The Wrath and the Dawn(79)

Tariq’s entire demeanor hardened. His mouth flattened into a line.

Oh, God. Please do better than that.

Then he relaxed and smiled at Khalid.

“Sayyidi.” He bowed low with a hand to his brow. “I am Tariq Imran al-Ziyad, son of Nasir al-Ziyad, Emir of Taleqan.”

Khalid returned a crisp nod. “I hope you enjoy your stay in the city.”

Tariq’s smile widened. “With such hospitality, sayyidi, I’m certain I will.”

? ? ?


Is he insane?

Shahrzad paced in the shadows on her balcony, her heart pounding in time with her steps.

The sliver of parchment in her hand was now mingled with the sweat from her palm. A dash of ink had managed to bleed onto her skin, making a black-and-blue mess of the whole thing. She unfurled the ruin once more to read the outlandish missive scrawled across its surface in Tariq’s bold script: Your balcony. When the moon is at its highest point in the night.

I’ll wait until dawn, if I must. Do not test me.

At least he’d had the sense not to sign it.

Utterly mad!

She crumpled it in her fist for the fifth time.

He was risking everything with his foolhardiness. With his arrogance. With his— “Shazi?” A form materialized in the darkness at the edge of the balcony.

“Come here,” she seethed.

Tariq glided closer, hunching low. Shahrzad grabbed him by the hood of his rida’ and hauled him against the deepest shade along the wall.

“Are you completely insane?” she demanded. “Do you realize how dangerous—”

Tariq pulled Shahrzad into his chest. “God, I’ve missed you.”

When Shahrzad tried to speak again, he pressed her face tight against him, laughing at her protests. “Just stop. For the space of a moment, let me hold you.”

“You are mad, Tariq Imran al-Ziyad. Utterly mad,” she grumbled, smacking his shoulder. “How did you even manage an invitation?”

He shrugged. “I intercepted the one sent to my father at Taleqan. Or, to be more precise, Rahim intercepted it.”

“You idiot! Coming here was beyond foolish, and—”

“Foolish though it may be, I am here to finish what you started.” Tariq ran his fingers through her hair. “Tell me how you plan to kill the boy-king.”

Shahrzad was oddly silent.

“Shazi?”

“I—” she hedged.

“Have you not made plans yet?”

Shahrzad pushed away from his chest, unwilling to give voice to her uncertainty.

“Fine. What have you learned?” he continued.

She frowned and glanced from the shadows to the stone railing beyond.

“Shahrzad. You’ve been here for weeks. What have you learned? What are the boy-king’s habits? His weaknesses?”

Tell him what you know.

“I—don’t know. He’s difficult to read.”

Why can’t I tell him?

“Difficult? He has the personality of an aging camel. Just as surly and just as useless.”

A strange pang cut through Shahrzad at this assessment. “What do you mean?”

“He picks at his food, lounges in sullen silence, and lets his wife fight his battles for him.”

“What? No. You misunderstood the situation.”

“Please tell me you’re not defending him. He barely acknowledged your presence the entire evening, except to parade you before everyone like a prize he had won . . . and then that irritating moment when he fidgeted with your jewelry. I could have done without that.”

“I’m not defending him. I’m saying that it’s—complicated.” Even through the layers of darkness, Shahrzad could see Tariq’s thick eyebrows gather at the bridge of his nose.

“Complicated? There’s nothing complicated about it. As far as I’m concerned, all I need is ready access to a weapon and a clear shot.”

No!

Shahrzad heard a sound in her room.

Her heart stopped. She pressed a hand to Tariq’s lips and shoved him into the shadows. Then she strode into her chamber, sighing with relief to find no one there.

Tariq was leaning against the wall when Shahrzad returned.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked in a cool tone.

“You have to leave.”

“Why?” There was a note of warning to his voice.