How much damage, really, could one dagger do?

“Get that thing away from me,” Arin told the queen. “I want a forge, and I want to be left alone.”

37

Kestrel’s father inspected the puppy. He gripped the scruff of its neck and held it stock-still. He lifted the surprisingly big paws. He held the muzzle and peeled back the pink-and-black lips to see the teeth.

“That’s a good dog,” he said finally. “You’ll have to train her.”

No, Kestrel decided. She didn’t.

* * *

Kestrel had a gift. It lay in a small box tucked into her skirt pocket. It tapped against her thigh as she walked through an arcade and into the Spring Garden. The wind was warm and soft. It made the puppy beside her sniff the air. The dog caught the scent of something and bolted for the trees. Kestrel didn’t call her back.

The palace physician was known to tend to his own plot of medicinal herbs. Kestrel found him there by a shrub with a peppery scent.

He straightened at the sight of her. Immediately concerned, he asked if her father had worsened.

“He’s well,” she said, “though I am here because of him.” She offered the small box. “Thank you. You saved his life.”

He was pleased. There was a slight flush to his lined cheeks, and his hands, dusted with earth, accepted the box carefully. Then he became awkward, fumbling with the box in his haste to clean his hands on a handkerchief, which he didn’t have. Kestrel gave him hers.

He smiled apologetically. “I’m not used to appearing presentable to society.” He opened the box and caught his breath. Inside lay a golden pin: a flowering tree, the sign of the physicians’ order. It bore jeweled fruit. “This is too much.”

“For my father’s life? It is not enough.”

His eyes grew moist. Kestrel felt a little guilty, as if she’d sat down to play Bite and Sting with someone who had no head for the game.

Yet there might be a connection between the physician and the water engineer. She’d promised Tensen to discover what the water engineer had done for the emperor. And then there was that long table set with empty plates in her mind. The eastern plains. The slaves who cleaned the imperial palace. Arin’s stitched face.

“Will you show me your garden?” Kestrel asked.

They walked the green rows.

“I’m worried about a friend of mine.” Kestrel described Jess’s vial of dark liquid. “Is it safe?”

“I think I know who this friend of yours is. A colonial girl from Herran? No need to worry. I gave her the medicine myself. It’s just something to calm the nerves.”

Kestrel was relieved. “So it is safe.”

“Well, in the right dosage.” Quickly, he added, “But she would never have access to enough to do her harm. Even city apothecaries aren’t allowed to sell it. I oversee the making of that medicine in the palace, and I give out very small supplies.”

“Is it addictive?”

“No. The body doesn’t crave it. But the mind might. Your friend might come to rely upon it to sleep. If used for too long, it could be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?”

His expression spoke the answer. “But that would take months of use.”

Kestrel’s voice rose. “Why would you give my friend a medicine that could kill her?”

“My lady.” His voice was respectful but firm. “Every medicine has its risks. We use a medicine because its benefit outweighs potential harm. Your friend needs peace and sleep. Not forever. Just long enough for her to feel that peace is possible. She’s weak. I worry that if she doesn’t rest, she could fall prey to a serious illness.” When he saw Kestrel’s uncertainty, he said, “When you saw her, did your friend tremble? Did her hands shake?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no need to worry. Trembling is a sign of overdosage—not that this would even be possible in the case of your friend. I gave her very little.”

The puppy bayed in the distance. “Don’t give her any more.” Kestrel twisted her fingers together. “Please don’t.”

“I wouldn’t.” The physician was affronted. “There’s no need to even ask that. I would never risk a Valorian’s well-being.”

Kestrel tried not to worry. With years of practice at pretending that what really mattered was nothing, she asked the physician about his garden. They discussed his herbs and the earth and the weather.

In war, her father said, the best feint is the one that you mean. If you want to distract your enemy and make him miss a key move, your ruses must be real.

This was Kestrel’s line of play:

She truly wanted to thank the physician.

She truly wanted to know about Jess’s health.

The truth of things, she was coming to understand, has a weight that people sense. She’d given these truths to the physician for him to hold so that while his mind was heavy with them, she could make a move that wouldn’t seem like a move at all.

“I’m amazed at how well your garden is doing,” she said. “The weather is so fickle. Warm one day, chilly the next. I hardly know what to wear anymore.”

“You always dress exquisitely.”

“I do, don’t I? But it’s hard to settle on the right choice. Why, I’ve even changed the plans for my wedding dress.”

He paused midstride. He started to say something, but she carefully missed it. She was helped in ignoring him by the puppy, who came bounding toward Kestrel. It carried a stick in its teeth. The puppy laid it at Kestrel’s feet and barked.