Someone cleared their throat at my shoulder, and I spun around in my chair, thinking—hoping—to find Razim.
I found myself looking up into the eyes of the king. The man whom I’d long heard spoken of with respect bordering on reverence, whom I’d briefly entertained the thought of killing, and whom I was now trying to save. He was tall and broad shouldered, but his gut strained the red royal sash over his black jacket, and his face sagged. His black hair and bearded jowls were streaked with gray, his bronze skin lined. Still, his warm eyes were handsome and reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite place. He had a coterie of attendants and a pair of guards trailing after him.
I’d spotted him only from a distance before now, and I hadn’t seen his likeness at all, since there were no portraits or statues of the king in public. It took me a moment to recognize him.
I wondered what he would think of me now, openly defying my father to debut as a pleasure artist. Pleasure artists, especially those who were good enough for the palace, were often held in high regard, but as Jidras and his household had proved, there was still a stigma attached—an association with common pleasure workers. I hated the prejudice either way—the stigma against pleasure artists and the hypocritical disdain for pleasure workers.
“Your Majesty,” I said, trying not to squeak, especially as a larger audience than usual began to gather around the table.
“May I?” As the king, he didn’t have to ask, but it was incredibly polite that he did. “I have heard some rumor of your skill,” he said in a calm, cultured voice, “and of your master’s wager.”
For a horrifying second, my wager with Vehyn came to mind. But then I realized he meant Zeniri’s declaration that I would sleep with whoever could beat me at cards.
And then I was horrified yet again. Did that mean the king wished to bed me? But Zeniri had said the king was interested only in men. I tamped down my discomfort hurriedly, excitement rising in its place. I could learn more from the king even than from Razim.
“Of course, Your Majesty! I would be delighted.” I smiled in what I hoped was a flirtatious manner—but not too suggestive—leaning slightly forward to expose some of my cleavage, more for the audience’s benefit than the king’s. The dress I wore was a deep red with a scooping neckline that served the purpose well. “I have to warn you, I won’t go easy on you just because you’re the king. My reputation is at stake.”
A few people chuckled.
“I wouldn’t worry about your reputation,” the king said ambiguously. The chuckling turned to nervous murmurs. So he was aware of my split with Jidras, and not too polite to hide it. “I am known to be one of the best players in the kingdom,” he added with a slight smile, “so if you lose, no one will fault you.”
“Ah, but what if you lose to me? I would hate for others to fault you.”
Silence fell over the gathered crowd. I’d been bold; I hoped not too bold.
The king’s eyebrows rose. “No one mentioned your tongue was as sharp as your skill at Gods and Kings.”
“I knew that,” a vaguely familiar voice said, coming up behind me. I turned and barely kept from letting out a gasp.
Nyaren. I hadn’t seen him since he’d hit me over the head and helped Razim bundle me into a covered wagon. I hadn’t known where he was from—only that he was a Twilighter.
He was also, apparently, a companion of the king. He strode right up to our table without hesitation or even a bow. Nyaren and the king were obviously on familiar terms. Very familiar terms, I guessed, as I caught the look they exchanged, one of frustration and also fondness. Perhaps only pretended fondness, on Nyaren’s part.
Gods. Between him and Agrir, the Twilight Guild had the king cornered without him even knowing.
Nyaren’s eyes, when they found me, weren’t fond. I didn’t accuse him of kidnapping me or being a member of the Twilight Guild, and he didn’t reveal that my last name hadn’t always been Numa, or that I had been raised in the home of the man who’d had an affair with the queen consort. We both had reason to stay silent.
“Are you sure this is worth your time?” he asked, his gaze sliding back to the king.
“Don’t be rude, now,” the king said mildly. He set the deck of cards on the edge of the table. “Why don’t you be our judge?”
Right, he’ll be impartial, I thought sarcastically.
As familiar as the two of them were, Nyaren couldn’t object to a direct request from the king. His eyes were like arrows nocked and drawn as he picked up the deck and shuffled.
