attempt. Rent remains due.”

Serali considered this.

Apparently commerce had reassured her.

Yvander continued. “There is considerable discussion of the oath.”

Allandra’s attention sharpened. “Positive?”

“Mixed. The accounts reaching me this morning are more favorable. We will know more when people have had time to talk.”

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Merrow cleared his throat.

Everyone looked at him.

He looked irritated by the attention he had requested. “I spoke with several members of the noble delegation this morning.”

Hagen murmured, “My condolences.”

Merrow ignored him. “Some remain concerned about the Royal Mage’s background.”

Serali showed no reaction.

Allandra felt one for her.

“But,” Merrow continued, “it would be dishonest to pretend last night did not answer certain questions.”

Silence.

Even Harrek looked at him.

Merrow’s color rose. “She defended civilians. She refused the Lyehiran demand publicly. She completed the oath after the attack.”

Hagen slowly set down his cup. “Lord Merrow.”

“What?”

“I wanted to remember the moment.”

Merrow glared.

Serali’s mouth twitched.

Allandra should have stopped them.

She did not.

Merrow shuffled his papers. “The political effect was favorable. That is all I am saying.”

“That is quite a lot,” Verya said.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Allandra looked toward Serali.

She was staring at her hands.

Not frightened.

Overwhelmed, perhaps.

Being hated was familiar to Serali.

Being defended by strangers was not.

Allandra wanted to reach across the table.

She did not.

“Lady Verya,” she said instead. “Public statement.”

“Praise the Watch and palace guard. Confirm the attack and casualties. Emphasize that First Sun concluded successfully. Reproduce the Royal Mage’s oath exactly.”

“Good.”

“And no speculation regarding King Vulmar until the formal protest is sent.”

Serali nodded.

Merrow shifted. “There is one additional matter.”

Allandra resisted the urge to sigh. “Yes?”

“The Spring Benefactors’ Gala.”

Daravan’s face changed.

Only fractionally.

Enough.

Merrow continued. “It is in three weeks.”

Serali looked up. “What gala?”

Hagen smiled immediately.

Allandra knew that smile.

No.

Merrow said, “The annual spring charity gala.”

Serali stared. “There is another one?”

“Another what?” Yvander asked.

“Celebration.”

Hagen leaned back, delighted. “Yes.”

“We had Harvest.”

“Yes.”

“Then there were the winter observances.”

“Several.”

“First Sun was yesterday.”

“Also true.”

“And now there is a ball?”

“A gala,” Merrow corrected.

Serali looked at him. “What is the distinction?”

Merrow opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Hagen said, “The amount of money people are expected to donate.”

Yvander nodded. “Essentially.”

Serali looked around the table as though Avalusia had revealed a deeply suspicious cultural practice. “How often do you people celebrate things?”

Allandra nearly laughed.

She covered it by reaching for her tea.

Serali had spent so much of her life surviving Lyehira that festivals still seemed to surprise her.

As though joy required justification.

As though a kingdom gathering to eat, dance, light candles, complain about weather, donate money, or mark the changing season represented administrative excess.

Something tender and painful opened in Allandra’s chest.

A thousand holidays, she thought.

She wanted to give Serali a thousand of them.

Spring dances.

Summer markets.

Harvest feasts.

Winter fires.

Ridiculous pastries.

Entire years filled with reasons to wake expecting music instead of blood.

It was an absurd thought.

A dangerous one.

A Queen could not repair someone’s childhood with festivals.

A mate could still wish she could.

Merrow was still speaking. “Given the attack, there will be questions about cancellation.”

Daravan said, “Canceling now tells the city we do not believe we can secure our own palace.”

“Agreed,” Harrek said.

Verya tapped her pen once. “It also risks causing exactly the panic cancellation is meant to avoid.”

Yvander nodded. “Vendors have contracts. Charities are already counting pledged donations.”

Hagen looked at Allandra. “And half the nobility has ordered clothes.”

“National emergency,” Serali murmured.

Allandra lost the battle and smiled.

Merrow looked offended.

“People will notice if it is canceled.”

“Yes,” Allandra said. “So we do not cancel.”

Daravan was already thinking ahead. “I want the guest list finalized early. No substitutions inside three days. Staff screened. Service entrances limited.”

