He went to Sarsine’s room for breakfast. The suite had been hers as a girl, decorated according to the orders of Arin’s sister, whose own suite was closed off, curtains drawn.

Sarsine set her cup in its saucer. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He’d come to talk, but found that he didn’t know what to say and didn’t really want to say anything after all.

“You have shadows under your eyes. The god of sleep does not love you.”

Arin shrugged. He peeled a summer fruit, the little knife moving quickly in his hand. The fruit’s violet flesh dented and dripped. It smelled fragrant, dusky, sweet. Familiar. A perfume. On the skin, right at the base of her throat.

He dropped the fruit to his plate, no longer hungry.

Sarsine took it from him and ate, sucking her thumb to get the juice. “Aren’t you pleased that some of us are well enough to harvest fruit?”

He focused his attention. “Yes, but . . .”

“Not well enough to fight.”

“I don’t want you to fight.”

“Not me, perhaps.” She drank her tea.

“Could you oversee a project?”

She raised her black brows.

He pulled folded pages from the inside pocket of his light jacket. They described in detail how he’d made the miniature cannon: the process for making the molds for the barrel and ball, the dimensions, the way to fit the barrel into a leather stock.

Sarsine examined the pages. “How many do you want?”

“As many as you can have made.”

He went quiet. She let him be. He ate a bit of bread, then caught himself staring at Tensen’s ring on his smallest finger. He wondered why his spymaster had lied to him.

Tensen had promised the Moth her anonymity. That had been clear from the first. Then Tensen had seemed to backtrack on that promise—or to let it fall under the weight of his greater promise of loyalty to Arin. Tensen had named Risha as his clever spy.

Why would a Herrani woman be so insistent on her anonymity?

A servant, likely, in the imperial palace. Scared to be discovered. The emperor was a vengeful man.

Arin touched his scar. His fingers were sticky.

Could the Moth have been Deliah? But the Herrani dressmaker, who had sewn Arin’s face, had given him information directly. He didn’t understand why she would do that and go through an elaborate charade of being Tensen’s secret spy.

As if guessing the course of his thoughts, Sarsine said, “What about the messenger?”

“I spoke with him. Told him he could go home.”

“Arin. The borders are closed. He trekked through the mountains from Valoria. You can’t send him back. He has no home.”

Arin winced. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“That only happens to you when your heart gets in the way.”

He felt again that flutter of unease. He tried to remember the dream he had made himself forget. He stood, eager to get away from his cousin, who knew him too well—even though that was, he realized, why he had come. “The messenger can stay in my old rooms, then.”

Sarsine said, “I’ll let him know, if he hasn’t already left.”

Roshar was in the kitchen yard with his tiger, who’d just killed a chicken. The flagstones were strewn with bloody feathers. The tiger, though still small, had large paws. It lay in the yard, panting in the sun, paws over its prize, muzzle pink and wet.

The prince eyed Arin.

“Was that a laying hen?” Arin asked.

“I have news for you. Not about chickens.”

“The Valorian prisoners?”

Roshar sat at the edge of the well, his expression hard to read.

Arin’s heart dropped. “What kind of news?”

“Would you like the bad news first, or the news I’m not sure whether you will take as good or bad?”

“Bad news.”

“Your spymaster’s dead.”

“Tensen?” Arin had expected this, yet the stab of sorrow went as deep as if he’d been wholly unprepared.

“The dressmaker, too. The general killed Tensen—or at least, that’s what they say. Unclear about the dressmaker.”

Arin’s stomach was hollow. He remembered looking up at Deliah through the veil of his own blood and thinking, for a moment, that she looked like his mother.

“Do you want the other news?” Roshar tentatively asked.

No. Arin was suddenly sure that he did not want to hear it, would not be able to bear it. He felt a sinking dread.

“Your . . .” Roshar stumbled.