The Windward King, page 10
“. . . legitimate question,” came Malothi’s voice. “How do you intend to find him when we cannot admit he’s missing?”
Tishel’s pacing ceased. “As I said, I have ideas, but first, I would like to include a few others in—”
“Absolutely not.”
Shara pictured Tishel collecting herself. “With respect, this search is going to be difficult as it is. With additional—”
“No.” Malothi’s regret crept through the panelling. “I’m sorry, Captain, but the risk is too great. Lord Aman’s presence has already complicated matters.”
“Lord Aman is not a soldier, nor in a position to do anything to find Iliath,” Tishel responded stiffly.
Shara glanced at Korith, but neither his expression nor his posture changed.
“If I might?” Gepar’s chair creaked over his voice. “As was mentioned, replacing Iliath will have interrupted the kidnapper’s plans. I suggest we wait a day before attempting any search in order to give the kidnapper time to react and, perhaps, to make a mistake out of surprise. This will also give our esteemed Captain time to better orchestrate a search.”
In the ringing silence that followed, Korith’s hand strayed to his throat and dragged on the silver chain. “Nothing.” His voice could have melted iron. “He wants to do nothing.”
In this opinion, Tishel and her brother were alike. “Someone overpowers and kills two of my guards, abducts the prince regent, and leaves us with a woefully inadequate replacement, and you wish to do nothing. Forgive me, Lord Gepar, but if I didn’t—”
“I hope, Captain, you don’t intend to accuse me, a noble of the court, of sympathy with our prince’s kidnappers—or worse.”
Tishel coughed. “I merely—”
“Enough,” Malothi interjected. “We have a young, uneducated, frightened alvithi disguised as Prince Iliath, the true prince to find, a Tethamari delegation arriving any day, and a coronation to manage. This is not the time for division.”
But Gepar hadn’t finished. “Iliath was abducted, not murdered. That suggests the kidnappers want something. It may be they hoped to stop the coronation or influence it somehow. If we wait even briefly, we might entice them to make their demands clear.”
A whirl of brown, and the panelling nearly crushed Shara’s fingers—Korith had apparently heard all he could take. Face twisted in disgust, he replaced the painting with a sort of savage silence before spinning and striding from the room. He didn’t speak for several hallways except to growl “Nothing.”
“Korith? Lord Aman?” What would Iliath call Korith? That had probably been somewhere in the lecture this morning, along with what to do when your painfully optimistic cave-brother had his scales raked the wrong way.
Korith grew more coherent, if not more cheerful, the further they walked. “Nothing” became “This is unacceptable” and “What if the kidnapper retaliates?” He punctuated all of his complaints with cane thwacks against the walls.
Outside a large room filled with padded chairs and beautiful paintings stood a man who must have been Lieutenant Mereth.
“Your Highness.” He bowed and smiled broadly.
Shara tried not to stare at the man’s unexpected cheer. Why couldn’t Mereth have been captain of the guard?
“The tailor should arrive shortly.” Korith rammed his hands into his coat pockets and flapped its skirt restlessly. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, I need to—” He bit off the rest, his eyes roving the walls frantically like he might find the remaining words engraved in the stone.
And before Shara could question or protest or even think, Korith bowed stiffly and stalked off down the hall, muttering to himself—and leaving Shara alone.
Chapter 16
Sailor’s Blood
Even after Korith’s disappearance, the garment fitting might not have been so bad—but then the nobles started arriving.
Exactly what appeal there was to standing around a room drinking and gossiping and watching someone else have a robe hemmed, Shara couldn’t fathom. Yet within minutes, men and women dressed in finery began filtering into the parlor. A servant announced their names as they passed, and Shara paid as much attention as he could while standing before a mirror and sweating in four layers of beautifully crafted coronation garments.
Na Fanshe, the tailor, seemed to feed on the room’s simmering energy. She practically danced around him, making small adjustments here and there, bouncing on the balls of her feet, and raising her hands in silent applause every time she paused to examine the effect.
