“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?”
Teren takes a deep breath. Ever since Prince Enzo’s death in the arena, since Giulietta officially took the throne, she has been pushing back against his original plans. It is as if she had lost interest in what he thought was her hatred for malfettos.
But he does not want to argue with his queen today. “We are cleansing the city of them. For every malfetto that dies, we’ll simply replace him with another, brought over from a different city. My men are already rounding up malfettos in other—”
“We are not cleansing the city of them,” Giulietta replies. “We are punishing them for their abomination, for bringing misfortune down on us. These malfettos still have families within the walls. And some of them are unhappy about what’s happening.” She nods in disdain at the tent flap. “The water in their troughs is filthy. It is only a matter of time before everyone in these camps falls ill. I want them to work themselves into submission, Teren. But I don’t want a rebellion.”
“But—”
Giulietta’s eyes harden. “Feed and water them, Master Santoro,” she commands.
Teren shakes his head, ashamed to be arguing with the Queen of Kenettra—someone so much purer than he. He lowers his eyes and bows his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. You’re absolutely right.”
Giulietta smooths the folds at her wrists. “Good.”
“Will you see me tonight?” he murmurs as she rises from the divan.
Giulietta casts him a casual glance. “If I want to see you tonight, I’ll send someone to fetch you.” She turns away and leaves the tent. The flap slaps closed behind her.
Teren keeps his head bowed and lets her go. Of course he lets her go. She is the queen. But a sinking feeling weighs down his heart.
What if I upset her, and she finds someone new?
The thought sends pain through his chest. Teren pushes the image out of his head and rises to grab his shirt. He can’t stay here—he has to move, to go somewhere and think. He dresses in his layers of armor. Then he steps out of the tent and nods to the guard stationed outside. The guard nods back, pretending not to know what happened between Teren and his queen.
“Round up my captains,” Teren says. “I’ll be at the temple. Have them meet me outside, so we can discuss today’s inspections.”
The guard bows immediately. Teren can tell he’s too afraid to stare into his pale blue irises for long. “Right away, sir.”
Temples to the gods are built against the wall at every mile, their entrances marked by looming stone pillars with wings carved against the ceiling. Teren heads for the nearest one on foot, ignoring the horse tied outside his tent. Mud splashes his white boots. When he reaches the temple, he makes his way up the steps and into the building’s cool recesses. The space is empty this early in the morning.