He waves off my concern. “I’m fine, I promise, but . . .” Using his cane for support, he makes his way to the writing desk, opens a drawer, pulls out a rolled-up piece of parchment. “I’ve been doing some work for my father during my convalescence. Mostly accounting and correspondence. I found this, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. Maybe you’ll know what to do with it.” He holds it out for me to fetch.
I stride toward him and grab it.
“You didn’t get that from me,” Valentino says as I unfurl the parchment and read.
It’s a list, neatly scripted in black ink.
Four barrels Ventierra white wine, two barrels barley, three barrels salt pork, eight live chickens, six barrels water . . .
“What is it?” Iván asks.
“A shipping manifest,” I say. “For a ship called the Kestrel, which sailed to Brisadulce from the southern border. Looks like supplies for a long haul. Valentino, why . . . ?”
“Keep reading,” Valentino says.
I continue to skim.
Three coils rope, one barrel pitch, one box iron nails . . .
Finally, near the end, something snags my attention:
Forty barrels date syrup
“This is odd,” I mutter.
“So you see it too,” Valentino says.
“What?” Iván demands, coming to read over my shoulder. “See what?”
I point. “Forty barrels date syrup.”
“Why is that odd?” Iván asks. “I mean, that’s a lot of date syrup, but . . .”
“Date palms grow around the edges of the great desert and in the oases. They don’t grow down south in the jungles. The countships there—the Southern Reaches, Isla Oscura, Ciénega del Sur—they all harvest coconut palms.”
Iván stares at the shipping manifest in my hand for the space of several breaths. To Valentino, he says, “Is the Kestrel one of your father’s ships?”
Valentino shakes his head. “It belongs to an independent merchant. However, my father has contracted with the ship on several occasions.”
“And this caught your eye because you don’t think it’s really date syrup.”
Still holding his cane, Valentino plunks down into the desk chair. His thumb caresses the brass of the viper’s head, gently traces the curve of one shining fang. “My father has never shipped date syrup from anywhere. And forty barrels! I know the empress likes her sweets, but that’s enough syrup for ten years’ worth of deserts.”
“Date syrup doesn’t keep that long,” I point out.
“Exactly,” Valentino says.
“So what are you saying?” Iván asks him. “That your father is smuggling something else into the city?”
“All I’m saying is I don’t think it’s really date syrup, and . . . that’s all. I’ve done my duty. I don’t care to speculate what it might actually be.” Valentino slumps over, putting his head in his hands.
Iván says, “But what if it’s—”
I put a hand on Iván’s arm, silencing him. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Valentino. I know this wasn’t an easy choice for you.”
“It could be nothing, right?” Valentino mutters. “It’s probably nothing.”
Iván is looking at me, and his eyes are wide with sure knowledge, as he says, “Of course, Valentino. It’s probably nothing.”
The door to the parlor flies open. I spin to face whoever is coming, shoving the manifest behind my back.
It’s Conde Astón, resplendent in royal-blue brocade. The golden medallion that marks his station as speaker of the chamber of condes hangs from his neck on a rope-thick chain.
“Hello, Papá,” Valentino says smoothly.
The conde’s face is emotionless, like he’s made of marble. “You should have told me you were planning to receive visitors today,” he says. “I would have had the receiving room set up with refreshments.”
“Your son’s hospitality was more than adequate, Your Grace,” Iván says.
The conde’s composure cracks just enough to let a bit of anger leak through. “Shouldn’t you be in afternoon training? I thought it was a disqualifying offense to leave the Guard barracks without permission.”
“We earned free time,” I tell him. “Naturally, we wanted to see how our friend was doing.”
“Naturally.”
The parchment in my hand burns like fire. Surely he can tell I’m hiding something? Surely he’s noticed how awkwardly my hand is being held behind my back?
“Well,” Astón says after too long a pause. “I’m afraid my son needs his rest.”
“Thank you for coming,” Valentino says.
“We’ll come again as soon as we can,” Iván assures him.
“I’d like that. And Red, I’m sorry for—”
Astón interrupts: “What I meant was, you are both dismissed. I’d like to speak privately with my son now.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” I say hurriedly. “Please pardon the intrusion.”
The conde steps aside, allowing us to pass him on our way to the door. As we do, I very carefully lower the shipping manifest to my side, keeping it out of sight.
The door slams—too loudly—at our backs.
Quickly I roll up the manifest and shove it in my pocket.
“I hate that we’ve just left Valentino alone with him,” Iván says.
“Me too. Do you think he’ll be punished for receiving us? It’s not like he planned it or anything.”
“If it were my father, I would have been punished.”
“Oh.” We leave the suite and step into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”
We walk in silence for a while, passing squires with messages, servants with cleaning buckets, a minor conde surrounded by guards.
“The gala is more than a month away, and the palace is already filling up,” Iván says.
“It’s the busiest time of the year. I used to hide in my suite as much as possible until everyone went back home.”
We leave the Sky Wing and angle toward the throne room. Beyond it is the central green, though it’s usually muddy with traffic this time of year, and the entrance to the Guard barracks.
Just as we step outside into the sunshine, Iván yanks me aside into the shade of a wide date palm. One of the sharp fronds needles into my shoulder.
“Careful!” I say.
“Sorry. I just wanted to see that manifest one more time before we go back to the barracks.”
I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him. His eyes narrow as he reads. His long body is very close to me, shielding the parchment from any onlookers.
He says, “I don’t know a lot about sailing. But the only thing on this manifest that looks like trading cargo is the forty barrels of date syrup. Everything else is standard sailing supplies for a large crew on a long haul.”
“Yes.”
“Red.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I don’t think those barrels are full of date syrup.”
“No.”
“They’re full of sweet dream syrup.”