Relief and anger flood me at the same time. She’s alive. Seemingly by accident, as she can’t follow a simple instruction.
She turns, and our eyes meet. When she looks at me like that, there’s a pull in my chest, but I know better than to give in to it. I look away.
We take our seats for dinner, her directly across from me. Senator Terrance slides into Verhardt’s chair at the head of the table, spreading out to fully occupy the seat. The room is rather empty with Eyo, Verhardt, and Antinous dead and Paolo and Foreau not attending dinner in protest. But no one seems devastated by their absence.
Anyof their absences, really. Was the old guard colluding together?
Servants place down cold salad and platters of cured meats and cheeses. With the cook up in the tower, someone else had to cobble together tonight’s meal, and this is more of a luncheon.
No one remarks on their plates, though. Actually, no one is touching their food.
Terrance stands and lifts his wine goblet. His face is aglow with victory, making him appear years younger. “Here’s to a historic day of the conclave, one where the true spirit of the republic led us to make Pryor great again. I am humbled by your confidence in my abilities and recognize the weight of the office bestowed upon me. I will endeavor every day to deserve the trust and faith placed in me by the people of Pryor.”
He takes a gulp of wine, obviously not afraid of being poisoned. Is it hubris, or is it because he never had a reason to be afraid?
“Hear, hear,” Suh says. He also takes a large swallow of wine.
Medea drinks to Terrance and then fixes her gaze on me. “Tell us, Praetorian, what have you found today about our dear friend Senator Eyo?”
She gestures to his empty chair.
“I need a healer to examine the body, but I have completed my interviews,” I say. “While an allergic fit is likely, if there was wrongdoing, trust that I will deliver a suspect shortly.”
Suh nods and picks up his fork. “Should it have been poison, we expect a confession sealed with blood.”
He means that literally. Confessions are “sealed” with the bloody thumbprint of the perpetrator. But why does Suh suddenly expect a confession?
Worry creeps up my spine. I will have to check on the cook sooner rather than later.
As desserts are being served, Kera excuses herself. She, of course, leaves without an escort. Julian’s brows rise in concern, but I have another person to attend to.
A few minutes later, I stand.
“I bid the Council a good rest. I will now continue my inquest, but I will join you at the conclave tomorrow.” I bow and exit the banquet hall before anyone can object.
Julian posted two sentries at the doorways to the banquet room—Medea’s and Foreau’s. They salute me as I go to the kitchens.
I place a dinner plate, a small bottle of wine, and water into a basket and then jog up the western tower steps. After a day’s fast, the cook should be close to breaking. I’d planned to leave him stewing overnight, but a bribe of food and wine may be all it takes for him to confess that Terrance paid him to take the fall. Especially since he now knows the truth about what will happen to his family.
Energy surges in my limbs as if I’m in a fight ring. I always feel this when the hunt closes in: the knowledge of a knockout coming. I can end this tonight if I break the cook. I hope reason and bribes will work, but I’m always prepared to do what is necessary.
I reach the top of the celestial tower and, on instinct, try the door. The handle turns.
No.
I withdraw my hand, then slowly place it back.
River of Death. I’m certain I locked it, and I have the only key. But these are not complex locks—they can be opened with enough trial and error, and the man had hours.
My chest fills as I draw a long, steadying breath. If the cook picked the lock and fled, I will have to hunt him. And then it will be difficult to get the truth from him because I’ll be busy strangling him myself.
I push open the door and there, in the middle of the room, is the cook. He’s lying on his back on the floor. A surprising amount of relief floods through me as I remove my suit jacket and place the basket on the ground.
“Well, have you had enough time to reconsider your confession?” I ask. The room is cold, but I begin to roll up my sleeves in case this leads to bloodshed.
Silence greets me. Perhaps my relief was premature.
As the quiet continues, dread begins to settle on my shoulders, weighing them down. Something is wrong.
