“He may be useful.”
“He is an exile.”
“You will leave him completely to me, is that clear?”
The Grand Vizier flashed a tight smile and inclined his head, his eyes dark and glittering. “Of course, Majesty.”
She stepped down from the throne, brushing past him with a hiss of anger. Her guards broke from the walls and formed two protective lines around her, striving to gracefully match her pace as she charged through the old colonnade, heading for the tower steps.
Jacob waited in the shadows, his wrists chained with rusted iron cuffs, the glow of a solitary oil lamp gilding the stone walls around him. They’d taken his cloak, stripped him of his shirt to be sure he carried no weapons, and left him in his trousers and boots, confident they’d searched him well enough, which—of course—they hadn’t.
Slipping his hands along the inside of his left sole, he pushed at the small gap in the tread, widening it to extract a thin metal pin from between the hard layers. He turned it, end to end, with his fingers, his gaze still fixed on the cell door.
Curving his hand at an awkward angle, he slipped the pin into the keyhole of the left wrist cuff, feeling it slide between the lock’s tiny teeth. He maneuvered it patiently, probing the metal slips, hearing the small clicks and scrapes as he pressed the pin deeper into the mechanism. He felt a tick of protest just before the pin caught, sliding home.
The lock released. The cuff broke apart.
Jacob swore under his breath, hearing footsteps echoing down the corridor. Chairs rattled against the floor as the guards shot to attention, catching sight of an unexpected visitor.
Too soon. He needed more time, just a moment more…
He heard dismissive commands, heavy fabrics hissing over the rock, keys jingling. Snapping the metal cuff back on his wrist, he took the pin into his mouth, glaring as the cell door swung open on squealing hinges.
Two men in dark robes strode toward him, armed with pistols and daggers. They checked him briefly before stepping aside, clearing the way for a feline creature in white and gold.
Jacob watched the Sultan approach, finding him as physically diminished as Letoures had promised. The ruler was young and overly thin, his outline lost in voluminous robes, belts and sashes, his movements too graceful, perhaps even too demure, for someone raised to be a king. His eyes were large and honey colored in the glow of torches, his black hair swept under a jeweled turban.
He looked directly at Jacob and seemed to catch his breath. He didn’t look like a man who’d started a war. In point of fact, the Sultan of Ruman didn’t look much like a man at all.
Nadira stood speechless before him, watching him flex his fingers under the iron cuffs. He was chained and bared to the waist, but showed no fear, no self-consciousness, only contempt. If he hadn’t been on his knees already, she doubted he would have assumed the position out of respect.
One of her guards stepped forward, announcing the presence of the ruler in the common language of old crusaders and New Europa foreigners. “The Great Sultan of Ruman, King of the noble territories of Ruman, Astar, Kutem, the Island of Somtuk, the Port of Cyric, and the deserts of Ka—”
“Enough,” she said. “Leave us.”
The guard hesitated then offered a deep bow of submission. “Great Majesty, he is a criminal, a New Europa exile. Not even his own people consider him safe. It is very dangerous. I beg you to—”
“I would speak to the prisoner alone. Leave us.”
The guard acquiesced with a reluctant nod, leaving the room and taking the royal complement with him.
Nadira turned her attention to the exile. He held her gaze in defiance, as if he could see right through the thick layers powder and kohl, the carefully applied mask of the Sultan of Ruman, to the woman hiding underneath it. She felt a hot blush of color rising in her cheeks.
The way he looked at her, the way he…Of course, she had known from the petitions for his arrest that people found him menacing, but the physical descriptions varied so much from witness to witness that they were entirely useless. The blue eyes remained constant, but little else. Some said he was very tall, others said he was average height, most said his hair was black, cut short or left long, depending on the time of year. So perhaps it had been logical to imagine him as a kind of shadow, a pirate figure that remained in permanent silhouette.