Harrek added, “Watch outside the palace perimeter. Plainclothes inside the arrival lanes.”

“Magical screening?” Verya asked.

“Expanded.”

Serali frowned thoughtfully. “I can review any anti-veil wards.”

Daravan looked at her.

Not forbidding.

Considering.

“Tomorrow.”

Serali blinked. “Tomorrow?”

“You slept three hours.”

“That is not relevant.”

“It is to me.”

Allandra said nothing.

Serali looked at her.

Allandra took a careful sip of tea.

Traitor, Serali’s expression said.

Possibly.

Daravan continued. “Pell and Orran stay with her at the gala.”

Serali sighed. “Of course they do.”

“And we review the family positions from First Sun.”

Allandra thought of Everly beneath the lanterns. Lessa over her.

Hagen bleeding.

A spell crossing the square toward her daughter.

The warmth vanished from the room.

“Yes,” she said.

Queen again. Mother underneath. “Every position.”

Harrek nodded.

Daravan did too.

Allandra looked around the table.

Five prisoners below them.

Four enemies somewhere in her city.

A formal accusation waiting to become diplomacy.

A population waking to stories about shadow and loyalty.

A gala in three weeks because kingdoms did not stop living merely because someone tried to frighten them.

And Serali sitting at her council table looking faintly betrayed by the existence of spring.

Allandra folded her hands. “Then we proceed.”

Outside the windows, Myrae was still taking down the damaged First Sun lanterns.

Soon someone would hang flowers in their place.

Avalusia had always been stubborn that way.

Chapter 6: What He Could Control

Before council, Daravan had failed to make five Lyehiran prisoners speak.

After council, he had stopped expecting that to change.

He tried anyway.

The first prisoner sat with both wrists secured to the table and stared at the wall.

No insignia.

No jewelry.

No spell components.

No hidden blade.

No capsule beneath the tongue.

Daravan had personally watched the search.

Twice.

“What is your name?”

Nothing.

“Rank?”

Nothing.

“You entered the First Sun square under arms and invoked King Vulmar’s authority.”

Nothing.

“Were you acting under direct royal command?”

Nothing.

Daravan leaned back.

The man’s breathing remained even.

Not calm.

Controlled.

There was a difference.

Daravan knew it because he had spent most of his adult life teaching soldiers to manufacture one from the other.

He tried Solvari.

Then Naeric, badly.

That earned him the prisoner’s first visible reaction.

A slight tightening around the eyes.

Daravan considered it. “My accent offends you.”

Nothing.

“Good.”

Still nothing.

He left ten minutes later.

The second prisoner did not look at him at all.

The third smiled.

That was worse.

The fourth had a broken finger and ignored it.

The fifth stared directly at Daravan for twenty-three minutes without speaking once.

By the time he left the lower cells, Daravan had learned nothing he had not known before.

Highly trained.

Prepared for capture.

Disciplined enough to withstand silence.

Four of their number unaccounted for.

Including the man who had cut Marielle.

Daravan climbed the stairs.

Their presumed leader. The one who had spoken for them in the square, invoked Vulmar’s authority, and pursued Serali while the others cleared his way. The same man who had turned his dagger on Marielle when she interfered.

He was neither among the dead nor in the cells.

That was how Daravan should have ordered the information. Command role. Target. Continued threat to the Royal Mage.

Instead, he had thought first of Marielle’s arm.

Lia had ordered Harrek back to the infirmary after council for another evaluation and rest.

Harrek had returned.

So had two Watch officers, three reports, a map of Myrae, and a board wide enough to lie across his cot.

Daravan doubted this was what she had meant.

One lieutenant stood beside the bed. The other had taken possession of a stool and was writing down orders. An apprentice watched them with her arms folded.

Harrek had turned the infirmary into a command room without moving his feet off the mattress.

“You have a concussion,” Daravan said.

“I have been informed.”

“Repeatedly.”

“Yes.”

The apprentice held out one hand.

Harrek continued reading.

Daravan took the report from him.

Harrek looked betrayed. “Captain.”

“You are making me agree with Lia.”

“A personal failing.”

“You were told to rest.”

“I am in bed.”

Daravan looked down.

Harrek was, technically, in bed.

