The Wrath and the Dawn(82)

He nodded. “A very nice evening. My daughter tells me she had a lovely conversation with you and was glad to have made your acquaintance.”

“I did enjoy my conversation with Yasmine, my lord. It was—enlightening.”

“I believe she used the very same word, my lady.”

“I find that rather appropriate, my lord. Given our exchange.”

“As silver-tongued as a viper.” He laughed. “Tell me, my lady, do you ever miss a moment to strike?”

Shahrzad smiled, and it was brilliant and biting, all at once. “I fear that would be unwise, my lord. Especially in a den of snakes.”

The sultan shook his head, his amusement too lasting to be real.

“You must visit us in Parthia, for our snakes have far less occasion to strike. Yasmine and I insist upon it. The next time Khalid comes to Amardha, you must join him so we can return your hospitality.”

“It would be an honor, my lord.” Shahrzad dipped her head, her fingertips grazing her brow.

The sultan turned back to the boy-king, a disconcerting gleam in his eye.

“Truly, nephew. She is a treasure. See that you keep her safe.” Only a fool would have missed the implied threat dripping from his every word.

Yet the weak boy-king said nothing—did nothing—even though Tariq longed to assail the bastard from Parthia with both fists. And an axe.

Silent men are the wisest?

Tariq fumed to himself and folded his arms across his chest.

The boy-king strode to Shahrzad. He stopped an arm’s length in front of her and, yet again, said nothing. He regarded her in silence with his strange orange-gold eyes. After a moment, he started to smile, and Shahrzad nodded once, almost indiscernibly.

The hollow in Tariq’s chest deepened further.

Shahrzad and the boy-king shared an understanding that did not require words.

The boy-king bowed low before his calipha, with a hand to his forehead. As he straightened, he shifted his palm over his heart and walked away. The group trailed behind him, paying their respects to Shahrzad as they passed. When Tariq paused before her, she averted her eyes, her cheeks pink and her fists clenched in the folds of her silver cloak.

It was in that instant Tariq remembered his uncle’s words the first night he and Rahim had arrived in Rey, covered in dust and exhausted from two days of hard traveling: The city is rife with speculation. Namely, that the caliph must be in love with his new bride.

Tariq quickened his pace as the assemblage gathered in the first portion of a multitiered garden full of flowering trees and an elaborate aviary of colorful songbirds.

The boy-king kept glancing over his shoulder at his palace as they descended into each subsequent tier.

Finally, Captain al-Khoury announced, in a voice far beyond the scope of normal conversation, “Sayyidi, I do believe you left something rather important in the Grand Portico.”

The boy-king narrowed his strange eyes at his cousin.

“Perhaps you should attend to it and join us later for the hunt.” Captain al-Khoury’s obnoxious grin grew even wider.

The boy-king glanced over his shoulder once more. Then he pivoted in a faultless motion, offering murmured apologies as he cut through the crowd.

Tariq knew, without a doubt, that he was on his way to Shahrzad. As did all the noblemen remaining. Their caliph had barely disappeared from view before the conversation turned raucous. The less scrupulous began taking bets as to how long it would be before Khorasan had a new heir to the throne.

The Sultan of Parthia listened with a ready ear . . . and a disparaging eye.

Tariq grinned—through waves of rage and torment. After a time, he could no longer abide it. He turned on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Captain al-Khoury asked.

Tariq thought quickly. “I left my mankalah in my chamber.”

“I believe we can find one for you.”

Tariq shook his head with an apologetic smile. “Zoraya is a temperamental bird—a creature of habit. Tell me where to meet you, and the guard can show me the way.”

Captain al-Khoury’s gaze darted across Tariq’s face. “The horses will be saddled and waiting at the promenade by the royal stables.”

Tariq nodded and motioned to a guard off to the side.

“Tariq Imran al-Ziyad?”

“Yes, Captain al-Khoury?”

“Is that particular mankalah really of such import?”

Tariq grinned, his silver eyes bright. “It is if I intend to win.”