The man kneeling at her feet, however, was no soft outline, and decidedly more menacing than his descriptions had implied. It wasn’t, however, a matter of physical size. Her guards were bigger and bulkier by far, but the thief managed to look more dangerous, his body agile and lean, corded with facile strength.
His hair truly was cut short, more ginger brown than black, and he was indeed blue-eyed, but not the ice blue she’d heard about, rather a violet shade so deep it merely hinted at color when the light was right.
Altogether, the effect was unsettling.
“I bid you to rise,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
Leaning forward, he rose gracefully to his feet, much taller than average height, surely. Nadira retreated a few steps, placing herself closer to the door and the guards waiting outside. The thief took note of the gesture, his eyes flicking from her to the entrance, then back, unimpressed.
“You amaze me, Mr. Letoures,” she said.
He watched her without reply, his jaw tightening.
“There are not many men I can trust,” she continued. “And not many who approve of my consulting with a known criminal. But I knew that you would not fail. I knew you would find the right diamond, and that you would bring it here, within the time I allowed. Someone less resourceful, less accustomed to ignoring laws of all kinds, would have failed. You are to be commended, and paid your reward, of course.”
She waited for him to answer, but he didn’t. He remained standing, his wrists chained and his long stomach held taut, his sleek body lit with the glow of the oil lamp. He pressed his lips together, as if biting back the taste of words in his mouth, but said nothing.
Nadira drew an uncertain breath, struggling to overcome the unexpected silence. “There is something else, additional profit to be made, favors I would grant. Let us speak plainly, you have built a reputation as a heathen, a seducer, and there are warrants…but I will pardon you of all these crimes, and add more treasure to your reward, if you lend me your knowledge of precious jewels for a few days. I may need your advice on the particular use I have for this diamond. It is no mere piece of jewelry, not something I require for vanity’s sake. There is a machine…I…I have a special purpose for the stone, a crucial plan that will reshape Ruman in the eyes of the world.”
He stood unmoved, considering her without a word.
She wet her lips, a moment passing before she realized her mistake. “Yes, I see. Unwise of me to offer proposals when you are still bound in chains. How can you trust me, when you have been treated this way? You will be released immediately and shown to the royal apartments. Tomorrow, after you are properly rested, we will speak about the diamond and what further profit you might make on it. Is that satisfactory?”
Something glinted in the depths of his eyes. After a moment, he inclined his head, indicating deferential agreement, or mockery…it wasn’t entirely clear which.
Nadira summoned the cell guards with a clap, avoiding the thief’s gaze as she issued her terse commands and headed for the corridor. Don’t look back. Don’t… She knew that she couldn’t, that she would only give herself away if she did, and yet still, it was difficult, The man standing there, the light shadowed along his bare chest, had just become more vivid, and more dangerous, than her dreams of him had ever been.
A Mask with Two Faces
Jacob was led, under guard, to a lavish suite in the North Tower, its length sectioned by pillars of dark wood, their carved facets embellished with gold. Large windows offered a view of the crescent moon over the hills, the long glass panes shaped by scrolling metalwork and colored glass borders. A
row of satin cushions lined the wall in pastel shades, set behind a low table glowing with oil lamps and vases of fragrant white orchids.
A handful of serving boys entered the room, wearing crimson coats and white gloves, placing heaping bowls of fresh breads, olives and bright mandarins on the table, their rinds so clean they looked polished. The servants arranged a line of goblets and a decanter of water chilled with slices of lemon, plus an uncorked bottle of wine—a forbidden luxury.
The oldest boy bid him into a tiled bathing room with a fountain pool surrounded by planted bamboo, its floor mosaic depicting water patterns and rippling pieces of light. The servant approached to assist, but Jacob stepped back with a hiss, gesturing the boy to leave.
He received no argument, watching as clothes were laid out for him on the canopied bed in silence and the servants took their leave, followed by the guards and the clicking sound of the door lock.
