Barnabac’s face is practically red with rage. He keeps his temper clamped, fuming while Liolen Sesk caresses their pointed chin.
“I’d nearly forgotten about that,” Liolen says. “Thank you, dear Vallan. I wasquiteenraged when the Spymistress invaded my mines and killed my workers.” They tilt their head on their thin neck. “And yet your reputable military was nowhere to be found, Barnabac.”
“They’reyourmines, as you’ve just pointed out, Liolen!” Barnabac yells, pointing a finger across the way.
“In name only, dear.”
Barnabac stands from his chair, hands white-knuckling the ends of the armrests. “Are you saying if you had the manpower and means, that you’d oust me from the North Mines, pest? Is that your threat?”
Liolen smiles, unwilling to be dragged into my master’s bait. “Now, now, can we not remain civil, dear Barnabac? I’ve always know your feelings toward me and”—they twirl a thin wrist near their face, searching for the word—“mykind.You wear your emotions on your sleeve, my lovable Blood Baron. You despise the workers I fill the mines with. Workers likeme.”
I blink, and even Barnabac seems surprised by the smooth outburst from the Gilded Liege. Liolen’s eyes sharpen as they peer into Barnabac’s blustering face.
My master begins to retort—
Aramastun Wyvox raises another hand to shut him up. “Sit down, Craxon.”
Slowly, Barnabac lowers himself onto the seat.
“The plethora of missing silver from my mines is unsurprising, given everything I’ve just learned here,” Liolen finishes, frowning over to Aramastun.
“None of this answers the silver sword allegedly in your chambers,” Aramastun says to my master. “If I were to send judgemen to your castle this very moment, would I find the sword there? Yes or no.”
Barnabac throws his arms up. “Aramastun, listen to me—”
Aramastun does not. He cuts the Blood Baron off with that strange, throat-closing power of his. As if his blood compels others to speak or not, and Barnabac is unworthy to answer in his own defense.
As the tensions slowly settle, Overlady Valenthia lets out a small, disgruntled sound. “My ward, too, was the target of recent attacks. The unholy Tower of Blisters, home to many of my acolytes and prophets. Razed to the ground by explosives.”
Barnabac snorts with disgust. “I know nothing of that.”
“But sire, explosives are the specialty of the Military Ward,” I say, confusion coloring my words. “Why, I learned the procedure to craft such weapons fromyou.”
When his eyes widen and he glares over his shoulder, I throw a careless hand toward Overlord Aramastun. “And was not Sutlis Spire impacted the same way, not long ago, my lord, in the heart of the Judgment Ward?”
“It was.” Aramastun sinks deeper in his seat. He says no more, though I notice his eyes are not leaving me.
“In pursuit of an escaped criminal who holds the Loreblood in her veins!” Barnabac crows. “I surely hadnothingto do—”
“How would you know that, my lord?” I interject. “Overlady Alacine directed the interrogation, did she not? The Spymistress is—wasfamously mum about her proceedings. You did not tell me the criminal held—”
“Youtold me the Loreblood will destroy us, boy!” Barnabac screams. He jolts up to his feet again, anger rippling his face with veins. “You said, in the right hands, that it could be the greatest weapon my military ever had! And then youfailedto procure even . . .”
He slows his rambling, trailing off while his words echo through the auditorium and hang heavy in the air.
In a small voice, I say, “My lord, you must be mistaken. How would I ever know such a thing? I don’t know who you have been speaking with—”
“Stop. Just shut your fucking mouth, Vallan! I know what you are doing here, you cretin.” He spins, shoving accusatory fingers toward Liolen, Valenthia, and Aramastun. “You are trying to turn everyone against me, painting this elaborate picture—”
“Master Barnabac,” I cut in firmly, seeing him flounder, “it was not I who impaled hundreds of heads along the roads of my ward.Humanheads, which riled up an entire city into riots which continue even now. And all of this followed . . . well, Alacine Mortis’ incursion into Trithea Plaza, without your say-so. You told me as much. You said you had worked it out between Ministers—”
“And now Alacine Mortis is dead,” Aramastun calls out. “Killed by a silver sword, which conveniently you have stored in your chambers, Craxon. This does not look good at all, Blood Baron.” The Night Judge’s voice is a crooning tsk, a velvety signal wrapped in heat and desire.
“What’s more,” Valenthia Yurlyth rasps, “it was not just explosives that crumbled the Tower of Lesion. No, it was countless axe wounds across the bodies of my acolytes—dismembering, beheading, transfiguring my people—that made it such a gruesome spectacle.” Valenthia nods toward our side. “Tell me, Overlord Barnabac: What is the weapon you hold across your back, even now?”
I blink, staring down at the handle of my master’s giant war-axe slung diagonally across his right shoulder.
I, on the other hand, do not have my axe, because I was recently imprisoned by my own master for three days. Barnabac saw it fit to arm everyone in his retinue . . . save me. For a rare moment in my life, the war-axe I typically carry—the same one Iused on the people Valenthia Yurlyth is whining about—is not on my person.
