“If truth be told,” Irashe said after a pause, “the continent stands in an uneasy place. As if all were waiting for something to shift. Like it knows something’s coming but can’t quite name it yet.”
Alaric leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “And what does a Sandteller do when something is coming?”
“Pack light,” Irashe replied. “And remember where the fires last burned.”
Alaric considered that. “And what the wind is saying now?”
Irashe’s gaze drifted for a moment. “That the old balances are shifting. And those who forged this new age in the Sundering’s wake… now tremble at what no longer fits their design.”
“And what happens,” Alaric asked softly, “when the inconvenient decide they’re done being ignored?”
Irashe met his gaze again, and there was no theatrical flourish now—just something calm. Certain.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “it stops being quiet.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The noise from the main room blurred at the edges—laughter, clinks of glass.
Irashe picked up a candied fig from the tray, inspecting it absently.
“I did not expect to like you,” he said, tone warming once more. “But there is merit in a man who wears exhaustion like a crown… and defiance like a well-cut coat. I find that respectable.”
Alaric laughed, a low, genuine sound. “If that’s your standard, you’d love Cedric.”
“But of course,” Irashe said, tone bright as he bit into the fig. “He glared most pointedly when I stole you away. I daresay it bordered on flirtation.”
Alaric coughed. “I will warn you once: do not tell him that. He’ll never shut up.”
Irashe only smiled, slow and pleased, as he poured them both another drink. “Excellent. I have always favored men with tongues too quick for their own good.”
Alaric’s attention lingered on the swirling wine. He spotted movement over the screen—trouble in silk and perfume, otherwise known as Lord Mera, cutting a path through the crowd like a very determined peacock.
Time to evacuate.
Alaric set the glass down. “Thank you for the conversation,” he said, already rising. “It was refreshing to speak with someone on your side of the line.”
Irashe inclined his head with an easy, feline grace. “The pleasure was all mine. I suppose we won’t have the luxury to speak like this again—not here, at least. But beyond that… I hope we will.”
Alaric gave him a wry smile. “You’re welcome in Solmara. Just don’t bring figs.”
Irashe’s grin returned. “Then I shall bring wine instead. We all have our vices.”
Alaric slipped through the nearest gap between armchairs and antique screens. Behind him, Lord Mera’s voice rose in pleasant menace, already ensnaring a new group of unfortunate listeners. Good. Let him stay busy.
Cedric fell into step beside him, the two of them weaving through the club’s polished hall like deserters from a far less interesting war. They passed trays of candied fruit, half-smoked pipes, and one very determined old man asleep with his monocle still in place.
“What was that?” Cedric asked under his breath, matching Alaric’s pace. “I look away for ten minutes and you’ve vanished into a velvet-draped confession booth with a man who looked like he came from the cover of a scandalous bard’s ballad.”
Alaric didn’t slow. “That,” he said dryly, “was someone without the need to threaten trade agreements halfway through a conversation.”
Cedric blinked. “And you’re telling me he wasn’t trying to recruit you into a cult, seduce you, or poison your drink?”
Alaric pushed open the heavy club door and stepped into the cold, blessed night. “No more than usual.”
Chapter 35
They were ready that night. Or as ready as anyone could be to commit light treason in silk slippers. There was no disguise, no black-hooded cloaks like in the old stories. If someone caught them early, they were simply two sleepless women walking off a restless evening. If someone caught them later…well, Evelyne doubted a bedtime stroll explained lockpicking.
They crouched in the narrow bend of the servant corridor. From beyond the oak door came the sound she had been waiting for at least two hours: Ravik’s voice, low and cutting, the scrape of parchment across wood.