After a moment of waiting, he spat the lock pick into his palm, grimacing at its dull shine against his skin. Its length had proved too awkward to effectively maneuver under his tongue, preventing him from answering the Sultan’s awkward monolog. Not that it mattered. Silence had worked in his favor, far better than he would have thought.
He checked the rooms, then the windows, finding two narrow panes that swung open to the breeze on metal hinges, both offering a straight drop of over thirty meters to the gardens below. He unclasped the wide fabric belt from his waist and tore it at the seams, ripping loose a handful of light throwing blades and a roll of metal wire from the fabric sleeve.
The guards at the gate had found the diamond easily enough and become careless, assuming that there couldn’t be anything he’d taken greater pains to conceal. He’d expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the Sultan, a lithe figure with soulful eyes, soft spoken, even in his ambition.
I have a special purpose for the stone, a crucial plan that will reshape Ruman in the eyes of the world.
It was a fitting preamble to war, though hardly original. Every cratered wasteland and burning city had been formed with similar words, spoken by men who dreamed of having the eyes of the world set on squarely on their regal shoulders, of reshaping a million destinies with one act of lunacy.
Jacob had accepted that he’d never understand men who turned murderous under a preponderance of privilege, though his life had been of their making since before he was born, his father never more than a name on a crypt wall, a mention in Academy textbooks.
He’d learned the great Kessler tradition from aunts long widowed; cousins who’d assured his place in elite training institutions, and three brothers who never came home. They had all done their part to bestow the expectations. The realities, however, he’d learned on his own, left alive on gray battlefields that no one should have survived, drenched in blood so thick he seemed to breathe it, lost among those who’d lost everything.
Even after almost two decades, he found little reason in it, positions taken and retaken, then abandoned, men sacrificed to accomplish nothing, remembered only in nightmares, in tarnished artifacts, warped and stained and kept, until even they were lost.
No soldier need suffer it, however, when the battle that would have taken thousands of lives simply never happens, when the urge to ‘reshape’ was terminated before it could yield mortal devastation.
There was reason enough in that.
Pressing his lips together, he glanced at the view from the window. If his information was accurate, the royal apartments were stacked along all the upper floors of the North Tower, with the Sultan’s private suites occupying the top. He could easily climb higher using the windows and ledges and enter the corridors above. He’d need only few minutes for the guards, but longer for the Sultan, for an interrogation best done in the darkest hours.
Narrowing his gaze on the horizon, he watched the cold glitter of stars above the hills, finding no peace in them now.
Nadira turned the large diamond in her hand, watching colored streaks of light play in its depths. It was a thing of exceptional beauty, cut with amazing skill. Letoures was famous for robbing tombs and ruins left forgotten in vine choked jungles, but this stone held none of the rough texturing left behind by ancient jewelers. It was perfect.
She pressed her lips together, tilting the diamond toward the light to find rays of color dancing within its solid blue heart. Rare. Priceless. Cold. That was the kind of beauty that could be owned.
Osman had given her many sparkling gems and pendants, also hundreds of dresses and shoes, silks and veils. She’d been his favored pet, meant to shine solely for him, and soon made as hard as the stones he adorned her with. How many years had it been, since that girl from the desert arrived on the palace steps, a tribute from a lesser vizier seeking favor? Had she expected a kind master or a cruel one?
She clenched her teeth, feeling a moment’s revulsion. The diamond cast its own dark light within the cradle of her fingers.
Grimacing, she placed the stone back in her table drawer and gazed into the mirror above it, finding not a prisoner, or a ghost, but a woman restored, her face scrubbed clean of its mask, of its lies. Still young. Still beautiful, with two drops of honey wax glossing her lips, a medallion of pink sapphires resting at the part in her dark hair. She’d exchanged her white robes for peach silk; her dagger for pearls…lies for truth.
Will you believe me, thief? Will you understand what I tell you…why I had to do it…why changing Ruman is the only way I can escape it…Will you understand? Will you care?
