Francis recovered enough to start swearing at them, and he kept swearing even after Torben and Olaf had returned to the main room and closed the door behind them.
Torben looked at me. I looked at him. Shiro whined and rubbed long white hairs onto his master’s uniform.
“Such violence,” I said. I crouched and clicked my fingers at Shiro, who obligingly trotted over to have his chin scratched. I smiled prettily up at the men, both of them. I really poured it on, and kept pouring it. To Olaf, I said, “He told me the Japanese folktale, the one about his dog. What I want to know is: has he banned all shovels from the prefecture, like the spinning wheels in ‘Sleeping Beauty’?”
Olaf laughed. “I hope not! If he has, we’re breaking the law—along with everyone else in Edenfield!”
“In that case,” I said, “you’d better keep an extra close eye on Shiro here until we can find the madman who’s been killing animals. Have you run any tests yet? DNA? Blood analysis?”
With a pained glance at Torben, Olaf sobered up. “Sure, we’ve started, but we didn’t find anything helpful. We didn’t find anything the previous times either, with the notes. I’m sorry, prefect. I wish I had better news for you. Um.” He shot another look at Torben and then back at me. I kept my gaze steady and polite, as if his boss and my brother hadn’t just been brawling all over the knighthouse, as if papers hadn’t fluttered to the floor and pens rolled and chairs overturned.
Torben didn’t stir. He wasn’t breathing heavily, but I consoled myself that he probably didn’t have concealer, which meant I could look forward to seeing some lovely new bruising on his jaw.
“I appreciate you looking after my brother,” I said, sweet as sucrose. I gave Shiro one last scratch and stood to brush myself off. White fluff clung to the sweat on my hands. “He’s an insomniac and hasn’t slept more than one night in the last five. Twenty-four hours in the drunk tank is exactly what he needs. I hope it isn’t too inconvenient, watching over him. You understand that I can’t have him around the other prefects when he’s like this.”
“Of course,” Olaf said, hugely relieved to have this explanation.
Torben watched me inscrutably. What’d he expect, that I’d start accusing him to his subordinate? That I’d try to bull my way past to free my brother? Francis was worse than useless when he was out of control, and unless he got some sleep, he’d only escalate.
In all honesty, I think I’d found Francis more alarming than the knights had.
My oh-so-pretty smile took on a sharpish edge. I said to Torben, “You will contact me if there are any developments?”
“Of course, my lady,” Olaf assured me. “Happily.”
Torben moved abruptly. I tensed, but he was only going to his desk and reaching for a slim sheaf of stapled papers. He picked them up and carried them to me, offering them at arm’s length.
I took the sheaf and flipped through. It was maybe twenty pages long and single spaced, with bold headers and bullet-pointed lists. The words “lumber,” “border,” and “fiscal” jumped out at me; they were repeated often enough. Even at a glance, I could see multiple mistakes in the typing, as if the document had been written in a tremendous hurry. Not just written this morning, either: he must’ve begun preparing this almost as soon as I’d become acting prefect.
“Study it,” said Torben, “and ask me if you have any questions; that is only the bare minimum. Pay close attention to the checklist on the first page: I’ve included everything that must be discussed in the conference.” He gave me a little bow. For the sake of Olaf’s eyes, he made it look genuine. “I advise you to use your time wisely.”
Chapter 28:
Sedition
I used my time wisely, although my first act had nothing to do with the manuscript Torben had given me and everything to do with scooping and scrubbing vomit out of the office carpet, returning the dirty dishes to the kitchen, and cleaning them. I drank down a tall glass of water and hesitantly ate a few salted crackers to settle my stomach.
Barely twenty minutes remained after that, before the day’s meetings began. Not nearly enough for me to read the entire sheaf of papers, let alone fully digest it, so I didn’t try. Instead, I cross-compared sections to my notes from the day before, and managed to answer two of the questions I’d promised to ask Bo about before the other prefects joined me. I managed a lot more by skipping lunch, and quite competently put in my grains of salt at several points during the afternoon segment. Then back I went to studying.