“Could you delegate?”

Harrek glanced toward his officers, then back at Daravan. “Would you, in my position?”

Daravan had five silent prisoners below the palace and a security review waiting upstairs.

He disliked the question. “That is not an answer.”

“It appears to have answered itself.”

Lia approached before Daravan could respond. Her gaze moved from the board to the officers, then to Harrek. “I asked you to return for an evaluation.”

“I returned.”

“I did not ask you to bring the Watch.”

“Only two of them.”

The apprentice’s mouth tightened.

Harrek looked up at Lia. “Could I have something for the headache?”

For a moment, no one moved.

Lia set down the bottle she was carrying. “How bad?”

“Worse with the reports.”

“Then put them down.”

Harrek looked at the board.

Lia waited.

Finally, he handed the remaining reports to his lieutenant.

“Read them to me.”

“That is not rest,” Lia said.

“It is delegation.”

Daravan looked away before Harrek could claim support.

Lia examined him again. When she was satisfied, she measured a draught into a small cup and remained until he drank it.

“Briefly,” she told the officers. “Then you take the board away.”

Harrek opened his mouth.

“And you stay here.”

He closed it.

The lieutenant spread a map of Myrae across the board.

Western district.

Harbor.

North gate.

Sewer routes.

Warehouses.

Carriage yards.

Every place four trained operatives might hide if they had planned for failure.

Which, given the prisoners downstairs, Daravan assumed they had.

Harrek tapped the western river road. “Nothing at the gates.”

“Harbor?”

“Nothing useful.”

“Magic?”

“We have three veil-specialists checking crossings.”

“Three?”

“Two others are still treating injuries from last night.”

Daravan nodded.

That was the problem with emergencies.

Resources did not become infinite simply because they were needed.

One of Harrek’s lieutenants pointed toward a cluster of alleys near the old tannery district. “Two witnesses reported strangers moving before dawn.”

“Descriptions?”

“Contradictory.”

“Useful.”

“Very.”

Daravan studied the map. “They knew the square.”

Harrek glanced at him. “Yes.”

“They knew timing. Positions. Access.”

“They may have watched rehearsals.”

“They may have.”

Neither man said the other possibility.

Someone had told them.

Too early for that.

Too little evidence.

Daravan did not accuse without something firmer than discomfort.

He tapped the map once.

“Any evidence of help inside the palace comes to me,” Daravan said.

Harrek nodded. “For now, my teams are following the routes out of the square. We can investigate an informant when we have something to investigate.”

“Keep me informed.”

“You’ll have the reports.”

The apprentice held out her hand again.

This time, the lieutenant began collecting the papers.

Harrek looked at the board as though she had confiscated part of the city.

Progress.

The palace guard meeting lasted fifty-two minutes.

Daravan considered this thirteen minutes too long.

He reviewed residence rotations.

Restricted service entrances.

Temporary pass changes.

Food delivery inspection.

Roof access.

Window wards.

The Queen’s movement protocol.

Everly’s.

Serali’s.

“Pell and Orran remain on the Royal Mage,” Daravan said.

No objection.

Good.

“Their assignment is extended indefinitely. No end date. The protection remains in place until a further threat review.”

One lieutenant raised a hand. “What if she dismisses them?”

“She will not.”

The lieutenant looked unconvinced.

Daravan amended, “If she tries, you tell me.”

That seemed more plausible.

They moved on.

“Lady Marielle?”

“Corren and Mael rotate first.”

“Until?”

“Until I change it.”

That earned him no questions either.

Better-trained room.

He continued.

By the end, he had doubled three rotations, cut two ceremonial posts, reassigned one officer who had spent too much of First Sun looking toward the crowd instead of the line, and scheduled a full security review for the spring gala.

Three weeks.

Daravan hated events scheduled in advance.

They gave enemies notice.

He hated unscheduled events more.

They gave Daravan ulcers.

By late afternoon, the palace had returned to movement.

Not normality.

Movement.

Servants carried replacement linens.

Clerks carried statements.

Guards carried weapons.

Everyone carried rumors.

Daravan walked through all of it and answered questions.

Yes, the palace’s west gate could resume ordinary traffic under inspection.

No, the palace kitchens did not need armed guards inside the pantry.

