The pixie resumes eating noodles.
Roiben gestures to her. “This is Kaye. I imagine you know who I am since you snuck into my camp. What name might you go by?”
I am unused to such scrupulous politeness being afforded to me—he’s doing me the courtesy of not asking for my true name. “Jude,” I say, because names have no power over mortals. “And I came to see you because I can put someone other than Balekin on the throne, but I need your help to do it.”
“Someone better than Balekin or just someone?” he asks.
I frown, not sure how to answer that. “Someone who didn’t murder most of his family onstage. Isn’t that automatically better?”
The pixie—Kaye—snorts.
Lord Roiben looks down at his hand, on the wooden table, then back at me. I cannot read his grim face. “Balekin is no diplomat, but per
