He jerked her like a rag doll, forcing her down in her chair. “Get a servant in here to clean her up,” he snarled at the guards. “Before the ambassadors arrive.”
Her face ached, and her skull burned where he’d torn out her hair, but Zarrah still struggled not to smile as he strode from the room, her wrists and ankles remaining unshackled. Your pride will be your downfall, she silently whispered, then sat still while a servant woman repaired her smeared cosmetics, several others hastily setting the table to rights.
They’d barely finished when more guards arrived with Maridrinian noblemen, and on their heels arrived the ambassadors from Harendell and Amarid, as well as several others she didn’t recognize.
“We were sorry to bring such disappointing news,” the Harendellian ambassador said to her as he took his place. “We’d hoped the Empress would see the merit of negotiation, but it seems the bad blood between your nations outweighs her affections.”
His words sent a lance of pain through her chest, but Zarrah only inclined her head. “She must make decisions that are for the good of Valcotta, not the good of her heart. Though I appreciate your efforts.”
“It is always the hope that one can avert war through one’s efforts,” he answered. “But I think there is no averting this one.”
“Maridrina and Valcotta have been at war for generations,” she said, eyes skipping down the table to where Coralyn was seating herself.
“Raids and skirmishes and blockades are not war, girl,” the ambassador said. “You aren’t old enough to have seen what happens when two nations matched in hatred truly collide. The skies will turn black from the ash of the dead.”
Unease flitted through Zarrah’s chest, but before she could answer him, Aren Kertell entered the room, all eyes going to him.
He took his usual seat at the end of the table, nodding and offering courtesies to Coralyn while his chains were secured. Zarrah couldn’t make out what the old woman said to him in response, but her face turned serious, and she pressed her hand against his. Zarrah’s heart skipped, then sped, because it was the first proof that this escape plot was real, not a trick on the harem’s part to get Zarrah to do their dirty work.
Her gaze skipped around the table, searching the faces of the unfamiliar men. She’d presumed them ambassadors or noblemen, but was it possible they were Ithicanians in disguise? Except even if they were armed, there weren’t enough of them to overwhelm the guards standing around the perimeter.
Silas stormed into the room, not surrounded by his wives, as was his custom, but very much alone. He barked, “Where are they? If you begin shirking your duties, your days of extravagance at the Sapphire Market will come to an end.”
Coralyn inclined her head. “The harem’s girls will be along shortly, husband. They’ve prepared a performance for you. Given the effort they’ve put into making it memorable, you might consider giving them your full attention when they arrive.”
Zarrah kept her face smooth even as she slipped the nail from her belt, placing it between the knuckles of her closed left fist. This was it. This was the moment, and she readied herself to strike when the Ithicanians exploded through the door. She’d only have a heartbeat before Silas got his weapon out, and she needed to make it count.
A glowering Silas flung himself into his chair, downing a glass of wine, oblivious to the fact death sat at arm’s reach.
“Your Grace,” the Amaridian ambassador said, “Have you had a chance to respond to my queen’s letter?”
“The letter demanding payment?” Silas snarled. “Perhaps you might explain to me why I should pay her anything, given that Amarid has failed to uphold its end of the bargain?”
The man’s ears turned red. “How so? You’ve had full access to our naval fleet for months.”
Zarrah only vaguely heard their argument, her ears trained on the closed doors, listening for the sound of running feet or fighting. For anything that would give her the ounce of warning she needed to leap to her feet and swing her spiked fist at Silas’s skull.
But there was nothing.
Servants stepped in, bearing the salad course, and Zarrah ate methodically, the food tasting like sawdust. Where were they? Where were the Ithicanians?
Perhaps they’d been caught.
Perhaps they’d never been coming at all.
Salad stuck in her throat, and she choked, needing to take several gulps of wine to ease her coughing.
“You all right, dear?” the Harendellian asked. “Do let me know if you need—”
The main door flung open, and Zarrah lurched upward. Only to freeze at the familiar sight of the harem’s musicians.
Two men pounding vigorously on drums, followed by another two shaking cymbals. Zarrah eased back into her seat as they circled the table, taking up positions on opposite sides of the room. They kept up the furious beat, then with a resounding thunder, went silent.
The guards’ eyes were on the open door, and Zarrah glanced down the table of men to see if this was the distraction, if this was the moment when Ithicana would strike, but all the men were watching the doorway with interest.
So she turned her head to see what they were gaping at.
Six harem wives had appeared. They were dressed in gossamer silks that concealed little of their bodies but most of their faces. The bells fastened to their wrists and ankles tinkled a soft music, but it was the drums of her own heart that filled Zarrah’s ears because she saw what the men did not. Her eyes flicked over the dancers’ bodies, seeing the hard muscles of their arms. Seeing the faint marks of scars on their skin, visible through the cosmetics that attempted to hide them. Seeing the vibrant azure of their eyes, the color sending adrenaline roaring through her veins.
None of the women were harem wives. But neither were they Ithicanian.
Zarrah held her breath, waiting for the men to see what she saw. For Silas to notice that none of these dancers were his wives.
No one said a word.
Because they saw only what Coralyn intended them to see. Curved breasts barely concealed by thin bodices, the rose hue of the women’s peaked nipples visible through the fabric, as was the apex of their thighs each time they passed before a lamp. The men gaped at the display of female flesh, the one man who should be able to identify them too busy glaring at Coralyn to see the truth.
It wasn’t wives circling the room; it was Silas Veliant’s daughters.