“You mentioned something about blackmail?” Leon presses Corrin. He has an edge to his voice anyone with sense would be wary of. As I watch Corrin closely, I see he’s heard it. His tone might be relaxed, but his eyes are watchful, and he holds himself like he’s ready for a fight. He didn’t strike any blows in the scuffle earlier, but from the way he carries himself, I’d wager he knows how to hold his own. Even with his ability to gather shadows around him, you don’t gain power in a city like this without those kinds of skills.
“Ah yes. You see, we have several Temple officials who like to visit us in Hallowbane in their downtime—clerics, acolytes, even the occasional bearer. I’m sure they’d be very interested to hear about you. The Temple has never been a big fan of the fae. For my part, I’ve no problem with your kind—as long as I’m compensated for the trouble I’m risking by taking you in.”
“So this is about money?” Leon asks.
“Everything’s about money,” Corrin replied. “In one way or another. In this case, it’s about your room rate. It’s just gone up. Let’s call it insurance.”
I relax a little. When Corrin mentioned blackmail, I was sure he knew exactly who we were. I’ve no doubt he’s heard about Princess Morgana—he seems the sort to keep an ear to the ground—but he’s shown no signs of recognizing me. Maybe the number of us is throwing him off. I was only reported as traveling with Leon and Alastor, after all.
Which means we can just pay him the money and carry on with our business.
“No,” Leon says.
Damn it.
I give Leon a clear “what are you doing?” look, but he ignores me. There was a peaceful way out of this, and he’s throwing it out the window. Corrin must think the same, because his eyebrow twitches and his eyes slide to the door leading to the corridor, where the rest of his men are waiting.
“And why is that?” Corrin asks.
“Because it’s a privilege to host a Filusian prince under your roof,” Leon says, slipping off the ring that casts his glamour.
He becomes half a foot taller, his round ears reforming into points and his facial features sharpening.
“A prince?” Corrin repeats, his composure rattled for the first time as his eyes go wide. He soon gets himself back under control, his expression shifting from surprised to calculating. He glances at me, a knowing look on his face.
Double damn it.
Leon just had to show off.
The men with swords held to Stratton and Phaia’s throats have gone pale, and Corrin continues, but his voice is much more cautious than before.
“Of course, there have been stories of a certain prince traveling around Trova these last few weeks, but…”
Leon pulls a ring on a chain from beneath his shirt. It bears a combination of the Filusian and Claerwyn crests—something only a member of the royal family would be permitted to wear.
Now it’s Leon’s turn to grin. “And now you’ve seen for yourself that those rumors are true,” he says, dangling the ring before Corrin. Shadows collect around the feet of the crime lord, as if they can protect him from the Nightmare Prince. He snaps his fingers at his men, and they lower their swords.
“My apologies…” Corrin says slowly. He lowers himself into a bow but doesn’t take his eyes off Leon. “…Your Highness.”
I still don’t think we needed to tell this man who we are, but I can’t deny that the response is effective. Corrin seems begrudging, but it’s clear he’s very aware how stupid it would be to annoy Leon.
“I take it we’ll have no more trouble, Wadestaff?” Leon says.
Corrin shakes his head. “None at all. In fact, allow me to make your stay as comfortable as possible.” He snaps his fingers again, and the man in the tight shirt reappears. “Please put a rush on whatever refreshments these ladies and gentlemen might need. They are ourextra specialguests.”
The man nods and disappears. Corrin’s smile returns, a little more strained than before.
“Perhaps I can also organize some entertainment?”
I’m relieved when Leon shakes his head, even if I also catch a little sigh of disappointment from Stratton.
Corrin’s staff take his message to heart, and within minutes we’re inundated with food and drink. It looks delicious, but I’m not sure how much I trust our host, and none of the fae leap to touch the food either. Instead, Alastor sidles up to Corrin, a friendly look on his face.
“Tell me, Mr. Wadestaff. Is anything here poisoned or spiked? Do you have any intention of harming us during our stay?”
A line creases between the crime lord’s eyebrows as he tries to fight Alastor’s magic, but his mouth opens.
“None at all. Only a moron would try to attack Leonidas Claerwyn. Everyone knows the man’s a maniac.”