“Lovely. Oh, excellent.” She pinched Shara’s collar and beamed. “Eleth?”
Her young apprentice handed her a little ball of pins, and she bounded around Shara’s back. With all that movement, she might accidentally stab him, and then he wouldn’t have to greet every noble who came gliding past. And he could ignore Lady Pareth, who’d settled at a nearby table and kept trying to catch his eye.
His coat rustled, and he seized on the distraction and glanced down at Eleth. “How are you liking your apprenticeship?”
Eleth started. “Very much, Your Highness,” he answered, wobbling into a bow. “Na Fanshe is very knowledgeable.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And see it.” He flicked a hand enough to indicate the garments without disturbing their careful placement. He’d learned enough from his parents to recognize skill. “You both do beautiful work.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Eleth sank into a crouch at Shara’s hem, ears red.
“He has quite a natural talent,” Fanshe’s cheerful voice said from behind Shara. “Even Lord Verta had no complaints about his work.”
Perhaps Lord Verta was related to Tishel. Or Gepar. Korith could have told him, but—his hands balled into fists—Korith had abandoned him.
Another pack of nobles drifted past, offering more greetings and compliments and exclamations of eager anticipation for the coronation. Along the eastern wall, a small group argued economics. Korith’s friend Lady Bethen sat in a secluded corner, poring over a book with another young woman.
No one seemed interested in having a real conversation with Iliath, which struck him as both an immense relief and unusual. And sad. Did the prince not have any friends?
He was casting about for something else to say to Eleth and Fanshe, mostly to avoid Lady Pareth, when a man came breezing through the doors.
The servant cleared his throat, eyes a bit wide. “Lord—”
“Yes, yes, he knows who I am.”
The room froze, and the hairs on the back of Shara’s neck stood on end. Every eye followed Lord Whoever-He-Was as he prowled across the hall, all grace and beauty and power. No one greeted him, and his eyes never left Shara—bright, hungry eyes that gauged the distance between them as though the man were preparing to leap and bring him down in a single bound.
If neeka could shapeshift . . . Throat closing, Shara sucked in a breath through his nose and buried the thought. Just another noble. Another arrogant, deadly hunter, and he’d known plenty of those.
But that thought brought no comfort, especially when the man sprawled into a chair beside the mirror, tossed one leg over the other, and lounged back without greeting or bow.
Like wind hissing through grass, the nobles fell into a whispering hush. Their gazes burned into Shara. Waiting.
Not daring to speak, he dipped his head politely. The newcomer’s eyes glinted, and when he returned the gesture, it was not a bow but the patronizing nod of someone acknowledging a subordinate’s deference. Familiar humiliation scorched through Shara’s body, and he jerked his gaze to the mirror, cursing himself. He’d misjudged the man—this was a predator who liked to play with his food.
He’d known plenty of those, too.
A servant hastened to the man’s side and bowed. “May I fetch you anything, my lord?”
Eyes still on Shara, he bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Sailor’s Blood.”
Shara twitched, and the man’s sneer widened. Like he knew Shara was teveth, knew—
His stomach lurched. The man couldn’t possibly know the truth.
Unless he was the kidnapper.
Fanshe sidled into Shara’s view, more subdued. “Would you like us to leave you, Your—”
“No.” The word tumbled out too quickly, but he didn’t care. He had no desire to be alone with that man, especially surrounded by an audience. “Please continue.”
A true professional, Fanshe did not acknowledge the waver in his voice, only flapped a hand at Eleth. The boy stared at the noble a moment more before resuming his work on Shara’s hem, but his eyes kept darting to the chair.
Shara couldn’t blame him, especially when the servant returned with a glass of something nearly black. The man raised it in toast and swirled it methodically before taking a long, slow sip.
Icy fingers twisted around Shara’s spine. His vision darkened, and his body throbbed as it fought uselessly to shift despite the binding magic. Iliath stared out from the mirror like a desperate prisoner, eyes too wide, breaths too quick. Korith would have scolded him, but Korith—
Shara bit that thought off before it could sting him worse, but at least the sharp prick of betrayal was enough to distract him from his mounting fear. He drew a long breath, and the battle in his limbs subsided.