This wasn’t going to end well if it came down to the judge’s vote. But I still wasn’t going to pass up this chance, even if it meant I’d have to make good on Zeniri’s promis … Gods no. I wouldn’t let it come to that.
Except I might not have much choice, I realized, as I received my cards from Nyaren and peeked at them. In the same breath—literally—I peered through the window into the king’s soul and saw what he knew. Neither of us had Gods or the King, but he still had two cards higher than any of mine: Waxing Gibbous in Heshara’s suit and Water in Ranta’s, both worth seven. If I matched my lowest cards against those, a two and a one, the Courtesan and the New Moon, I had the Heir Apparent in the King’s suit, which could beat his Stone in Ranta’s, five to four. And then, by chance, all our remaining cards were of equal value. Every three in the deck had ended up in our hands. He had the Goat and the Constellation Uma; I had the Waxing Crescent and the Knight.
A victory for me would entirely come down to Nyaren. He would have to judge in my favor not just once, but twice. There was slim chance of that.
The king started with one of his sevens to flush out any Gods I might have. I yawned with appropriate daintiness, seemingly unconcerned that it took my Courtesan—confidence that made the crowd chuckle. It also made the king’s subsequent yawn, when he inhaled, less strange. Yawns were contagious, after all. Especially mine.
I had to know, now that I understood my odds, if I needed to suddenly faint, or vomit, or … anything … to get out of this game. Do you want to sleep with me?
No. But it’s good for appearances to look interested in women and to make Nyaren jealous … and you aren’t bad to look at, after all, at least for a few minutes, across a table.
I nearly winced at the bluntness. Searching a soul never allowed for politeness, but I felt badly for the king, so seemingly decorous, as I invaded his private, subconscious thoughts. Now I could get on to other, arguably more important questions. Especially the one that had been burning a hole in my mind and heart, like a leftover ember from the fire at the villa, burrowing deeper and deeper into me as time went on.
Did you order the death of Marin Nuala?
Marin Nuala?
He didn’t even know who my mother was. Either that, or he simply didn’t remember who he’d ordered killed. But I knew two names he might recall better.
Did you order the deaths of Hallan Lizier … and the queen consort?
Fury answered me—a surprising amount for a man who appeared so outwardly calm and gentle. Yes.
So the soldiers who’d burned the villa had been the king’s. Or … could someone else have somehow killed my mother? She and Hallan had died separately, after all. But the king wouldn’t know the answer to that if he didn’t know Marin’s name. Still, I had one more crucial question to ask, but I had to wait until the king was looking less bleary-eyed.
“So I hear you are the object of Lord Ramir Zareen’s affections,” he said, after my Heir Apparent took his Stone in our second round.
I almost choked. The audience tittered at what must have seemed like my obvious infatuation with “Ramir.”
“I hear the same thing,” I said, my thoughts racing, “but I have yet to witness it firsthand, other than his attempt to beat me at Gods and Kings. From that, I could as easily argue that I am the object of your affections.” Now that I knew I wasn’t, I felt safe teasing him.
“It is merely curious that both you and the young lord have rec
ently come to my attention—sometimes in the same breath.” His voice was carefully neutral, but if I’d had to guess, he didn’t sound pleased at this.
Why in the three hells did he care about “Ramir”? Did he know, somehow, whose son Razim was? I would have thought that Nyaren, as a confidant of them both and the Twilighters, would have tried, along with the rest of the Twilight Guild, to keep that from the king.
Or else the king might not have any clue who Razim was. “Ramir” was one of the most mysterious and desired courtiers, and, judging by Nyaren, the king’s tastes ran young. I shuddered, not because of the difference in age, but because Razim would at one time have been, before the king had killed the queen consort, something like his stepson.
The king threw down a three just as I did, still withholding his other seven. This would be our first test. I had known what to expect, so I said, quickly and confidently, “The Knight slays the Goat.”
