This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(12)

“I grow tired of this conversation,” the prince said curtly. “Do assist me in welcoming its swift conclusion and tell me what it is you require. I must be on my way.”

Hazan hesitated. “Yes, sire, of course, but— Do you not wish to know what has become of the child?”

“What child?”

“The boy, of course. The one whose blood stains your hands even now.”

Kamran stiffened, his anger sparking suddenly back to life. It took little, he realized, to rekindle a fire that only dulled, but never died. “I would not.”

“But it might comfort you to know that he is not yet dead.”

“Comfort me?”

“You seem distressed, Your Highness, and I—”

Kamran took a step forward, his eyes flashing. He studied Hazan closely: the broken slope of his nose, his cropped ash-blond hair. Hazan’s skin was so densely freckled one could scarcely see his eyebrows; he’d been bullied mercilessly as a child for what seemed a myriad of reasons, tragic in all ways save one: it was Hazan’s suffering that had conjured their first introduction. The day Kamran defended the illegitimate child of a courtier was the same day that nobby-kneed child pledged fealty to the young prince.

Even then, Kamran had tried to look away. He’d tried valiantly to ignore the affairs deemed beneath him, but he could not manage it.

He could not manage it still.

“You forget yourself, minister,” Kamran said softly. “I would encourage you now to get to your point.”

Hazan bowed his head. “Your grandfather is waiting to see you. You are expected in his rooms at once.”

Kamran briefly froze, his eyes closing. “I see. You were not exaggerating your frustration, then.”

“No, sire.”

Kamran opened his eyes. In the distance, a kaleidoscope of colors bedimmed, then brightened. Soft murmurs of conversation carried over to him, the gentle footfalls of scurrying servants, a blur of snodas. He’d never paid much attention to it; the centuries-old uniform. Now every time he saw one he would think of that accursed servant girl. Spy. He nearly snapped his neck just to clear the thought. “What, pray, does the king want from me?”

Hazan prevaricated. “Now that your people know you are home, I expect he will ask you to do your duty.”

“Which is?”

“To host a ball.”

“Indeed.” Kamran’s jaw clenched. “I’m certain I would rather set myself on fire. If that is all?”

“He’s quite serious, Your Highness. I’ve heard rumors that the announcement for a ball has already been—”

“Good. You will take this”—Kamran retrieved the handkerchief from his jacket, pinching it between thumb and forefinger—“and have it examined.”

Hazan quickly pocketed the white handkerchief. “Shall I have it examined for anything in particular, Your Highness?”

“Blood.”

At Hazan’s blank look, the prince went on: “It belonged to the servant girl whose neck was nearly slit by the Fesht boy. I think she might be Jinn.”

Now Hazan frowned. “I see.”

“I fear you do not.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but in what way does her blood concern us? As you know, the Fire Accords give Jinn the right to w—”

“I am well acquainted with our laws, Hazan. My concern is not merely with her blood, but with her character.”

Hazan raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t trust her,” Kamran said sharply.

“Need you trust her, sire?”

“There’s something false about the girl. She was too refined in her manners.”

“Ah.” Hazan’s eyebrows lifted higher, comprehension dawning. “And in light of all our recent friendliness from Tulan—”

“I want to know who she is.”

“You think her a spy.”

It was the way he said it, as if he thought Kamran delusional, that soured the prince’s expression. “You did not see her the way I did, Hazan. She disarmed the boy in a single motion. Dislocated his shoulder. You know as well as I do how the Tulanians covet the Jinn for their strength and fleet-footedness.”

“Indeed,” Hazan said carefully. “Though I should remind you, sire, that the child she disarmed was weak from hunger to the point of death. His bones might’ve been unhinged by a strong gust of wind. An ailing rat might’ve bested him.”

“Just the same. You will have her found out.”

“The servant girl.”

“Yes, the servant girl,” Kamran said irritably. “She fled the scene when she saw me. She looked at me as if she knew me.”

“Forgive me, sire—but I thought you could not see her face?”

Kamran took a sharp breath. “Perhaps you will thank me, minister, for employing you with such a task? Unless, of course, you would rather I seek your replacement.”

Hazan’s lips twitched; he bowed. “It is a pleasure, as always, to be at your service.”

“You will tell the king I must bathe before our meeting.”

“But, sire—”

Kamran strode away, his retreating footfalls ringing out once more through the cavernous hall. His anger had again begun to percolate, bringing with it a humidity that seemed to fog his vision, dim the sounds around him.