Yes, the eastern roof access remained locked.

No, a request from the Watch did not authorize a palace guard to abandon his assigned post.

Yes, Daravan would arrange support through Harrek’s lieutenant.

No, Harrek was not to leave the infirmary to discuss it.

He ate half a piece of bread standing beside the south stair.

Forgot the other half existed.

Found it two corridors later still in his hand.

Threw it away.

Kept walking.

At some point, someone told him Marielle remained stable.

“Who gave you that report?” Daravan asked.

“Mistress Lia, Captain.”

Daravan nodded.

Of course.

He had not asked because he was worried.

He needed medical information relevant to security.

That was all.

He continued toward the lower gate.

Turned left.

Stopped.

The infirmary was in the opposite direction.

Daravan stood very still.

Then told himself he had follow-up questions for Lia.

This was true.

He also needed to inspect Marielle’s assigned guard rotation.

Also true.

He resumed walking.

Toward the infirmary.

Lia was in the main infirmary, checking a bandage. Daravan waited until she had finished.

“Lady Marielle?”

“Her fever is lower. No further vomiting. She kept her dinner down.”

“The wound?”

“Still resisting healing. No fresh bleeding.”

Daravan nodded.

“She is tired,” Lia added. “Keep it brief.”

“I will.”

Corren and Mael stood on either side of Marielle’s door.

Both straightened when Daravan approached.

“Anything?”

Corren shook his head. “No visitors except approved staff and council members earlier.”

“Food?”

“Checked.”

“Windows?”

“Latched.”

“Lady Marielle?”

Corren’s expression shifted.

Only slightly.

“She has asked for paper six times.”

Daravan closed his eyes. “Did anyone give it to her?”

“No.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Corren added, “She offered to trade the basin.”

Daravan looked at him. “The basin.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“For paper?”

“Yes.”

Daravan considered. “Do not negotiate.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He entered.

Marielle was awake.

Of course she was.

She sat propped against the pillows with a blanket over her legs and the expression of someone being personally inconvenienced by recovery.

The duck basin sat beside the bed.

She looked at Daravan, then at the basin, then back at Daravan.

“Lia still will not give me paper.”

“I know.”

“Have you come to reconsider?”

“No. I came to speak with Lia.”

“She is in the main room.”

“We have spoken.”

Marielle narrowed her eyes.

Daravan continued before she could begin dismantling that answer. “And to check the guard rotation.”

“Corren and Mael have been outside for hours.”

“Yes.”

“They are competent.”

“I know.”

“Then the rotation remains intact.”

“Yes.”

Marielle considered him. “Your inspection is complete.”

Daravan remained where he was.

Annoying woman.

“You remember the man who cut you?”

Her expression changed.

Not fear.

Attention.

“Yes.”

“I want details.”

She sat a little straighter.

Daravan disliked that too.

Not because she was injured.

Because she would hurt herself sitting upright if presented with an interesting problem.

“The leader,” she said.

“Yes.”

“There was a cut beneath his eye.”

“You gave him that.”

“Yes.”

She appeared briefly pleased.

Daravan refused to encourage it.

“Before that.”

Marielle frowned. “Dark hair. Narrow face. Taller than Serali. Shorter than you.”

“Weapon.”

“The dagger.”

“What do you remember?”

She looked toward the wall. Not searching emotionally.

Cataloguing.

Daravan recognized the difference.

“It was dark metal.”

“Yes.”

“Narrower than an Avalusian military knife.”

“Yes.”

“There was a groove.”

Daravan’s attention sharpened. “Where?”

“Down the center of the blade.”

“How far?”

“Almost to the point.”

He had seen it too.

But not closely enough.

“What else?”

Marielle closed her eyes.

Daravan almost stopped her.

Then she opened them again.

“The hilt was wrapped. Black or very dark brown. No visible insignia.”

Daravan nodded.

“And the angle when he turned suggested it might be weighted toward the hand rather than the tip,” Marielle added. “But I did not hold it.”

Daravan stared.

Marielle looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was clearly something.”

“You were bleeding.”

“Yes.”

“You were considering the weapon balance.”

“I notice things.”

Apparently.

Daravan looked at her bandaged arm.

Too much blood.

Lia kneeling beside her.