“The Knight needed the Goat to survive,” the king shot back. These were familiar refrains, so far.
“So the Knight eats the dead Goat.”
“Ah, but as a Knight, he is a brute and didn’t cook the meat enough. It makes him sick.” Despite revealing his aristocratic biases, that was more creative than I usually heard. But I saw a way to beat him at his own game—a tactic I was using a lot, lately.
“If the Knight is a brute, then he had his way with the Goat before dinner, so I’d say he still got the upper hand.”
Surprisingly, a guffaw burst out of the king, and the audience’s raucous laughter followed. Not even Nyaren could keep his lips from twitching. I felt especially proud, mostly because I’d made a dirty joke. Those were usually beyond me. The king gestured my way, signaling that the point belonged to me, which Nyaren couldn’t argue. The king could afford to be generous, because he threw down his other seven afterward, taking my New Moon.
I had one more shot before the king grew too sleepy—and even that was pushing it—or before the game ended. I now had two questions I was desperate to ask, and I had to choose which came first.
What is your interest in Ramir Zareen, also known as Razim Lizier?
Blank. Nothing. I blinked in surprise. It wasn’t that he didn’t know; I simply couldn’t see into his soul. The window’s curtain was drawn. Tentatively, I pushed against the barrier with my spirit, wondering if I could somehow brush it aside. I nearly gasped out loud. It was like running into a wall, even with how lightly I’d tried. It almost seemed to push back.
I’d never encountered anything like that before. But then, I had protections my mother had placed on my own soul. It was entirely conceivable that the king had a few less-extreme barriers in place too … especially with Agrir as his holy adviser.
I tried for the second question before I lost my chance: Who told you about Hallan and the queen consort’s deceit?
Agrir. As our royal priest, he saw the truth in the queen consort’s soul.
The priest had left this information less carefully protected. But the fact that Agrir had discovered Hallan and the queen consort’s deceit not because he was a priest, but because he was a Twilighter, was the true secret. Now my own rage rose. I had stood face-to-face with the man who’d planned Hallan’s and perhaps even my mother’s murder. If I saw him again …
I refocused on the task at hand. What did their deceit involve? What truth was in the queen consort’s soul? I was pushing it.
Nothing. That blank wall answered me.
But I couldn’t ask any more questions. The king yawned, blinking, and looked slightly embarrassed. Nyaren’s eyes crinkled in concern, and then suspicion as he glanced at me. Good thing the table held no wine or beverages—it was an oversight, really, that in the excitement of the game we hadn’t been offered any—or else he might have suspected I’d used drugs.
“Are you all right, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Fine, fine. Next round. Let us finish this.”
We threw down our second pair of threes. Uma was a female Guardian Constellation who wielded a bow to protect Heshara. Before I could argue Uma’s subservience to Heshara, the obvious move, the king spoke first, cutting me off and setting the terms, so to speak. “Uma shoots the Waxing Crescent from the sky.”
It was an argument of weapons, then. No goddess involved. “But like a curved blade, it rises again, deflecting the arrow and striking Uma,” I countered.
“But she is made of stars and darkness, so the blade passes through and Uma swallows it,” he rejoined easily.
“And yet, inside, the blade pierces her deeply where it cannot be avoided—her soul. For the Waxing Crescent signifies the female—Uma’s preference. She falls in love with the Crescent and refuses to fight.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. He probably hadn’t expected me to go so deeply into both the theological and mythical significance, but he wasn’t going to give up. “But then the Crescent betrays her, and nothing can match her wrath. Now the Crescent is like a shard in her black soul, and she digs it out to crush it to dust.” His own anger was audible.
“The Crescent flees to come back in a month, when Uma’s anger has cooled.” I almost said the king’s. This round had clearly taken on a personal note. That was the best I could do, without risking his offense.
“Such anger can never cool.”
“And so they fight again, and the same thing happens over and over.”
