Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands, #2)(40)

That was why I was still alive.

That was why he’d stopped the knife.

I was going to be kept in the harem. That was what the Sultan said. Kept. Not like a prisoner. More like an especially nicely crafted gun. Stored until I was needed again.

Other orders came with it as I was handed over to a servant woman in a khalat the colour of pale sand, her dark hair bound up in a sheema. Like she might have to worry about the desert sun in the shaded halls of the palace.

‘You will stay in the palace,’ he instructed calmly. I wanted to fight. But while my mind might be able to rebel against it, my body wouldn’t be able to. ‘You won’t set foot beyond the walls of the harem without permission from a member of the palace.’ He understood Demdji too well. He chose his words carefully. Don’t leave the harem. Not, Don’t try to escape. Trying and succeeding were two different things to a Demdji.

I spared a glance down the steps as the Sultan ordered me back up. Towards Bahadur. My father – though the word felt unnatural. He watched us go from where he sat inside the small circle. Darkness folded around him as our lamp retreated but I could still see him long after I ought to have been able to. Like he still burned with his own fire, even in human form. He was a thousandfold more powerful than I was. He had lived countless lives before I was even born. But he was as trapped as I was here. What hope did I have of getting out if he couldn’t?

‘And you will not harm any person here. Or yourself.’ He worried that I’d kill myself. That I’d try to slip through his grip into nothingness. I didn’t want to know what he had planned for me that was so bad that killing myself might be better. ‘But if any harm comes to me – if I die – you will walk up to the highest tower in this palace and throw yourself off it.’ If he died, I died.

A dozen other orders took root inside my bones as I was led through more polished marble hallways by the woman dressed in the colour of false sand. My legs obeyed the Sultan’s last orders. ‘Go with her. Do what she says.’

We passed under a low stone archway. I could just make out figures of dancing women twined together carved into the stone. I felt steam in the air before we’d gone much further, the cloying scent of flowers and spices already winding their way to my body. As easy to get drunk on as liquor when you’d been in the dried-out desert for too long.

We emerged into the most immense baths I’d ever seen. The room was tiled in iridescent blues and pinks and yellows in wild, hypnotic mosaic patterns from floor to ceiling. The steam climbing from the heated pools gave everything a slick sheen, from the walls to the girls.

And there were a lot of girls.

I’d heard stories about the Sultan’s harem, where women were kept for the pleasure of the Sultan and the Sultim. And to breed future princes to fight for the throne, and princesses to be sold for political alliances. Here they were, running soap in long languid circles across their bare shoulders or floating at the edge of the water, eyes closed as attendants ran oils through their hair. A few lay on the nearby beds, long limbs being kneaded by clever hands as they dozed.

The attendant started to undress me without speaking, undoing the tiny clasps at the front of Shazad’s khalat as I stared. I let her.

And then I spied the man. He looked like a fox in the henhouse. And a hungry one, too. He lounged on a bed, propped up by a stack of pillows, stripped to the waist. Probably a year or two my senior, he looked like something hewn out of stone, with heavy square features without a single graceful subtlety to offset them. He ought to have been handsome, but there was a nastiness to the tilt of his mouth that meant he’d never be.

Three impossibly pretty Mirajin girls were draped around him, wrapped in nothing but long linen sheets, long dark hair hanging in thick wet waves around their bare shoulders. One of them sat at his feet, trailing her legs lazily in the steaming water, leaning into the knee of a slighter girl who was folded into his side. The last one lay with her head in his lap, eyes shut as he trailed his fingers through her hair absently, pouty lips pressed into a contented smile.

His attention wasn’t on any of them, though – it was fixed on two girls standing across from him, both bare as the day they were born, being inspected inch by inch by an attendant. Like the servants were looking for any flaw that might keep these girls from being admitted into this world of perfect, beautiful women. I recognised them, I realised as the attendant peeled away my khalat and wrapped me in a plain linen sheet, though it took my tired mind a moment to place them. They’d been on the ship with me, brought by the slavers to be offered to the harem.

What had happened to the girls not chosen for the harem? Had they been sold to other men in less prestigious houses? Or were the rumours true – that slavers drowned any girl rejected by the Sultan’s harem?

As if she sensed me staring, the small girl pressed into his side looked my way. Something passed over her face as she leaned in to whisper to the girl lounging across the man’s lap. The girl with the pretty pout. Her eyes snapped open, focusing on me so quickly it was plain as day she’d only been pretending to sleep. She pursed her full mouth pensively as she twisted so that she could whisper something to the other two. The laugh that followed bounced off the tiles around me.

It drew the man’s attention my way.

‘You’re new,’ he addressed me as the girls pretended to try to hide their smiles. I hated his voice instantly. It stuck to his words like it was tasting them, and in turn they seemed to cling to my skin.