This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(47)

The boy hesitated then, the words dying in his mouth.

“I do hope,” he said, faltering a bit, “I do hope you see, miss, that this is my way of apologizing for my wrongdoing. My ma wouldn’t have been proud of me that morning, and I been thinking about it every day since. You can’t know how ashamed I am for trying to steal from you.”

Alizeh conjured a faint smile. “And for trying to murder me?”

At that Omid turned bright red; even the tips of his ears went scarlet. “Oh, miss, I weren’t going to murder you, I swear, I never would’ve done it. I was only”—he swallowed—“I only— I was so hungry, see, and I couldn’t think straight— It was like a demon had possessed me—”

Alizeh covered his freckled hand with her own bandaged one and squeezed gently. “It’s quite all right,” she said. “The demon is gone now. And I accept your apology.”

Omid looked up. “You do?”

“I do.”

“Just like that? No groveling or nothing?”

“No, no groveling necessary.” She laughed. “Though—may I ask you a rather impertinent question?”

“Anything, miss.”

“Well. Forgive me for how this sounds, for I mean no disrespect—but it strikes me as odd that the king’s men agreed to your request so readily. All of high society must be devouring itself for a chance at one of these invitations. I can’t imagine it was a small thing to offer you two.”

“Oh that’s true, miss, no doubt about it, but as I said, I’m pretty important now. They need me.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Pretty sure I’m meant to be there as a trophy,” he said. “Living proof, miss.”

Alizeh was surprised to discover that Omid’s tone did not project arrogance, but a quiet wisdom rare for his age.

“A trophy?” she said, realization dawning. “A trophy for the prince, you mean?”

“Yes, miss, exactly that.”

“But why would the prince require such a trophy? Is he not enough on his own?”

“I can’t say, miss. I only think I’m supposed to remind the people, you understand, of the merciful empire. To tell the tale of the heroic prince and the southern street rat.”

“I see.” Alizeh’s enthusiasm dimmed. “And was he?” she asked after a moment. “Heroic?”

“I can’t honestly say, miss.” Omid shrugged. “I was near-dead for the part where he saved my life.”

Alizeh went quiet then, laid low by the reminder that this vibrant, eager child had tried to take his own life. She was trying to think of what to say next, and faltered.

“Miss?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“It’s only—I just realized you never told me your name.”

“Oh.” She startled. “Yes. Of course.”

Alizeh had managed to live a long time without needing to supply her name to anyone. Even Mrs. Amina had never demanded to know—preferring instead to call her you and girl. But oh, what harm would it do if she told Omid her name now? Who was listening, anyway?

Quietly, she said, “I am Alizeh.”

“Alizeh,” said the boy, testing the shape of it in his mouth. “I th—”

“Enough.” Mrs. Amina snatched the sand timer from the table. “That is quite enough. Your fifteen minutes are up. Back to work, girl.”

Alizeh swiped the scroll with lightning speed, slipping it up her sleeve with the artistry of an experienced thief. She jumped to her feet and curtsied.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

She chanced a glance in Omid’s direction, offered him a barely perceptible nod, and was already darting into the hall when he shouted—

“Minda! Setunt tesh.” Tomorrow! Nine o’clock. “Manotan ani!” I’ll meet you there!

Mrs. Amina straightened, her arms pinned angrily to her sides. “Someone please escort this child outside. Now.”

Two footmen appeared in an instant, arms outstretched as if to manhandle the boy, but Omid was undaunted. He was smiling, clutching his scrolls to his chest and slipping out of reach when he said—

“Bep shayn aneti, eh? Wi nek snoda.” Wear something nice, okay? And no snoda.





Eighteen





KAMRAN TILTED HIS HEAD UP at the blue mosaic work of the war room, not merely to admire the geometric ingenuity executed upon the domed ceiling, but to exercise his tortured neck away from the stiff collar of his tunic.

The prince had been willing to don this shirt only because he’d been assured by his valet that it was made of pure silk—and silk, he’d assumed, would prove more comfortable than that of his other formal wear. Silk was purported to be a smooth and quiet textile, was it not?

How, then, to explain the atrocity he wore now?

Kamran could not understand why the blasted article was so crisp, or why it made so much noise when he moved.

His valet was clearly an idiot.

It had taken hours, but Kamran’s earlier anger had abated just long enough to carry him home. His frustrations still simmered at a low, constant heat, but when the haze of fury had lifted, Kamran looked about himself and decided the only way through this day was to focus on things he could control. He feared he might otherwise spend every minute staring angrily at the clock until he could be certain the girl was dead.