“You, of all people, should know that we guard our secrets closely,” his father said coldly. “It is why Bregon has remained one of the strongest military powers in the world. If we gave our weapons away to everyone—”
“And she has no interest in taking it,” Ramson interjected. His mind was already spinning a narrative, layering it within the murky web of motivation he’d glimpsed from his father. “Think about it—her people are dying, her empire is burning. She came all this way to ask for an alliance. The last thing she wants is to turn Bregon against her, too.”
His father watched him, clutching his glass of brandy. “You mean to say that she will not cede without information on the artifact?”
Ramson shrugged. “I’m just laying the groundwork for the deal. I’m not interested in your politics, but if you want me to persuade her, this is the only way. To me, it sounds like two fish with one hook for you. She lets you study her blot magek, you work with her to protect your artifact from the Cyrilian Empress. She has good information on the Kolst Imperatorya Morganya’s plans to seize it.”
It sounded as though he were backing down, but really, Ramson had gotten precisely what he wanted. Roran Farrald had all but directly confirmed that the artifact with the ability to bestow multiple Affinities to its bearer lay right here, within the walls of the Blue Fort…in possession of the Bregonian government.
Admiral Farrald took a sip of his drink. “Very well,” he purred. “You can advise her that, on behalf of the King and the Three Courts of Bregon, I am prepared to make such a deal with her.”
Any ordinary person might have stepped away from this conversation with their gains, but Ramson Quicktongue had been Deputy of the most notorious Cyrilian criminal network for a reason. “My…loyalty doesn’t come without cost,” he said. “If you want me to whisper in the Blood Empress’s ear, then I want something in return.”
A glint of caution mixed with amusement in his father’s eyes. “You’ve learned well,” he said. “What is it that you want in return?”
“Information.”
Admiral Farrald waved his tumbler at Ramson. “Go on.”
Ramson parsed the facts that he had, which bits to reveal to his father and which to keep to himself. “As I said, I didn’t return to Bregon to play politics. I came back to kill Alaric Kerlan.”
It was satisfying to see his father’s face tighten. Roran Farrald had exiled Alaric Kerlan from Bregon many years ago; it seemed that Kerlan had built his criminal empire in Cyrilia, biding his time, waiting for the day he could take down Roran Farrald.
Ramson pushed forward. “I have it on multiple sources that Kerlan is back, and that he is running a magen trafficking scheme, kidnapping them from Cyrilia and bringing them here.”
“Impossible.” Roran Farrald’s voice had grown cold. “The trading ports are tightly guarded. Sorsha is in charge of them, as Lieutenant of the Royal Guard. We would never have accepted any trade agreement with him.”
With him.Ramson watched his father carefully. “Are you denying that Kerlan could be back, or that Bregon could have trafficking activity?”
A pause, and then there was thethud-thud-thudof boots against searock as his father crossed the room to him. Ramson knew he had pushed too hard, too far, but he stood his ground as Roran Farrald drew within a hand’s reach of him. He could hear the rumble of his father’s breathing, the smell of brandy bringing him back into memories that strung him taut with terror.
The Admiral clasped a hand over Ramson’s shoulder and squeezed, digging his fingers into Ramson’s collarbone. Pain bloomed. “Don’t mistake my hospitability for generosity,boy,” his father gritted, and Ramson finally saw a flash of the man who had killed a child in cold blood, who had let his lover die out of convenience. “Who do you think you are, wandering back here after seven years living as a lowlife, demanding answers to topics you can’t even begin to fathom?”
Ramson couldn’t breathe; he clenched his teeth to stop himself from making noise. It was all that he could do to keep upright when his father let him go. Ramson massaged his throat, aware that the Admiral had moved away. There was the sound of another drink being poured; heavy footsteps, the clink of two glasses against the coffee table. Admiral Farrald stood before him and bent close. The pungent scent of liquor hit Ramson. “I should remind you that your beggar of an empress doesn’t seem to have many choices,” he said, his voice growing dangerously soft. “If I refuse this alliance, then where will she go?”
Ramson kept silent. This was the danger of playing both sides: your opponent could use the information you’d given them against you.
“Counsel your Blood Empress to accept my conditions, and I’ll continue our negotiation with whatever else you wish to have,” the Admiral said as he handed the other glass of brandy to Ramson. His gaze was gripping, and Ramson remembered the sensation of plunging into an abyss whenever his father looked at him like that. “What is it that you want? Gold? Power? An army, to help you on your quest for vengeance?”
After all these years, his father still thought him unchanged from the desperate, lost boy who had run from this place. Thought that, with a simple offer and a cup of brandy, he could buy Ramson once again.
Ramson leveled his gaze to the Admiral’s. He had absolutely no desire to have anything to do with the Bregonian government.
But for now, he had to let Roran Farrald believe that he’d won. That Ramson had been bought. “Actually, that doesn’t sound half-bad,” he said, swirling the liquor in his tumbler. “But if I convince the Blood Empress to agree to your conditions, then I don’t want just an army. I want to be captain.”
Slowly, the Admiral smiled. “Now, there’s the son I know,” he murmured. “If the deal goes through, Ramson, I’ll have you reinstated in the Royal Navy as a captain.” He raised his glass. “Drink…my son.”
Ramson looked at the man before him, tan-skinned and brown-haired and cold-eyed, and saw traces of himself, of what he might have become, in that face. But he said nothing, only curled his lips in a semblance of a smile, as he raised his glass and pressed it to his lips.
The brandy was sickly sweet with a tinge of spice, and it burned his mouth, his throat, his chest, every part of his body down to its core. Ramson clutched the cup, and he drank it all.
Early evening in the Kingdom of Bregon was beautiful, Ana had to admit as she made her way to the courtyards. The terrain of the Blue Fort was peppered with verandas that were connected with steps that adjusted to the shifting elevation of the cliffs. The wind was warm, and from beyond the Blue Fort’s high walls came the constant crash of waves, faint but clear.
The sky was a forget-me-not blue, the silver disc of the moon beginning to rise. Lamps were lit among the alder trees and hung on walls, lending pockets of yellow light. Here and there, figures strolled in the gentle lull of night, their murmured conversations carried by the breeze.
Ana sat on the edge of a stone fountain. The Admiral had set them up as guests in the Ambassador’s Suites, several courtyards away from Godhallem, where they’d settled down and changed. Ana had chosen the least complicated outfit in her wardrobe: a slim white gown that glittered, spilling down the length of her legs like a sheath, and a matching pair of elbow-length gloves.
The first thing she’d done upon her arrival was to pen a letter to Yuri, informing him of Shamaïra’s capture. Still, even as Ana had stood by the windows of the Bregonian courier room and watched the seadove fly into the distance, she couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t enough. Shamaïra had saved her life. And she, Ana, was in a foreign kingdom an ocean away from returning the favor.