Eleth’s white head bobbed into view. Clearing his throat, the boy rolled his shoulders back and held up two scarves. In a voice that suggested he’d been practicing for this moment, he asked, “Does His Highness prefer the blue or the gold?”
In a blink, Shara forgot the noble. Was this a riddle? He could recognize weaving skill, but he knew nothing about Barathi fashion. More to the point, both scarves looked black, identical but for a gentle sheen when the sunlight hit them just right.
As he squinted and tried to look thoughtful, Fanshe settled a hand on Eleth’s shoulder. “I do apologize, my prince, that I was unable to acquire the trim for the scarf. It seems another dispute over shipping rights has arisen around Pannel, though I’m certain my prince has heard already.”
“Oh, uh . . . yes.”
Did Barathi squabble over everything? Not that his people were much better, boasting over who had the biggest catch, who could fly the furthest, who had the most toresh.
“A shame, that,” said the stranger, his cultured voice as silken as the fabrics. He pushed himself lazily from the chair and strolled toward Shara, wine sloshing against the sides of his glass. “But of course our young prince is well aware of the complexities of trade.”
Shara didn’t have time to be insulted by a jab he didn’t understand. He forced his attention back to the scarves and was about to choose one arbitrarily when the man snatched them from Eleth’s hands.
“Give those—” The demand lodged in Shara’s throat as the man’s eyes snapped to his.
“Yes?” the noble purred. He thrust his wine glass at Fanshe and made a show of comparing the scarves while Eleth backed helplessly away.
Throat full of fur, Shara wrestled down another painful urge to shift, trembling with fear and anger. Korith’s bright voice rang in his mind, telling him to speak, to act. But what was he supposed to do, a teveth in a prince’s body? Even if he challenged the man, he was nobody, and he had a horrible feeling that this man could tell, and all those nobles were watching . . .
His gaze jumped to Eleth, and something kicked in his stomach.
A hiss of fabric. Still twirling the scarves, the man prowled a slow circle around Shara, trailing the bite of sea air, the bitter sweetness of wine, a hint of sulfur. The nobles fell silent again, and Lieutenant Mereth crossed the room, no longer smiling.
Do something! But what? Alanthas would coolly stand his ground. Rathen and Lethir would challenge. Korith would say something lighthearted to smooth everyone’s scales. And Iliath . . .
Shara had no idea.
Then the man was before him again with those mocking green eyes and that malicious smile. He draped the gold scarf over his own neck and held up the blue one like a garrote. “This one, wouldn’t you say, my prince?”
With frightening delicacy, he settled it around Shara’s neck, fingers crawling like industrious spiders as they smoothed its folds. Shara held his breath, waiting—for a cutting taunt, a whispered threat, a tightened knot.
But the man drew back and rested his chin in his hand, surveying Shara like his next meal. “Splendid.”
And without another word, he turned and sauntered from the room.
Chapter 17
The King’s Tears
Shara fled from the garment fitting with every intention of collapsing on Iliath’s bed and sleeping forever—but his rooms were already occupied.
He froze just inside the office. Behind the closed study door ahead, shuffling footsteps halted abruptly.
Silence.
Drawing a soundless breath, he crept forward, ears straining. A soft rustle of fabric cut off abruptly in a faint hiss. Then silence again. Whoever was inside must have realized there was no escape.
The thought threw him forward and through the door with almost physical force. If he caught the kidnapper, if he found Iliath, he could give all this up and—
“Korith?”
He staggered to a halt and almost laughed with relief, but relief wouldn’t come. A guarded expression shadowed Korith’s face, and his body quivered in the unbalanced posture of someone who’d frozen midstep. Something white hung from his fist.
Shara’s eyes went wide. “Is that . . . ?”
The piece of poison-soaked cloth Shara had pulled from the fire last night.
