The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she slowly scanned Javan like he was a prize pig she was thinking of butchering. “Maybe,” she said finally, her voice cold and quiet. “Looks a little soft, though.”
Javan’s chin rose, and he glared at her. He’d taken honors in every physical competition hosted at Milisatria with the exception of the disastrous fencing tournament in fifth year. He’d just buried the body of his mentor, ridden hard across the desert, tried to stop an impostor from taking the throne, and been thrown into Maqbara, where he was determined to either gain an audience with the king or escape, whichever came first.
He was anything but soft.
Her brow rose as if his thoughts had been written on his face. “You think I’m wrong?”
“Yes.” The word came out before he could think better of it.
For a second he imagined something like regret flashed across her face, and then she said in her eerily quiet voice, “I’m never wrong. You’ll either toughen up fast, or you’ll be meat.”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugged as if she couldn’t be bothered to explain herself, and stood silently next to him as the magistrate and his guards hurried across the arena and out of the prison, slamming the door shut behind them.
When the echo of the door’s closing died, she said, “Here’s the schedule. Breakfast is at first bell. Chores are at second, third, and fourth depending on which level your cell is on. Fifth bell is lunch. Arena practice is divided up between bells six through nine, again depending on your level. Dinner is at tenth bell, rec time is at eleventh, and lockdown is at twelfth. Prisoners will be locked in their cells between meals and tasks. There are six guards per level and all of them will beat you within an inch of your life if you disobey a single order. Tenth bell just rang. Kitchen is on the ninth level. Eat what you can grab. If someone steals it from you, you either take it back, or you don’t eat. If you steal food from someone else—”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Better not take it from someone stronger and faster than you.” She met his gaze, and he forced himself to stand his ground beneath the ferocity in her eyes. “I run the prison when the warden is busy. If you attack me—”
“I would never—”
“If you try, I will hurt you until you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel anything but pain. If you attack other prisoners, you’d better be certain they aren’t allied with those who are more vicious than you.”
“Miss . . . I’m sorry. I don’t remember what the magistrate called you.”
“Sajda.” She said it like it was a challenge she’d thrown in his face.
“I’m Javan.”
“I don’t care.”
“I can see that. I just . . . I wanted to tell you that I’m not dangerous. I’m not a criminal. I shouldn’t be here.” He put as much sincerity into his voice as he could, but her expression remained cold.
“Everyone says they shouldn’t be here. Only some of us are telling the truth.” She turned from him and motioned toward the stairs. “There’s an open cell on the fifteenth level. Don’t miss lockdown. Any prisoner who fails to answer roll call in his or her cell after lockdown will be hunted down and killed.”
“I suppose you do the hunting,” he muttered as he followed Sajda toward the stairs.
Her back stiffened. “The warden does the hunting. And if I were you, I’d do everything I possibly could to stay far, far away from her.”
He thought he might like to stay far, far away from Sajda as well, but that wasn’t an option yet. Not until he understood the way the prison worked and the people who lived in it.
As he climbed the narrow stone steps that led to the next level, he pressed his hand to his heart, feeling the soft brush of the red sash against his skin, and whispered a prayer that he would find a way out of Maqbara before it was too late for his father and for himself.
TEN
RAHIM’S BLOOD CHURNED as he entered the inner courtyard of the palace. So many years spent dreaming of this place—of the famed mosaic fountains and the lush beauty of the hanging gardens. Of the cool tiled halls, the gilt-edged domes, and the massive teakwood throne.
Most of all the throne.
It was unfortunate that Javan had survived his assassins in Loch Talam, but Fariq’s quick thinking had bolstered Rahim’s claim and silenced any doubt in the guards’ minds.
It was a story, though. A whisper that might linger in the air, drifting through the city until it found ears that would welcome it.
Aristocrats who could recognize the real Javan from their visits to Milisatria.
Loyalists who were already suspicious about the king’s extended absences and failing health.
Opportunists who would wonder if this was their moment to seize the throne instead.
As Rahim skirted the largest fountain and brushed past a hanging jasmine vine, he considered his options.
He could call in the aristocrats and have them thrown into Maqbara or killed, but that would be hard to explain to the king. There was no point in taking the risk yet. The families from Milisatria would have to die before Rahim made public appearances, of course, but for now, that could wait.
He could convince the FaSaa’il to get their allies to spy on the loyalists and report any rumors. That seemed the easiest and most productive course of action. Once he knew the rumors, he could figure out how to put a stop to them.
A path of white stone connected the courtyard to a wide veranda with thick, round pillars, scalloped ironwork, and an ornate door dipped in bronze. A small wooden altar for Mal’ Enish and an equally small stone altar for Eb’ Rezr held places of honor on the westward edge of the veranda but looked as though they were rarely used. Rahim supposed the king preferred Yl’ Haliq, who the stories said had first united the smaller nations across the land into one nation under the rule of the Kadar family, joining their diverse customs, teachings, and ideologies into one cohesive kingdom.
A servant dressed in the pale yellow of the palace house staff held the door open, her head bowed in deference.
Fariq stepped aside to allow Rahim to enter first. Rahim brushed past the man who’d fathered him without bothering to claim him as his own until it suited his ambition to do so and entered the palace. Colorful, hand-painted tiles edged in gold formed an enormous rosette on the floor in the circular entrance hall. Bouquets of waxy blooms from the palace garden were arranged in ruby urns and set in front of the six pillars that formed the edges of the hall. Diamonds dripped from a chandelier nearly the size of the royal carriage, and more jewels were inlaid around an altar for Yl’ Haliq that was set into the northern wall. There were no altars to the lesser gods in here.
He had to work to keep from staring at the opulence. Javan wouldn’t gawk at a diamond chandelier like it was his first time seeing a precious gem.