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.