Page 63

“End the wagering.”

“It has improved their arithmetic.”

I look at her.

Sarveth inclines her head. “I will end it.”

She gathers the account sheets, leaving the request for copper scraps behind. I sign it and return to the war table.

The tagetes incident should fade into the accumulation of minor irritations. Instead, I recall the steadiness of Fiona’s gaze each time I pass Vesper’s Peak on the map. She understands almost nothing about Varrus’s pressure, the king’s intentions, or the balance among the Khuzuth houses. Yet her accusation regarding Lowtown is not entirely without merit.

Political assets still require preservation.

That is strategy, not conscience.

One week after Fiona places the tagetes on my map, I enter the study before dawn.

The hearth has burned low. Frost feathers the lower corners of the windows. Reports lie where I left them, aligned beside the silver dish, and the neptherium model remains dormant beneath its protective cloth.

A potted plant stands on my desk.

The pot is dark ceramic, small enough to fit between the war dispatches and the table’s metal rim. Slender leaves rise around several blue flowers. Their color is neither pale nor delicate. It resembles twilight caught beneath ice.

I stop at the edge of the desk.

No note accompanies it.

The study door was locked overnight. Sarveth possesses a key. Joran can obtain one. Several senior servants may enter when ordered. Fiona has demonstrated an alarming talent for learning which passages and rooms the household considers inaccessible.

Any of them could have placed it here.

The plant could have come from the solarium. It could be an ordinary household decoration moved by a servant. It could be a coincidence.

I touch one blue petal.

Cool. Living. Unburned.

Its placement is precise. Close enough to the neptherium to intrude upon my work, but not close enough to damage a report or obstruct the map. Whoever put it here understands the difference between disruption and carelessness.

I should summon a servant and have it removed.

Instead, I uncover the war table.

Chaos light spreads through the neptherium. The Causadurn Ridge rises again, black and severe. Trade routes form. Fortifications sharpen. Vesper’s Peak appears beneath the stronghold.

The blue flowers remain beside it.

I begin reviewing patrol positions.

Their color enters the edge of my vision whenever I turn toward the northern routes. It does not belong among military reports, silver dishes, and instruments of statecraft. It serves no strategic function. Its survival will require water, warmth, and attention better directed elsewhere.

Still, I do not burn it.

That decision proves nothing.

It is not an answer to Fiona’s challenge. It is not an apology for the tagetes, nor an admission that my study requires color. Leaving a harmless object in place is merely more efficient than summoning someone to remove it.

I adjust the route above Simimuese Bluff.