Would they send me to my death in such a tempting way?
The Prince drums fingers against his glass. “Perhaps we should toast to something,” he suggests, raising it in my direction. “To the new agreements between Savient and Landore.”
His words are edged with sarcasm, more of a challenge, but I raise my glass anyway.
The Princess joins in, then takes a sip, and her brother adds, “Or should I call them concessions? I’d like this to be accurate.”
She chokes slightly on her wine, and I send my glass flying.
Better to be careful.
There’s a collective gasp as red liquid runs between silverware and candelabras. “God, I’m sorry,” I exclaim. I grab a cloth napkin and cover the red splotches with it.
The Prince extracts his glass from the mess, unimpressed. Servants reach around me, removing forks and soiled napkins, and everyone at the table looks perturbed. Sinora watches from her seat with a frown, like I’m trying to ruin her evening on purpose.
The lord on my left gives a sniff of disapproval.
“Sorry,” I say, turning, and realize it’s the Savien-speaking lord from last night.
“Indeed,” he replies, icy. “You Safire do bring chaos, don’t you?”
We’re no longer friends again, and I try to figure out how this benefits either of us. Is he helping Father by stirring sentiment against Sinora? By hating us? It’s the sort of convoluted plan Father would concoct, so I guess it’s possible. Anything to make sure the trail never leads clearly back to him. But I hate not being sure.
I’m on my own here.
“It was an accident, Lord Jerig,” the Princess says on my behalf.
Havis sips his wine with a sly smile. “Was it, Lieutenant?”
I have the sudden strong urge to kick him under the table. I’m now on everyone’s nerves, the idiot who spilled his drink, and I can tell the Princess feels sorry for me. If Arrin were here right now, he sure as hell wouldn’t have people feeling sorry for him. He’d have a hundred stories from the war, distracting everyone until they forgot he was Safire, until they were desperate to have him on their side.
At least until he pulled a gun and just shot Sinora point-blank.
“Here, try mine,” the Princess offers, extending her glass to me. “Though I already took a sip.”
She’s earnest about it, and I suppose if she’s tried it, then it can’t be poisoned. The plan would have to be pretty elaborate if it was going to go like this. I test the drink. Rich, with a pleasant aftertaste.
“Yes, very sweet,” I say, but I’m looking at her face.
She smiles again, her polite interest transformed to something warmer.
A bit of confidence restored, I turn to the Prince. “Concessions?”
“I don’t think I need to explain myself,” he says, cutting his meat with precision. “Your military base in Thurn is a curious development.”
“They asked for our help, Your Highness, after what happened in Hady.” I pause. “You do know what happened at Hady, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he replies sharply. “I’m well-informed, Lieutenant.”
“Of course you are. But you seem confused on the nature of our agreements, which is understandable, since you weren’t there.”
The Prince pins me with a sour look, and I wonder if I’ve stepped too far. But he has no right to be sniping like this. We’re supposed to be allies here, and whether he knows the truth or not, he should be better at playing along. He’s Sinora’s son, after all. He should be smarter.
“Perhaps, Lieutenant,” Havis says, pointing his steak knife at me, “you could further explain your personal position on the matter?”
I’d really like to kick him now.
“I don’t have one,” I say. “I trust the decisions of my superiors.”
“Will you go to Thurn, then?” the Prince asks.
“In a few weeks, yes. King Gawain is intent on moving our forces to the region as quickly as possible. Hady is a vital point to have lost, but we’ll reclaim it.”
“But why is it so important?” the Princess asks. “It’s terrible what happened, of course, but it must have some other consequence to rally such fuss over it. The papers tell us only so much.” She seems genuinely curious, setting down her cutlery to listen to my answer.
“It’s a gateway city,” I explain, glad for a chance to wield the conversation. I had to translate all of this in Norvenne. I know infinitely more than the ridiculous prince. “It lies at the mouth of the Izahar River, the longest flowing river in the South. The rebels are calling the area they now control Free Thurn, and they’ve no interest in negotiating around a table. The Nahir want to establish their own government, you see, claim the region as their own, but hopefully a Safire base will make them think twice before they attempt anything else.”
“Free Thurn,” the Princess repeats, considering the idea of it. Then she nods at me with a pleased expression. “You’re doing a very brave thing, protecting our noble Northern empire.” She turns to her brother. “We should be grateful to Savient.”
“That wasn’t quite what I was trying to suggest,” I say, a bit uncomfortable now.
“It’s very brave of you to take this daunting task upon yourself,” she finishes generously.
“Hear, hear,” Havis says with a false, knowing grin.
“But you must be careful,” she continues, leaning forward slightly. “It’s very dangerous down there, and seventeen is much too young to die.”
I feel my lips twitch. “Is it?”
“So I’ve heard.”
She smiles, just for me, and the Prince rolls his eyes slightly. Such royal manners.
We eat our meals in a bit of a truce while Lord Jerig talks at the woman on his left about how anyone with Southern blood really can’t be trusted, not even the ones from Resya, and my suspicions are confirmed. He’s here to slander Sinora. He seems to be doing it well.
A more familiar voice carries on from near the foot of the table, filtering through the noise of conversation.
Garrick.
When did he get here?
“Strafing runs are the most nerve-racking,” he shares between bites. “You have to bring your plane dangerously close to the ground, avoid the flak and try to hit whatever target presents itself. I tell you, life seems precious in moments like that.”
The singing girl, beside him, hangs off every word.
“And what was it like to engage the Karkevite pilots?” a bearded lord asks. “I’ve heard they proved to be more of a challenge than expected.”
“You’ve heard right, my lord. Many of their planes were Landorian models, hijacked from the northern borders. But we did what needed to be done. We gave their supply lines hell and kept them running for the hills.”
“I can’t imagine!” the girl says, thrilled.
The Prince makes a sound close to a growl, his glare zeroed in on Garrick and the singing girl, and now I might see how this is.
Good luck, Captain.
The Princess tries to whisper something to her brother, but he ignores it and stands abruptly. “This show’s become old,” he says to no one in particular, and then he’s gone.
A servant scurries after him, carrying the plate of half-eaten food.
“Captain Carr brought down two planes entirely on his own,” the singing girl reveals with pride, as if she’s accomplished it herself. “Pilot to pilot.”
“In the pitch-dark,” Garrick adds, and everyone chuckles.
The Princess raises her chin. “Only two?” she says to the girl. “Lieutenant Erelis has brought down three, possibly four.”
My hand freezes on my fork.
Garrick sets down his glass, leaning forward in his seat to peer down the table at me. “That’s right, Lieutenant. I always forget that last plane. How did it happen again? A direct shot to the undercarriage? God, it’s a good story, I can just never remember the details.”
He has no sense of camaraderie, the ass. “It’s really not that exciting, Captain, not compared to—”
“Don’t be bashful, Erelis. Everyone would love to hear about it firsthand.” He smiles like a bastard. “Including me.”
“I don’t think it’s important what I accomplished,” I say. “What matters is we won.”