“Who wears out first—the stars or the moon?” The king stopped there, on a question, to be answered by the judge. It was a smart move, considering who the judge was, since the king couldn’t quite argue that Heshara’s own protector would best her, a goddess. He knew I would immediately insist otherwise.
We both looked to Nyaren. I was sure I had lost the round and thus the game. I hoped the king wouldn’t insist on sleeping with me for appearances’ sake. I imagined he did all sorts of things, as king, that he didn’t necessarily want to do.
Nyaren looked back and forth between us, licking his lips. “A draw?” he suggested, almost meekly.
I felt like an idiot when I realized Nyaren thought I wished to lose, so I could hop in bed with the king. It would be quite the debut for a pleasure artist.
Nyaren might not be biased in the king’s favor after all. As the king had revealed to me, this was all partially to make him jealous, so it followed that Nyaren would try to thwart my path to the king’s bed, if only to play to the king’s expectations. And, lovers’ quarrel aside, Nyaren more importantly didn’t want me gaining any influence over the king. However, he couldn’t risk the king’s displeasure by declaring me the winner, especially not when the king had, on many fronts, played the stronger game. I had just played the cleverer one.
The king scoffed lightly, leaning back in his chair, some of his anger leaving the set of his shoulders. “A draw? That is the easy way out. I’m tempted to request a tiebreaker round, but perhaps we can let it go at that.”
“I am the judge, after all,” Nyaren said, over the applause that erupted from the crowd. This would be a game that was discussed for years, no doubt.
“To which even kings are subject, I suppose,” the king said with a sigh.
I bowed my head as graciously as possible. “It was a pleasure, Your Majesty. That was the most challenging and enlightening game I’ve played yet. I’m honored to have been able to learn so much from you.”
It had definitely been a learning experience, but perhaps honored was a stretch. More accurate would be enraged, galvanized, and murderous. I still felt like I was groping around in the dark, searching for answers, but at least I’d discovered something.
I wondered what Razim would think about following the Twilight Guild’s orders once he knew Agrir—surely one of their highest-placed operatives—had betrayed Hallan and the queen consort. I planned to tell him as soon as I found him. And now, on top of that, I had all the evidence I needed to tell Lenara that Agrir was the one behind the plot, pulling the king’s strings for the Twilighters.
*
* *
I couldn’t find Razim, no matter how hard I looked that night and into the next day. Risking gossip and suspicion, I even tried to discover where his living quarters were located in order to approach him there, to no avail. It seemed a closely guarded secret that no one—no one I had access to, at any rate—seemed to know.
I had the terrible hunch that he was lying low before the assassination attempt, and I wouldn’t get the chance to talk to him before his birthday. I had only one more day.
I decided that if I couldn’t reach Razim first, I would tell Lenara what I had discovered, despite not wanting to draw too much attention by approaching her in the temple. I’d tried to talk to Zeniri the night before, so he could privately send a message to her to arrange a meeting, but the door to his suite had been locked, which usually meant he was occupied with his particular business. Even so, I’d risked both his and his patron’s wrath by knocking, only to receive no answer—which wasn’t out of the ordinary if he was especially busy.
What was unusual was when he didn’t answer later the next morning. He could have been asleep, but not for long with how hard I pounded on his door, drawing irritated glances from others in the hall. A bad feeling began to gnaw on my insides, like a sickness.
I decided to go to the temple. It was worth the risk at this late hour. Razim’s birthday was on the morrow.
The short journey passed in a blur of golden palace halls, green gardens, oppressive gray sky, and white and black temple steps. Nikha marched quickly alongside me, tense and alert. Either she felt deep down that something was wrong too, or she was responding to my nervousness.
I handed the temple guards the card that Lenara had given me, permitting me to see her at any time, without excuse. They waved us in after taking Nikha’s weapons. I had to give them Nikha’s dagger, as well, but not my mother’s knife, which I left hidden in the bodice of my dress.
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