Since it was blatantly impossible for me to come across as omniscient regarding Edenfield matters to the other prefects, I let them see exactly what I was doing. I kept my notes and Torben’s in front of me on the table and consulted them whenever anyone asked me a question—or said I would answer tomorrow. I listened attentively when the others were speaking and remained humble, eager, polite, and devastatingly sweet. The only one who ever made a snide comment was Lindo, when Silvertip had set her off, and the others looked quite embarrassed for her. Poor Prefect Edenfield had been dumped in this position at the last second; terribly bad form to make fun of her when she’s doing her best. And a jolly good job she’s doing of it, too.
That was the easy part, and it gave me strength to return to the knighthouse that evening around nine, after I’d stuffed as much of the manuscript as possible into my brain. Torben wasn’t there, but Roald had him summoned in no time, and I kept him up until midnight, asking questions and clarifying details.
He did not bring up our encounter in the office or, indeed, anything not directly related to the subject at hand. He had the courtesy not to express any surprise that I was grown up enough not to betray my prefecture because I was displeased with its head knight. Indeed, it wouldn’t have shocked me if he thought me what I thought Silvertip: someone who just needs to be beaten to be your best friend.
Frustrating though it can be to be misestimated, it sure can be useful—and I made awfully sure that neither Torben nor Roald saw a hint of what festered beneath my professional veneer.
That was Tuesday. On Wednesday, we discussed Tey Prefecture for most of the morning . . . and then it was my turn, Edenfield’s turn, to present.
I was ready, or as ready as I’d ever be. With Torben’s assistance, I’d outlined my exact speech, full of bullet points, essential questions that needed answering, deals that needed brokering, and little boxes to check off when I’d finished each point.
I began with the mundane items, the things that wouldn’t cause anyone an unduly high heart rate—lumber featured heavily—and only in the mid-afternoon moved into issues of national security.
“Unfortunately,” I said, tapping my notes, “we simply don’t have the manpower to ensure the border’s security, let alone patrol Plisp.” I did not give exact statistics; far be it from me to reveal Edenfield’s military secrets to the other prefectures—even if I knew them. “Both Vela and Akter have planted landmines along their borders, causing the accidental deaths of several Carinan citizens. We have evidence that one or both of them may be moving their landmines further inland. I have records of two injuries and one fatality resulting from a mine fewer than five miles from our border.”
“Has it been reported to the crown?” Canopus asked.
“There have been multiple reports,” I said. “None has been met by any response.”
“Typical.”
“Typical?!” Tey slammed the table, flushing hot. “Is that what we’re saying now? That it’s typical for acts of war to be met by silence?”
“Tobias—”
“No, prefect, I will not be quiet. Not while that man is sitting at the table with us.” He stabbed a finger at Avior. “How can you let this continue? How could you betray us? Knights dying, our borders flooded with spies, and nothing but silence from the man whose duty it is to protect us!”
Avior looked from one of us to the next, utterly baffled. “Why are you yelling at me?” he asked. “What have I done? I’m not the king.”
&n
bsp; “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”
Avior clearly didn’t know. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Too right I am. I’m accusing you of—” Tey’s eyes caught on my face, and his teeth clicked shut.
I didn’t smile or do anything but look on with mild, neutral interest. I hadn’t spoken personally to either Tey or Lindo; they’d struck me as too volatile. But clearly, someone had done my job for me.
“He’s accusing you of conspiring to betray us to the king, Avior,” Silvertip drawled. “Don’t look at me like that, Canopus; Edenfield obviously knows.”
Every eye was on me in an instant. I kept my shoulders and jaw relaxed, confident, unsurprised, intelligent.
“What does she know?” Lindo asked dangerously. “What have you been telling her?”
“Nothing!” Silvertip snapped. “She already knew! She knows everything! Isn’t that obvious?”
No one answered him, although plenty of the prefects shifted uncomfortably.
