I fold my arms. “I have.”
“He is the most feared man in Merroutas. They say that every time he uncovers a traitor in his ranks, he skins that man alive and has the skin sewn into his cloak.”
As I imagine the scene, my skin prickles … not just from horror, but from fascination. A kindred soul, the whispers say. “What does that have to do with us?” I ask, raising my voice to drown out the whispers.
“Tomorrow morning, I am going to gain access to his estate to rob him of the prized diamond pin he always wears on his collar. If you can steal it before I can … then I will join you.” He gives me a mock bow that makes me blush. “I only work with the worthy. And I just want to make sure you understand the risks of this mission.”
Neither Violetta nor I am an expert thief. I can disguise us or make us invisible, but my powers are still imperfect. What if we are caught? I imagine us lashed to a pole, our skin stripped from our limbs.
It’s not worth it.
Magiano smiles at my expression. “You’re too afraid,” he says.
The whispers in my head stir, urging me on. The Night King controls ten thousand mercenaries. What wouldn’t you give for ten thousand mercenaries at your service? I shake my head—the whispers fade away, leaving me to ponder Magiano’s offer. This is one of his games. His famous tricks. Maybe even just a challenge for himself. I watch him carefully, searching for what the right answer should be. Can I actually get to the prize before Magiano runs away with it? I don’t know. Power and speed are two different things.
“I’m only giving you this chance, by the way,” Magiano says in a lighthearted tone, “because you helped me escape the Inquisition Tower.”
“How generous,” I quip.
Magiano just laughs again, a bright, tinkling sound, and extends a decorated hand. “A deal, then?”
I need him. I need my little army. Even Violetta touches my hand and nudges it toward him. So I only hesitate for one more second.
“A deal,” I reply, taking his hand.
“Good.” He nods. “Then you have my word.”
Teren Santoro
The outskirts of Estenzia, and a cool early morning. Along the wall that surrounds the city are dozens of dilapidated shelters of wood and stone, covered with mud from the evening rains. Malfettos wander between them.
Clusters of dirty white tents are scattered among the shelters. Inquisition guard points.
Teren Santoro lounges inside his personal tent on a long divan, looking on as Queen Giulietta dresses. His eyes wander up her back. She is exquisite today, as she is every day, wearing a brilliant blue riding dress with her dark locks piled high on her head. He watches as she carefully pins her curls back into place. Just moments ago, they had been loose, tumbling over her shoulders, brushing against his cheeks, soft as silk through his fingers.
“Are you running a full inspection of the malfetto camps this morning?” she asks. They are the first words she has said to him since she came to his tent.
Teren nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How are they doing?”
“Very well. Ever since we moved them outside the city, my men have put them to work in the fields and busied them with weaving. They’ve been very efficient—”
Giulietta turns so that he can see a profile of her face. She smiles at him. “No,” she interrupts. “I meant, how are they doing?”
Teren hesitates. “What do you mean?”
“When I rode through the tents this morning, I saw the malfettos’ faces. They’re gaunt and hollow-eyed. Have your men been feeding them as much as they’ve been working them?”
He frowns, then pushes himself to a seated position. The morning light shows the pale maze of scars on his chest. “They’re fed enough to keep them working,” he replies. “And no more than that. I’d rather not waste food on malfettos if I don’t have to.”
Giulietta leans toward him. One of her hands rests on his stomach, then runs up his chest to the hollow of his neck, leaving a trail of heat across his skin. Teren’s heart beats faster, and for a moment, he forgets what they were talking about. She brushes her lips past his. He leans into the kiss eagerly, bringing a hand up to the back of her slender neck, drawing her toward him.
Giulietta pulls away from him. Teren finds himself staring into her deep, dark eyes. “Starving slaves don’t make good slaves, Master Santoro,” she whispers, stroking his hair. “You aren’t feeding them enough.”
Teren blinks. Of everything she should be concerned about, she is asking about the welfare of her slaves? “But,” he starts, “they’re expendable, Giulietta.”
“Are they, now?”