While it was obvious Salim Ali el-Sharif had a preference for opulence.
Give me poetry any day.
Despite everything, Shahrzad almost smiled to herself at the thought.
The guards led Shahrzad down several more lavish hallways toward a set of beautifully carved doors as wide and as tall as any Shahrzad had ever seen. Of course, just as she’d come to expect in less than a day, the doors were coated in a layer of liquid gold, with handles of solid sapphire the size of her fist. Two guards pushed them open, and she followed the crush of soldiers down a series of polished sandstone steps into a cavernous room of pale pink granite veined with deep threads of burgundy. A single long table stretched through its center, lit by lengthy tapers perfumed in rose water and myrrh. The tablecloth looked to be spun from the finest spider-silk, gleaming lustrous in the warm light cast from the tapers’ glow.
Because the room could undoubtedly use more gold.
As far as the eye could see, Shahrzad took in an altogether unnecessary display of opulence. Even the scent of the tapers cloyed at the back of her throat, for it was overwrought. Overdone.
Overmuch.
Shahrzad was the first to arrive.
Again, she was certain this was no accident.
A guard directed her to a richly appointed cushion of darkest blue near the center. While none of the soldiers were outright rude to her, she did notice a certain sort of amusement ripple through the throng when the one nearest to Shahrzad—a young man with a scar slanted across his nose—leered down at her chest as she bent to take a seat.
Shahrzad gazed up at him, fire in her eyes. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me in such a manner?” she said, her snappish voice bounding through the cavernous hall. “Have you a death wish, or are you merely as senseless as you look?”
He dipped his head in a terse bow, his jaw taut.
“That is not an answer, you insolent fool. And it barely constitutes a bow,” she continued, determined to make a point of this interaction.
Shahrzad could not let any man in this cursed city treat her poorly. Even for a moment. For if they saw even a trace of weakness in her, it would be her undoing.
A wave of laughter filled the air at her back.
Shahrzad’s body froze at the sound of it.
Salim.
“Just as silver-tongued as ever, my lady.” He clapped his hands as though he meant to applaud her. The sound rang in her ears, sharp and crackling.
Shahrzad did not turn around. Would not dare give him the satisfaction. Instead she faced forward and put on a show of affecting a lighthearted expression.
“Your soldiers could stand to learn a lesson in respect, my lord.” Shahrzad grinned as the Sultan of Parthia came into view.
Salim returned her strident greeting by bowing with a flourish. “And I suppose you intend to give it to them?” He braced a hand on the gleaming hilt of his scimitar.
A hand meant to remind Shahrzad of her position.
“Well, someone should.” She grazed her fingertips across her forehead as she emulated his mocking obeisance.
Jahandar al-Khayzuran followed the sultan, dressed in his silken finery, palms folded before him, his expression warring between pensive and perturbed.
Either her father did not know she and Salim had already established a troubling rapport or he was laboring to conceal the knowledge. Shahrzad refrained from meeting her father’s gaze. The betrayal was still too fresh. And she did not want Salim to know how at odds they were.
How hurt she was by her father’s treachery.
Salim moved to sit across from Shahrzad, a tranquil elegance to each of his movements. His heavily embroidered mantle and his beautifully tailored garments were just as overwrought as his palace. Like a simpering cat recently fed on the richest cream, Salim smiled at Shahrzad, his perfect mustache sloping above his wolfish teeth.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit us in Amardha, Shahrzad-jan. It’s been long overdue.”
“Visit?” Shahrzad peaked a brow. “That’s a rather interesting choice of words.”
Salim lounged, his elbow against the sapphire cushion to his left. “Surely you prefer it here to that tribal outpost you’ve been forced to bide your time in for the past few weeks.”
“I couldn’t say. My doors were never locked in that tribal outpost.”
“Indeed.” He aimed another spurious grin her way. “Do tents have doors?”
“Indeed they do not. But at least I had the pleasure of my sister’s company there. I don’t suppose you’d care to—”