Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(29)

“We are,” I say. “Besides,” I add determinedly, thinking of the way the prince fetched me from the confectioner’s, “who else are you going to trust to inspect their supply?”

Corrick hesitates, and I know I’ve got him.

But then I glance across the table sheepishly. “Ah … if I’m invited.” If I call him Rian, I think Corrick might actually catch on fire, so I say, “Captain Blakemore.”

He smiles, and a light of true amusement flickers in his eyes. He’s no fool himself. “I would be honored, Miss Cade.”

“If we accept your offer,” says Harristan, “I will assemble a team of sailors to accompany you.”

At that, Rian looks up. “No.”

Harristan’s eyebrows go up.

“As you are amenable to terms,” Rian continues, “I’ll place one restriction: no sailors, no navigators. One ship: mine. You’ve already indicated a worry about contagion—and Ostriary’s king is still dealing with a strained court. Their people are recovering from war. If you are able to reach a point of accord with their king, I will happily teach your shipmen to navigate the open sea beyond the southern point. But until then, I will not be responsible for bringing the naval forces of a potential rival into the waters of Ostriary.”

Harristan says nothing for a long moment … but then he coughs.

I glance over in alarm. So does everyone else at the table.

It’s only one cough, brief and brought under control readily. Harristan casts a briefly annoyed glance at Corrick, who looks ready to spring out of his chair.

The captain watches all of this, then spreads his hands. “I understand your hesitation,” he says. “If you would prefer that I return with a letter, or a request, it would be my pleasure.”

Harristan considers, then glances at Corrick. “We’ll discuss your offer, Captain Blakemore.” He pauses. “If not sailors, I will send guards with my people. You cannot expect less than that.”

Rian nods. “Understood.”

“If Miss Cade will be in attendance, I would like to sail as well,” Laurel says from the end of the table.

“You can’t be serious,” Allisander says in a rush.

“I am,” she says. “I would like to be privy to these negotiations, to ensure fair trade is maintained.”

“Captain,” says Marchon, and the quartermaster’s raspy voice draws the attention of everyone at the table. “The Dawn Chaser is not a passenger ferry. We have limited quarters and staff.”

“Indeed,” says Rian. He looks at Harristan. “I’ll limit your number to six. Including guards.”

“Twelve,” says the king.

“Six.” When Harristan frowns, the captain adds, “This is not a negotiation. I’m thinking of the safety of my crew and your people, Your Majesty.”

He’s so resolute. So principled. It’s a bit fascinating when compared to the king, who’s been forced to negotiate and cajole to maintain control. When compared to Corrick, who’s been forced to kill to maintain control.

Then again, Captain Blakemore has a ship and a small crew. Harristan and Corrick have a whole country overrun by illness and desperation.

“I’ll step aside in favor of more guards.” I glance at Corrick. “Or … whatever you think you’ll need.”

His eyes are ice blue, but they thaw when he looks at me. “I haven’t agreed to go at all, yet.”

Rian glances between the two of us. “I’ll await your decision, Your Highness,” he says. He gives me another smile. “Miss Cade, I certainly hope you make the cut.”





CHAPTER NINE

Corrick

By midnight, dinner is long gone, and the sky is very dark outside my brother’s window, clouds obscuring the stars. It’s too hot during the daytime for a fire, so the hearth sits cold, and a warm breeze eases through the room to ruffle the papers on Harristan’s desk.

I’m sprawled in his desk chair. We’ve received early reports from the docks at Artis that confirm ships departed for “exploratory journeys” over thirty years ago—that never returned. After dinner, Harristan sought out Roydan himself, asking more pointed questions that seemed to strain the old man’s memories. Roydan said he does remember many lively debates about the price of iron coming out of Steel City. He said that Barnard Montague, the former consul of Trader’s Landing, used to rant about not getting a cut of the profits when steel had to pass through his sector.

We can’t ask Barnard directly because he was implicated in the assassination that killed our parents—and he died in the attack.

I should be working through all of these details, trying to draw parallels. Trying to figure out all the points of risk and reward. I should be planning. Strategizing. Working through the risk of traveling to a relatively unknown country, and whether it’s worth the potential reward of bringing more medicine back to Kandala.

Instead, I keep replaying the moments when Captain Blakemore quite obviously captured Tessa’s attention. She’s so clever. So brave. So empathetic.

Unfortunately, he seems to be the same. I saw the way his crew looked at him when he referred to the war. There’s no way to fake that kind of loyalty.

We need steel. You need Moonflower petals. Since apparently your own countrymen are reluctant to provide them.