"He left another one this morning," Smora said, her eyes dancing with amusement as she arranged my hair. "A single desert lily, right next to the washing basin."
I met her gaze in the polished silver of the mirror, a genuine smile touching my lips for the first time in days. "And did she take it?"
Smora's laugh was a soft melody. "She pretended not to see it for the longest time. Then, when she thought no one was looking, she tucked it into her apron. Ishra was watching from his window the whole time, trying to look like he was grinding herbs. He nearly dropped his pestle when she smiled."
We fell into a comfortable silence, picturing the shy, clumsy courtship. Ishra, barely eighteen, had grown as he tended to the servants' ailments with a gentle competence that belied his years. And the girl... she was quiet and observant, with a resilience that shone in her dark eyes, reminding me so much of him.
It was a dangerous secret. The thought of Nadim was a constant, low hum of anxiety in the back of my mind. His pardon was a victory for justice, but in this palace, justice was seen as defiance. I prayed his name would be forgotten, that he would fade back into the city's anonymity before my father or, worse, Kareem, took notice.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. A guard entered, his face impassive. "His Majesty requests your presence, Your Highness. To finalize the arrangements for the Festival of Confidence."
My smile vanished. Since my father had slapped me, he had deemed me too hysterical for matters of state. My counsel was no longer welcome on military matters or city governance, only on the appropriate placement of flower arrangements and the selection of musicians. I was a party planner. It was a humiliation, meant to remind me of my place. I nodded to the guard, my expression carefully neutral, and followed him to my father's chambers, the brief warmth of the morning already a distant memory.
When I entered, my father was hunched over a map table, but it was Kareem who dominated the room, pacing like a caged panther. He strode toward my father as I entered, his face alight with malicious glee.
"Father, the time has come to deal with the city's 'hero,'" he announced. "Elder Ermias's runner has just arrived. His men are in position to correct the Council's mistake tonight."
My father looked up from his monument plans, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Deal with him? He is an insect, far beneath my notice."
"An insect the people are calling a hero," Kareem countered smoothly. "His popularity is an insult to you. Ermias understands this. He offers to remove the stain, quietly."
I remained silent, my hands clenched at my sides. My worst fear had been realized. Nadim was no longer a forgotten name. He was a target.
"To send assassins after a man the people admire is folly," Akram said, rising from the divan. His voice was tight, but steady. "It will be seen as weakness, Father. A sign that you fear a one-eyed boy more than the Legion at our gates. It will breed resentment, not respect."
The King's expression soured. Akram had appealed directly to his vanity, and it had struck a nerve.
"Weakness?" the King scoffed, though his eyes darted nervously toward Kareem. "There is no weakness in enforcing order. This… _Nadim_… he is a symbol of defiance. He must be handled." He was trying to convince himself as much as us.
"Then handle him with the law!" Akram pressed, taking a bold step forward. "An execution in the dark is what a back-alley thug does. A king acts with the authority of the state. A public warrant, a trial… that is a show of strength. Not this… skulking."
My father seized on the idea, seeing it not as a path to justice, but as a more palatable form of tyranny. It was a performance he could direct.
"Yes," he said, straightening up, his confidence returning. "A public spectacle. That is how a king deals with such matters." He turned to the Captain of the Guard, his voice booming with false authority. "You heard him. Draft a warrant. Sedition. Conspiracy. I want him back in chains by nightfall. Let the people see what happens to those who defy their King."
A cold dread washed over me. Akram's desperate attempt to prevent a murder had only succeeded in changing the method of execution. Ermias would still send his assassins tonight, but now the King's guards would be hunting Nadim as well. He was caught between the jackal and the lion.
The pieces were now terrifyingly clear: a frightened populace, an incompetent King leading them to slaughter, and the one competent man in the city now being hunted by two separate predators. I had the law, but the law was useless without a leader to champion it.
I needed to find Nadim before either of them did. But where would a newly freed prisoner with powerful enemies go? The Captain's report had been clear: Nadim had earned his pardon by organizing the prisoners and saving the workshops. He had demonstrated immense value _to the prison itself_. The Warden, I knew, was a pragmatic man who valued order above all else. He would not simply let such an asset walk out the gates to be murdered. The most logical place for Nadim to be was exactly where he had been all along—inside the prison walls, but no longer as a prisoner. He would be an employee. A city employee.
Lukan was a creature of numbers, a man whose competence was so deeply buried in ledgers and accounts that my father had never noticed him. The King cared for the grand gesture, the glorious facade; he found the mundane details of administration tedious. Lukan, by being utterly uncharismatic and devoted to the unglamorous work of keeping the palace financially solvent, had made himself both indispensable and invisible—the perfect source of information.
Excusing myself from the chamber with a feigned headache, I went directly to Lukan's stuffy office. My theory needed proof. I spoke of the festival, of the need for an accurate census to ensure fair distribution of the celebratory rations.
"I need the complete roll of all persons on the city's payroll," I said, affecting an air of royal duty. "From the highest minister to the lowest-paid steward. Every name must be accounted for."
Lukan, who lived for such tasks, was only too happy to oblige. He unrolled the prison's personnel scroll. And there it was, confirming my deduction: "Nadim, Steward. Quarters: West Barracks, second floor. Granted leave of absence, sunset to sunrise, by order of the Warden."
He left the prison every night. He was exposed.
I returned to my chambers, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and resolve. I summoned the Captain of the Guard.
"The King has ordered Nadim's arrest," I said, my voice low and urgent. "But you and I both know Ermias will not wait for your warrant. His assassins are already moving. The city cannot afford to lose the one competent man it has left."
The Captain's face was a stony mask, but his eyes held a flicker of agreement.
"I have a plan," I continued, "a legal way to sideline the King before he destroys us all. But it requires the Council, and the Council requires a leader the people will follow. I need to speak with Nadim. Tonight."
I held his gaze, a princess giving an order that bordered on treason. "Delay the warrant. Find an excuse. Say the scribes are slow, that the ink is bad. Buy me one night. Now. Warn Nadim. Tell him he is being hunted. We are running out of time."