This time, the panicked urge to shift was too much. Pain seared through his limbs, and the cuff seemed to burn around his ankle as the world spiralled into darkness. He pitched sideways, tried to catch himself on a chair, and dragged it down with him. It cracked against his skull, throwing white stars over his vision while he strained for the cuff.
“Shara!”
Heavy footsteps, then a thud. Korith seized his foot and twisted it, and before Shara could summon the energy to fight, a metallic click tapped at his ears.
The cuff fell away and the pain vanished, and Shara’s true form erupted all at once. With a strangled shout, Korith bolted for the door. Shara flailed for his leg as he passed, but rather than flee, Korith slammed the door shut and spun to lean heavily against it. Cautiously, as if afraid of startling a wild animal, he lifted a hand. “Shara.”
Panting, Shara braced himself against the chair and shoved himself standing. He flexed his claws, revelling in the sensation until he remembered why he’d hit the floor in the first place. If Korith was involved in this . . .
“What are you doing here?”
Korith’s expression closed, and his hand tightened around the fabric. From beyond the window, laughter filtered into the room like a bright but useless assault on an army of suspicion and fear. Neither of them moved.
“Look,” Korith sighed at last, pushing himself cautiously from the door and moving to close the window shutters. “I owe you an apology. Several. And an explanation.”
“Explanation first.”
“All right. But first, can you not look like you’re going to eat me?”
Shara scoffed. “This is how I really look, you know. And we don’t eat humans.”
“Well, you look like you might. And are those tree branches growing out of your head?”
“They’re horns.”
“Are you sure? Because they have leaves and—”
“I could stab you with one if you’d like to find out.”
“All right, all right.” A glimmer of his familiar amusement shone through now. “Keep your hair on. Or”—he flapped a hand—“your horns, I suppose.”
Too exhausted, irritable, and unnerved to care what that was supposed to mean, Shara shot him a hard look and shifted himself bald.
Korith pitched forward, clutching his stomach and dissolving into sputtering laughter. Despite himself, Shara grinned, and some of the tension faded from his limbs as his hair regrew. But he didn’t shed his form, and when Korith finally emerged from his snickering cocoon, it was all Shara could do to keep his breathing steady.
“Explanation?”
“Explanation, right.” With a final, breathy laugh, Korith lowered himself into one of the chairs by the fireplace. He set a key, the fabric, and a few scraps of burnt paper on the table, then drummed his fingers restlessly against it. With every beat, the stifling air grew warmer and Shara grew colder, until—
“I’m a spy.”
A spy.
For several heartbeats, he didn’t know what to say or even think.
Korith, a spy.
“For the Tethamari?”
“Wha—? No, fur-brain. For Iliath.”
Shara’s knees gave way, and he sagged against the wall and slid to the floor, lightheaded. Korith wasn’t a traitor. Shara’s only friend . . .
Leaning forward, Korith rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about King Isith, but there’s merit to the complaints that he wasn’t particularly interested in what was going on beyond his own shore. Iliath wanted to be better informed. A few years ago, he secretly assembled a small group of people to gather information for him about, well, everything. Tethamari and Barathi affairs, the pirate fleet up near Delgar, Kana Faresh, the crime syndicate operating out of Shor Sprinta . . .” He reached into his shirt and drew out the silver chain, from which hung a tear-shaped pendant. “There’s a legend that an ancient Barathi monarch called his inner circle the King’s Tears, because they were the only people he trusted to see his true emotions.”
Shara recalled how none of the nobles at the garment fitting had seemed at all close to Iliath. “And he chose you.”
“Well.” Korith seized his cane and twirled it. “In a way, I’d been doing it on my own for years. Talking. Listening. Sitting in taverns pretending I was a spoiled, lazy—don’t give me that look, furball.” He smirked. “Anyway, it turned out several Tears had already been getting information from me, and about a year ago, Iliath formally invited me to join them.” He puffed with pride, though the quick duck of his head and the flush of color over his cheeks suggested how truly humbled he was. “Told you I was good at gossip.”
