Page 106 of Given to the Black King

I ignore her.

“I do what the plan requires.”

His hand closes around mine. The claws retract with visible effort.

“If one of them touches you⁠—”

“We keep at least one alive.”

His expression does not change.

“Torgan.”

“One.”

“Two would be better.”

“One.”

Vess sighs. “A compromise. How inspiring.”

The trap is set for midnight.

I spend the evening in the sunny gallery with Perr, correcting the final copies of the treaty. Nothing looks different. Two guards stand outside the door. Callas packs his cases. The household settles around us.

Half an hour before midnight, Vess brings me a thin mail shirt.

It weighs less than I expect and pinches everywhere.

“Romantic,” I say.

“You wore torn wool through the hold last night. Your standards have moved.”

She helps me fasten the knife sheath beneath my left sleeve.

The whistle hangs inside my bodice.

“Where is Torgan?” I ask.

“Trying not to kill the sergeant before the sergeant earns it.”

“That seems difficult for him.”

“It is making the training yard expensive.”

At midnight I leave the gallery alone.

The west corridor is empty.

I walk slowly enough to be seen.

At the first turn, a guard steps from an alcove.

Hold cloak. Hold braid.

New boots with silver buckles.

“Lady Envoy.”