Chapter 31
XXXI.
Torren
Julian briefs me on the Senate as I change from my armor to a suit. I have to pause several times to absorb the information.
Terrance has seized full control of the republic. After Paolo and Foreau walked out in protest, the old guard decided dozens of resolutions, including moving half of the republic’s treasury to Terrance’s province.
“On the plus side, the conclave is ahead of schedule,” Julian says.
I draw a breath and adjust the collar of my dress shirt. This is not the time for his humor.
“Where did you put the cook?” Julian whispers.
“Somewhere safe.”
I gesture to the walls around us, but the truth is, I’m not going to disclose to anyone, even Julian, where I put him—it’s too risky.
The cook is now my best and only hope for evidence.
If he turns on the person who paid him, I can persuade the others to let me investigate.
And the person with the most to gain was Terrance.
I slip on my suit jacket, and Julian and I leave the room. He stops and knocks on Kera’s door. I pretend not to look, but I can’t help glancing at the handle.
There is no answer.
He tries the door, and it’s locked.
Julian looks at me, and in his eyes there’s the same dull panic that’s gripping me. She likely just left without an escort, but it’s also possible that someone got to her. Terrance has made no secret of his disdain for Kerasea.
I use my skeleton key and open the door—her room is empty. Was she taken or is she simply at dinner? The tightening in my chest is uncomfortable…and unwelcome.
We quickly descend to the banquet hall, and there she is. I feel my breath return in a whoosh, but surely it’s only relief that she is well, and not because tonight, she’s wearing a backless, wine-red dress. Her long hair is swept up, and her green eyes shine like gems.
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.
Any of 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.
I light the oil lamps and take another step toward him. It’s only then that I notice his head is lying in a pool of blood. A celestial measuring instrument protrudes from the side of his neck.
My limbs react before my mind, and I dive down next to the cook, searching for life at his wrist. Puncture wounds line his throat, but even a slight amount of consciousness will give me something—a name, a clue.
“Stay with me, stay,” I say. “Who did this?”
There’s no reply.
“Give me a name! Just a name!”
I slap his cheek, careful to avoid the gash in his neck. Still nothing. I go quiet, aside from the pounding of my heart, and hold his wrist. Nothing—no pulse. He is dead and yet still warm. He was killed recently—sometime in the past hour.
I drop his arm and ball my hands into fists. Rage flames under my skin. Someone found and murdered my only lead while I sat at dinner.
A thousand curses on Jubilee.
I tip my head all the way back, staring at the inlaid ceiling as I struggle to breathe. Another victim. This one dead because he was trying to better the lives of his loved ones.
But I was the one who left him alone. I should’ve tortured him this morning when I had the chance. He would’ve screamed as I removed his fingers and toes, but he was weak: he would’ve revealed who paid him. I let my own history get in the way. I hesitated because he was innocent.
Frustration fills my chest at my failing. I’ll never make this mistake again. I can’t afford the cost of mercy.
I get off my knees and trip over the dinner basket, letting out a humorless laugh.
Minutes ago, I was so certain that I wouldn’t have to resort to violence that I selected a bottle of wine.
Barely able to see for the pounding rage in my head, I grab the basket and hurl it against the wall.
Meat and shards of glass rain down on the stone.
Violence is the only answer in Pryor—I’ve known this for years. And yet.
All I’m left with is a false confession and a dead scapegoat. I’m trying to bring down a senator—the most elite person in the capital—with nothing more than my hunch that he’s guilty. I might as well try to dismantle a temple with my bare hands.
Chief Justice Probus, General Hadrian, even Julian would tell me to leave this alone. Everyone would…aside from the High Priestess.
I stand straighter as thoughts race through my mind.
Terrance was particularly horrified that she might be able to reveal past crimes, and if he is behind the murders, he’s also the one framing her.
If I can follow through on my earlier idea and form an alliance with Kerasea, I may just be able to bring a would-be king to justice, prevent any more murders, and save my position.
I stare at the dead body of the cook. Kerasea Vestal may be my only hope.
Fuck my life.