Page 79

"Promise remedies. Lung-rot tonic, burn salve, vespid doses, numiscu antidote. Priority treatment when the apothecary reopens."

Jory looks toward the Crown seal waiting outside. "If it reopens."

"When."

The word is not optimism. It is a term of trade.

I write short promises on strips of waxed paper and mark each with the apothecary symbol Miana's network recognizes. No house seal supports them now. Their value rests entirely on whether people trust me to keep my bargains.

That trust is the only property the Crown failed to seize.

Miana folds the lists into the lining of her basket.

"I will send the dark elf routes toward the eastern platforms," she says. "The kitchen servants can reach Korgath's household. The lower-patrol guards will know which lords moved coin after the hearing."

"No one risks punishment without agreeing first."

"They know the cost."

"Make certain they know the choice."

She inclines her head. "I will."

I turn to Jory.

"Go to Vulmar. Tell him the challenge is at midday. I need legal precedent concerning royal edicts, especially any challenge to a law written during the first breeding assignments."

"The Crown sealed the archive."

"Vulmar has kept those records longer than the Crown has owned the seal. He will find a way to answer."

"What exactly am I looking for?"

"Why the edict was created. What fear it served. Whether demon law once measured strength differently. Bring dates, original wording, and anything Asmodeus changed after the exodus."

Jory nods, pale but attentive.

"Do not carry records through the public corridors," I add. "Memorize what you can. If Vulmar sends a tablet, conceal it beneath dried goligan and take the southern servants' stair."

"And if a guard searches me?"

"Surrender the tablet. Do not become evidence they can use against Draxon."

His fear remains visible. He takes an empty herb satchel anyway.

Miana touches his sleeve. "Come through the laundry passage. I will place the first messengers before you climb to the archive."

They leave together carrying baskets, crates, coin, and questions.

The apothecary becomes quiet again.

I have no certainty they will return before midday. Trade contacts may refuse. Servants may know nothing useful. Vulmar may find history without a legal edge. Strategy cannot promise success. It creates paths where fear offered none.

I turn toward the small storage alcove where my clothing hangs.

The green gown from House Obsidius carries a black clasp at its shoulder. The Council ceremony gown still bears lolean dust in its hem. Either would let the court describe me through Draxon's former rank.

I choose a plain human gown.