On instinct, she spun up into a crouch, hand going for a blade that was no longer there. Her back screamed in protest, the resulting pain that surged through her nearly enough to blacken her vision again, but she forced herself to stay steady.
The voices stopped.
Dessen scowled down at her from his dinner table, his injured leg propped on a chair while a medic worked on it. Two guests sat with him: a handsome young man in crisp white robes emblazoned with the golden flames of the church, and a short, middle-aged woman in the royal blue of the Kalish court. Several palace guards stood at attention behind them in starched uniforms redolent with gold thread and crisscrossed with a series of filigree chains.
Paratal Helvarin wasn’t due to arrive until the morning, yet here he sat at Dessen’s dinner table, looking distinctly unimpressed with everything from the platter of bread and cheese that had been set before him to his linen napkin.
Though it was customary for Paratals to take the names of legendary Malik upon their ascension, this boy looked nothing like the warrior whose name he’d chosen. He was younger than she had expected, barely out of his teens, but with the sort of face that made people stop and stare. Pretty, with a gentle elegance, from the curveof his full lips to the sunlit color of his curls. He didn’t spare Kasira a glance, however; it was the woman who watched her unwaveringly.
Something wasverywrong.
The woman came to stand before her. Her long pants tapered into white leather boots; Kalthos’s emblem of crossed swords was stitched in gold across the heart of her jacket. With its flaring shoulders and a stiff column of double buttons down the center, she looked like a military commander but was likely nobility of some kind.
“Be still,” she ordered in a gravelly voice. “You have nowhere to go, and you will reopen your wounds.”
Only then did Kasira notice the manacle on her left wrist, its chain attached to a spike in the ground. Someone had tended to her back. She could feel the bandages wrapped around her ribs and the touch of the numbing salve against her skin.
“What is this?” she demanded.
The woman only inspected her. “They do share a great physical resemblance. The black hair, the green eyes, even the shape of the face, though this girl’s taller and more muscular. Still, I think this will work.”
Paratal Helvarin waved a hand. “You knew Eirlana better than I.” His voice was as silken as his features, the kind people leaned in closer to hear.
Commander Dessen snorted derisively. “This one will be of no use to you, Ambassador. She should be returned to the box we found her in before—” He cut off with a low hiss as the medic began sewing his wound.
The Ambassador made a sound of consideration and returned to the table for a stack of papers. She dragged a chair over and set it before Kasira, then positioned herself on its edge with one leg folded neatly atop the other, the folio balanced on her knee.
“You are Kasira Vitalis?” she asked, studying the top sheet.
“What is this about?”
The Ambassador flipped to the next page. “You are a con artist, known for your roles in several large-scale jobs impersonating nobility and government officials, including the infiltration of the Royal Bank,the escape of convicted criminal Credence Garvel on the night of her execution, and the false issuance of a vylor charter that led to the disappearance of an entire shipment of raw ore. Is that correct?”
Those cons felt a lifetime away, each one a truth she had given as proof against Thane in exchange for her freedom. This woman might as well be speaking of a different person. “You clearly already know all this,” Kasira said. “What do you want?”
The woman’s cool blue gaze flicked to her. “I am asking the questions. You are answering them. Did you participate in those cons?”
Kasira gritted her teeth before responding. “Yes.”
“You were sentenced to twenty years in isolation, but after three you promised information on Thane Ryarch in exchange for qualifying for the work-release program. Due to your violent past, only the Malikinar was suited to handle you. You have since served admirably the past four years, even earning special privileges as a quasi-member of the first unit for your skill with a blade. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I am Ambassador Vera Helsen of His Majesty’s royal court,” she continued, and Kasira started at the name. Helsen was an ancient noble line, most noteworthy since the last King’s sister married into it. They very nearly rivaled the Yadoras in terms of political power, and the Yadoras were the last of the old royal blood.
This woman wasn’t just the Kalish Ambassador to the Library—she was the King’s cousin.
Vera smiled as she watched Kasira connect the pieces. “I am here to offer you a new agreement—”
“What?” Dessen interrupted. “She just stabbed a senior officer. The only offer she should receive is a choice between a blade or a rope.”
Ambassador Vera sighed softly. “Commander, your presence here has everything to do with your ownership of this tent and nothing to do with my want of your opinion. Do not interrupt me again.”
Kasira evaluated the Ambassador carefully. Her clothing was well pressed, her white boots clean despite what had had to be days of travel. She had made no attempt to hide the gray hairs sproutingamong the brown in the crown of her braid and held herself with the bearing of a blade about to fall.
Whatever she was about to offer her, Kasira had a feeling it would not be much of a choice at all.
“Tell me what you want,” she said.
