Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(27)

“It’s impressive,” says Harristan. His voice is cool and low, undercutting all the tension in the room. “It speaks to your character.”

Even Corrick looks over in surprise.

The captain could gloat, and I half expect him to. But the smile on his face eases, and his expression is as earnest as it was when he was only speaking to me. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Corrick looks like a coiled spring waiting to release, but this seems to unspool some of his anger.

“I’ve sailed a lot of ships,” Marchon says. “Under a lot of captains.” He nods at Captain Blakemore. “When war first broke out among the islands, Cap’s the only one who stayed near the shoreline, picking up survivors. He didn’t care which side they were fighting for. If they were broken and bleeding, he’d pick ’em up.”

A raw note in his voice makes me wonder if Marchon was one of the broken and bleeding. I glance at Sablo, the man who doesn’t speak.

By choice? Corrick asked.

No, the captain said.

Captain Blakemore watches my eyes flick between the members of his crew. “We all have a story, Miss Cade. You’d do the same, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” I say. “I would.”

His eyes flick to Corrick, but he says nothing.

Servants stride into the room with loaded trays, bringing the distraction of the next course. Soup bowls are cleared, and fresh plates are delivered to the table. Light conversation resumes, spurred by Quint, who looks to Marchon and says, “Quartermaster and navigator, you say? Tell me, do you ever sleep?”

At my side, the prince is silent, his movements tight and precise. Corrick is too schooled in courtly politics, at hiding every emotion when the need arises. I want to reach out and rest a hand over his, to offer him a glance or a word or something to steal the rest of his tension. When we were outlaws in the Wilds, it was so easy to support each other.

Here in the palace, it always seems impossible.

Especially since we’re sitting directly in front of Captain Blakemore, and it’s very obvious that Corrick doesn’t trust one word that comes out of his mouth.

“Was your offer genuine?” says Harristan.

The captain takes a sip from his wineglass. “Which offer?”

“To return to Ostriary to handle negotiations with their king directly.”

“It was.”

Allisander stares from the opposite end of the table. “You cannot be serious. The consuls would never stand for it.”

Captain Blakemore glances between them. “The consuls rule the king? Have I been gone so long?”

“No,” says Harristan. He clears his throat, then drinks half a glass of wine.

I watch the movement and wonder if he’s covering a cough. He should call for tea, but I know he won’t.

Allisander says, “You haven’t replaced Leander Craft. Steel City stands without a consul. You never replaced the head of Trader’s Landing after King Lucas died. You invite the rebel leaders to negotiate with this untested apothecary, all while your sectors languish, and now you will leave Kandala—”

“Enough,” says Harristan. “You are here by virtue of what you can offer your country, Consul, and you’ve already indicated you won’t be able to offer as much as you promised.”

I wonder if Laurel Pepperleaf will add a comment, but she takes a sip from her own glass. Happy to watch Allisander hang himself, I suppose.

Maybe some of Corrick’s cynicism is rubbing off on me.

Captain Blakemore looks across the table at me, and there’s something conspiratorial in his gaze. His voice drops. “Rebel leaders, Miss Cade?”

I wince. “Apparently you haven’t heard all the gossip.”

“I wasn’t intending to go myself,” Harristan says. He looks at his brother. “I was referring to Captain Blakemore’s offer to Corrick.”

At that, the prince startles. So does the captain. It’s a tiny movement of surprise, but it’s the first hint that he seems to be thrown off-balance by Corrick as well.

He recovers quickly. “As you like. I believe Ostriary would be very eager to hear your terms.”

“You said the government is a bit shaky,” says Corrick.

“Not as much now as they were. The old king passed away a few years ago. He had three sons and two daughters, all illegitimate. Several half-siblings, many nieces and nephews.” He pauses, and his voice slows, growing heavy with emotion. “As I said, battles for the throne turned into civil war. Island against island. For years.”

I study him. Those gray eyes are faraway for a moment, and he downs his glass of wine.

“You’re upset,” I say quietly.

He blinks, then looks at me. “No.” He pauses. “Well. Perhaps. War is … war. My father died in those battles.”

I frown. “I’m sorry, Captain Blakemore.”

His expression flickers, as if I’ve surprised him. “Thank you, Miss Cade.”

Corrick might think all of this is pretense, but the captain’s grief feels genuine to me. “Please,” I say softly. “Call me Tessa.”

He gives me a nod, then a small smile. “Then you must call me Rian.”

Harristan speaks through the emotion with casual efficiency. “Who won?” he says.