Daravan seeing it across the square and taking one step toward her.

One.

Then Harrek calling.

Then duty pulling him another direction.

He had made the correct decision.

That did not make remembering it pleasant.

Marielle followed his gaze to the bandage. “It is still attached.”

“That is Serali’s line.”

“It is useful.”

“No.”

“It is accurate.”

“Accuracy is not always reassurance.”

She thought about that. “Why?”

Daravan looked at her.

Marielle was serious.

Of course she was.

“Because,” he said, “my responsibility is not merely to ensure all relevant limbs remain attached.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“My responsibility is keeping Her Majesty, her family, and this council alive.”

“You did.”

“Marielle.”

The use of her name slipped out before he could stop it.

She went still.

So did he.

Interesting.

Unhelpful.

Daravan corrected course. “Lady Marielle. You were injured inside my security line.”

“Yes.”

“I should have prevented it.”

She frowned. “How?”

“I should have—”

He stopped.

There were several possible answers.

More guards.

Different placement.

Stricter lines.

Faster response.

All useless now.

Marielle waited.

Daravan exhaled. “I do not know.”

“Then that is not a useful conclusion.”

He stared at her.

She continued. “If you identify a failure point, repair it.”

“Yes.”

“If you cannot identify one, gather more information.”

“Yes.”

“If the failure point is that I moved out of position and threw a gear at an assassin, you already told me not to do that again.”

“I did.”

“You were very clear.”

“Good.”

“I may still do it if necessary.”

Daravan shut his eyes. “Lady Marielle.”

“I said if necessary.”

“That does not improve it.”

“It does to me.”

Of course it did.

He opened his eyes.

She was watching him with mild concern now.

Not because she had read him.

Because he had apparently stopped speaking.

Daravan changed subjects. “The dagger.”

“Yes.”

“If you remember anything else, tell me.”

“I will.”

“Lia says the wound still resists healing.”

“Yes.”

He hated how quickly she said it.

As though this were simply another defective mechanism awaiting explanation.

Perhaps that was how she needed to hold it.

Daravan understood that better than he wanted to.

He turned toward the door.

“Captain,” Marielle said.

He stopped.

Marielle pointed at the basin.

“No,” Daravan said.

“You do not know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You do not.”

“You tried to trade it for paper.”

“That was a separate proposal.”

Daravan looked at the duck.

The duck looked back.

It was objectively terrible.

One foot appeared to have six toes.

Marielle lowered her voice. “Lia will not let me remove it.”

“Because you are not supposed to leave the bed.”

“I do not need to leave the bed.”

“No.”

“You do.”

Daravan stared.

Marielle pointed toward the corridor. “Take it.”

“What.”

“Remove the basin.”

“I am Captain of the Guard.”

“Yes.”

“That does not include basin disposal.”

“You are responsible for security.”

“Yes.”

“It is hostile.”

Daravan looked at the basin again. “No.”

Marielle settled back against the pillows. “Fine.”

Good.

He took one step.

“It has been watching me all day.”

Daravan stopped.

He should leave.

He had reports waiting.

Prisoners who would not speak.

Four operatives loose in his city.

A gala security plan.

A Queen whose family had been attacked.

A Royal Mage someone had tried to abduct.

He turned back.

Marielle looked hopeful.

“Do not make that face,” Daravan said.

“What face?”

“That one.”

“I have many faces.”

“No, you do not.”

She looked offended.

Daravan crossed the room, picked up the basin, and tucked it under one arm.

Marielle smiled.

Not broadly.

Just enough.

Something unpleasantly warm moved beneath Daravan’s ribs.

He ignored it.

“If Lia asks,” he said, “this was a security decision.”

Marielle nodded solemnly.

“The basin was hostile.”

“Yes.”

“And structurally unsound.”

“No.”

“Artistically dangerous.”

“Stop helping.”

Daravan reached the doorway.

Corren looked at the basin.

Then at Daravan.

To his credit, he said nothing.

Daravan walked past him.

Behind him, Marielle called, “Captain?”

He stopped.

“Thank you.”

Daravan looked down at the duck.

Six toes.

Judgmental eye.

Ridiculous.

“You are welcome.”

Then he carried the basin out of the infirmary like stolen evidence.