She pressed her lips together, knowing that the last question should not have felt like the most important one. She shouldn’t be breathless, certainly shouldn’t be flushed, yet the thought of being so close to him, of being a woman around him…
“Insanity,” she whispered, rising from her seat.
Lifting the oil lamp from the table, she moved from her secure dressing room to the outer salon, her fingers stroking behind the closest pillar, finding the latch that sprung its inner door. The lock clicked and the small entry swung back, revealing the hidden passage used by members of the Harem.
One corridor opened into many, into stairways and false doors, all of them narrow and cold, offering uneven steps polished with use. Nadira kept the lamp steady, checking herself several times, changing direction twice before arriving at the proper door.
She tugged on the brass lever extending from the wall, activating an old pulley system, its metal wires and gears rusty. A crack appeared in the false stone, grinding softly as it widened to form an opening just large enough to slip through. She pressed herself against the wall and pushed through, hearing the secret door rumble shut behind her.
Glancing around the salon, she found it empty, the bread and wine untouched. Watery noises echoed from the fountain room.
She walked toward them, her breath burning in her throat. Through emerald stalks of bamboo, she saw him standing in the pool, tall and lean, his body naked in the faint light of oil lamps. He angled his head under the spill of water, scrubbing it through his hair, crystal beads dripping from his muscular arms, his wrists adorned with colored braids of thread. Her eyes darted down the wet shine slicking his narrow waist, to the fullness of his relaxed cock, water forming glittering rivulets from its rose colored tip.
Leave, leave now, before he—
He looked up, his gaze narrowing through shadowed breaks in the bamboo. She stood frozen in place, unable to move.
He wiped the water from his face, his attention flitting to the swell of her breasts under the shining fabric of her dress.
“And who would you be?” he asked.
How could he have missed her? He’d checked the rooms, but perhaps not thoroughly enough. She was small, a pretty slip of nothing in beaded pink silk. If she’d hidden herself cleverly, she might have seen him taking the knives from his belt.
“I am Nadira,” she said, speaking the same archaic but common language as the Sultan.
“How long have you been here, Nadira
?”
Her lips parted, her eyes lingering on him, as if she couldn’t tear them away. “Long enough.”
Not the answer he wanted to hear.
Jacob nodded, stepping from the water and wrapping one of the starched white linens around his waist. He approached her, expecting her to back away, but she stood her ground, looking up at him with her honey colored gaze, a heated blush warming her cheeks.
“Why?” he asked.
“To talk with you.”
“The Sultan sent you.”
“It was my choice to come. I—”
He waited for her to finish, then realized that she couldn’t, her purpose suddenly too much for her. “The guards let you in?”
She shook her head, strands of diamonds glinting from her hair. “There are places in the walls.”
The walls? He’d been a fool. “In all of the rooms? Secret doors everywhere?”
“Just in the salon.”
The place where he’d hidden the knives. Jacob kept his expression neutral through force of will. “And are there others in the wall? Someone watching us now?”
She looked confused. “No.”
Perhaps she was telling the truth, or perhaps she didn’t know. Either way, his simple plan had just acquired an unwelcome dimension. The woman had to be dealt with—in whatever way that fool Letoures would have dealt with her—in order to maintain the image of the man she and her masters expected to see.
A drunken, thieving, gambling womanizer.
“Do you they permit you to drink wine?” he asked her.
“I come from the deep desert, from the ancient tribes. Our religion is older and does not forbid it.”
“Well,” he said softly. “Allow me to pour you a glass.”
Nadira followed him into the salon. The water was still slick on his broad back, the starched linen knotted at his waist reminiscent of the pharaoh images painted on tomb walls in the desert, the color of the threaded braids around his wrists as faded as their ancient bracelets. Placing two of the goblets by the decanter, he poured a half measure of wine in each.
The Champion Page 2