“What do you know?” Lindo shot at me.
Hemmel cleared his throat. “Surely, it isn’t necessary to—”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true that I never heard her say it outright,” Avior observed. “The rest of us said it, even Bo, but never her.”
“True,” I agreed. “I have been circumspect—but then, each of you has been likewise.”
“We don’t have anything to prove,” Canopus said. “We’re real prefects.”
“And I am Bo’s representative,” I said, keeping my tone steady and unbothered, politely neutral. “I act as he has instructed.”
“I don’t trust Bo,” Lindo growled. “He ran away and left us in this mess. None of us knows you; you appeared out of nowhere.”
“Come now,” Silvertip interjected, “you aren’t implying this has all been a bluff. She knows far too much. It’s obvious.”
“You’re only saying that to cover your backside,” Canopus said.
“Whereas you prefer to keep yours uncovered.”
Classic flyte, but Canopus didn’t take it up. She’d turned back to me, thoughtfully adjusting her gold-edged cuffs. “Come to think of it,” she said, “when I spoke with her, she was very careful, very exact. Said a lot, but nothing that could be taken the wrong way, if reported to the palace.”
I’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice that. Classic rule of lying: when possible, don’t say anything actually untrue.
Silvertip rolled his eyes. “You’re paranoid, Canopus.”
“And you’re overconfident. I want to hear her say it outright.”
Lindo nodded. “I agree.”
“Me too,” Hemmel said quickly.
Tey bounced in his seat. “We should make it official! Record it for posterity! Write out a statement of intent and sign it!”
“No!” cried every other prefect there, me included.
“We don’t want to leave a trail,” Hemmel said scathingly, with one eye on Lindo. “Right?”
“If she doesn’t say it,” Canopus said, “we should lock her up until afterward. We don’t want any possibility of her interfering—or blabbing.”
“Or we could otherwise silence her,” Avior murmured.
“You’re being excessive and melodramatic,” Silvertip complained.
“I wasn’t saying we should show anyone the document,” Tey grumbled. “Why do my ideas always get shot down?”
“Let’s take a vote,” Canopus proposed. “Everyone who wants acting Prefect Edenfield to make a statement regarding you-know-what, hand on the table.” She laid her right palm flat on the table, left hand tucked on her lap. The others followed suit, including the reluctant Tey and Silvertip. Sheep.
Clever sheep. Sheep who could well turn into foxes at the first sign of wriggling from me. I had to be very, very careful here and give them exactly what they wanted. But if I had to be recorded speaking treason, I was going to make darn sure I wasn’t the only one.
I put my right hand on the table. “A reasonable and sensible precaution,” I said, “and one I’m surprised we haven’t taken before. You want to be secure that I am who I say I am and am behind you one hundred percent. And I want the same guarantee. I will make an appropriate statement—and then each of you will do the same, clearly and distinctly, so that we can trust one another. Then and only then will we discuss the hanging sword: the possibility that one of us”—a glance at Avior—“is our enemy.”
“That’s exactly what I suggested!” Tey complained.
“Except sane,” said Canopus.
Lindo leaned in, forearms bracing on the table, muscles tense, nostrils flaring. “I agree,” she said. “Let us proclaim ourselves together, once and for all.”
“I agree too,” said Hemmel.
“So do I,” said Tey, “since it was my idea to start with.”
“Fine,” said Canopus.
“If we must,” said Silvertip.
“I hate this,” said Batata. “Yes, yes, I’ll do it. But I hate it.”
“Hmm? I—yes? Is that the right answer?” said Fjordland, when prodded.
“Edenfield will go first,” Avior decided. “And, since Tey has the grace to doubt me, I will go second.”
I had the stage, or the stage had me. I wasn’t nervous about that part of it. As it so happens, I’ve always been comfortable on stage. It was more that I was struck by the sudden notion that Sr. Nordfeld might have been wrong about the prefects. Maybe regicide wasn’t what they were after. Maybe I was about to make a grave error.
