Carver turned to face him, not confirming or denying.
Berron’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. “Why on the Scorched Plains would you think Janson is trying to kill the Chosen?”
Carver folded his arms, bracing them across his chest as he said, “Trevill named him before he died. He said Janson was jealous of him, and he wanted the position in Esperance.”
“Saints, Carver, do you always take to heart the desperate words of traitors? Or are Janson and I just lucky?”
“We have little to go on,” Carver said, his voice low and hard. “What else are we supposed to do but follow any lead we have, no matter how unlikely?”
“Janson is a good man. There are far too few of them in this world, but I swear he’s one of them.” Berron glanced away, his eye tracking over a nearby painting of a winding river. “He wants to destroy thesonnetrade. That’s the only thing he’s concerned about. Court politics? They’re irrelevant to him. I doubt he wanted the position in Esperance, even if he felt compelled for some reason to volunteer.” Hisgaze shifted back to Carver. “There’s just no way Janson is the one trying to kill the Chosen.”
Carver was quite certain his brother was right. From everything Carver had heard, Janson was the least politically minded politician in Zagrev. He had no overt ambitions, and he seemed to be well-liked among his peers—a novelty in politics. Amryn had shared her impressions of the man, since she’d met him briefly the night of the emperor’s feast. She’d felt his dedication to eliminate thesonnetrade, and she’d speculated the reason behind it was personal.
Something stirred in the back of Carver’s mind. “Why is Janson so obsessed with thesonnetrade?”
Berron’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “He has his reasons.”
Carver uncrossed his arms. “It was his wife, wasn’t it? Her death was somehow related tosonne.”
Berron’s words were slow to come. “His wife became addicted to it. She hid it for a while, but Janson eventually found out. He confronted her. Told her that he’d get her help. That they’d get through her addiction together. He thought he’d removed all traces of the drug from their house, but she had just enough to kill herself with. Which she did, the second he left her alone to summon a physician. Janson believes she took too much because she was afraid it would be her last time.” Berron swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Janson is seeking vengeance for his wife while trying to protect everyone else in the empire. That’s all. He’s not the man you’re looking for.”
“I still need to speak with him.”
Berron shook his head, muttering a curse under his breath.
“If he has nothing to hide, he has nothing to fear,” Carver reasoned. He turned and resumed walking.
His brother trailed behind him. “You’re wasting his time—and yours.”
“So be it.”
“Don’t you have any better leads?”
“Not really, Berron,” he snapped, walking faster. “That’s why I’m here. Unless you have any idea who might have killed Trevill. Or why someone in the emperor’s inner circle would hate the Chosen enough to try killing us. Or who else in this palace might have a tattoo of a hand on their—”
“A tattoo of a hand?”
The edge in Berron’s voice made Carver twist to face him. “Yes. Why?”
Berron’s expression tightened. He looked lost in memory, his single eye seeing past the present moment. He abruptly stalked around Carver, and now it was his turn to chase his brother down the corridor.
“Berron—”
His brother turned left down a long hallway of offices. Most doors were closed, but Berron strode confidently through an open doorway about halfway down the hall.
Chancellor Janson seemed as startled as Carver was by Berron’s abrupt entrance. The chancellor half stood from behind his desk. “Berron, what’s—?”
Berron pulled a loose sheet of parchment closer, then snatched up Janson’s quill. He dipped it in ink and leaned over the desk, lying his stump arm atop the page to hold it in place.
Carver looked over his shoulder as his brother painstakingly drew a symbol on the sheet of paper. A somewhat clumsy, but definitely familiar, symbol. The hand that had been tattooed on Trevill’s ribs—and Kulver’s—looked the same; palm open, fingers lifted, thumb sticking out.
His brother had just drawn the symbol of the Brotherhood.
Berron dropped the quill, and Carver stared at him. “How do you know that symbol?”
“Because I saw it all the time when I was with thesonnedealers,” Berron said, his jaw working. “It was drawn on correspondence they received and sent. I saw letters coming and going sometimes when I was with them.”
Janson planted his hands on the desk, his brow furrowed as he studied the drawing. “Why didn’t you tell me about this symbol?”