But no, that was absurd. I had proof, many times over proof of what they intended. And . . . and, admittedly, after reading Torben’s document and hearing what the other prefects had to say, it made a sick sort of sense. If I could trust their reports, there was definitely something wrong in Carina. Akter and Vela were making aggressive, inappropriate moves, and the king didn’t appear to be doing anything about it—or even responding to the reports. I could understand how, in desperation and frustration (on Edenfield’s part), regicide might seem like a necessary response.
Personally, though, I wasn’t convinced that the king was the problem, let alone that killing him would solve that problem. I saw it like this:
Point One: Someone else might be interfering with royal decrees; and if so, murdering the king would only worsen the problem.
Point Two: If the king wasn’t being interfered with, he might be keeping his cards close to his chest as a purposeful strategy to maintain the element of surprise. In that case, killing him would substantially weaken Carina’s position.
Point Three: Even if he were the problem, I wasn’t convinced that the problem was desperate enough to justify killing—or that killing him was the only or best solution.
Point Four: If the prefects succeeded in killing Emil II, the end result would be Prince Emok as a puppet king controlled by Canopus or Silvertip’s wife or some other individual who should really, really not have that sort of power.
What a bizarre circumstance I’d landed in, that I found myself making a mental point-by-point list of why not to murder someone even while I was standing, making eye contact with each prefect in turn, and proclaiming with perfect enunciation:
“I, Mercedes Cartier, acting Prefect Edenfield, for the benefit of my prefecture and my nation, declare King Emil II incompetent and negligent of his duty. I therefore hereby bind myself to my fellow prefects in seeking his death—and to, with them, executing him at this conference by any means necessary.”
Then I shut my mouth and sat down, the thudding of my pulse heavy in my ears. I imagined I could hear the whirring of the spy device Sr. Nordfeld had so carefully planted, that everyone must have been able to hear it. But that was nonsense; it didn’t use tape.
A beat elapsed, and then a relieved sigh traveled around the table as the prefects relaxed. I’d gotten it right, and after only an eternity or two, Avior stood to take his turn. He had to clear his throat twice before beginning. “I, Lucio Winter, Prefect
Avior . . .”
He followed my formula. Most of them did, although Prefect Fjordland kept getting confused and having to be prompted. Tey launched into a passionate speech that none of us wanted to hear, and Prefect Lindo said simply, “I want Emil dead, the bastard. He killed my sister.”
Lindo was the last. It was quite the note to end on. No one knew what to say next. Silvertip tried an awkward, “See? Told you she knew.”
“And now we know,” Canopus murmured.
“We’re doing this,” Tey breathed. “This makes it real.”
They said these things, and a few other things besides, but not one was the right thing to say. I made no effort to help them. I had the recording, which was what mattered. All I had to do was sit tight until dinnertime, collect the memory card, and scarper. I’d email and call it ahead and take a physical copy by hand.
Francis, you idiot, I thought. We have what we need. If you hadn’t lost your temper—
But let that go. It was inconvenient that Francis wasn’t listening in, but it wouldn’t matter: I was in plenty of time. The king wouldn’t be leaving his palace for another twenty-four hours. No problem. And once the palace knew what was up, the king would free Sr. Nordfeld and Francis, arrest the prefects and Torben—and maybe put my mind to rest on a few pressing issues. Then I could go home again.
Back to life as usual. Maybe I’d manage to keep my job, although I’d have to break it to Sr. Nordfeld gently that most of his elaborate plan had been unnecessary. Poor man! He doesn’t deal well with the humiliation of being wrong. Well, who does? But I would be kind, and he’d be glad that everything had worked out despite our various mishaps, and then—then maybe things would even be better than before. Maybe—
Anyway, I was indulging such pleasant and optimistic fantasies about what would happen next that, in retrospect, it was no surprise that everything went down the toilet.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Lindo warned Avior. “I want to hear what this is about you double-crossing me. I warn you, if it’s true—”
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