“Twenty-three, Majesty.”
“Are they all Cadarese?”
“All but two, Majesty. Those two are Mort, gifts from the Ageless Queen.”
“What are the ages of these wives?”
The ambassador looked away and cleared his throat. “I am not sure, Majesty.”
“I see.” Kelsea wanted to kick herself. She should have seen it coming. Mace had told her that the Cadarese were isolationists, that their assistance would come with heavy strings. But she didn’t think that even Mace had foreseen such an offer. She scrambled to think of a counterproposal. “What is the value of being the first wife?”
“You sit immediately beside the master at table. You have first pick of all gifts delivered to the palace. Once you have produced a healthy son, you have the right to refuse the master’s attentions if you wish.”
Coryn had begun tapping his fingers on his sword. Elston appeared to be thinking of creative ways to disembowel the ambassador, and Kibb placed a warning hand on his shoulder. But Mace … Kelsea was glad that Kattan could not see Mace’s expression, for there was murder there.
“What of an alliance without marriage?”
“My master is not interested in such an alliance.”
“Why not?”
“The King of Cadare cannot have an alliance on an equal footing with a woman. Marriage ensures that Your Majesty is seen to submit her will to my master in all things.”
Mace moved in sharply, blocking off Kelsea’s right side. She blinked in surprise, for she had sensed no threat from the ambassador or his guards. It took a few moments for her to see it: Mace had actually moved to protect the ambassador. Some of Kelsea’s anger ebbed away then; she smiled at Mace, and felt a rush of affection when he smiled back.
Turning back to Kattan, she asked, “Would your master expect to share my throne?”
“It is difficult for one man to govern two kingdoms, Majesty. Rather, my master would appoint a”—Kattan paused for a moment, searching for language—“castellan, yes? A castellan, to oversee your throne on his behalf.”
“And I would live in Cadare?”
“Yes, Majesty, with my master’s other wives.”
Elston had begun to crack his knuckles now, slowly and obtrusively, one at a time. Kattan, clearly sensing the thin ice beneath him, did not elaborate on the further joys of living in the King’s harem, but merely waited silently for Kelsea’s response.
“This is the only offer you bring?”
“My master has not empowered me to make any other offer, Majesty.”
Kelsea smiled gently. If she were the ruler Carlin had been trying to train, she might have taken Kattan’s deal, distasteful as it was. But she could not. An entire life seemed to flash before her eyes, the life of a Cadarese concubine outlined clearly, before she pushed the thought out of her head. If it would save the Tearling, she would gladly give up her own life, stick a knife in her heart tomorrow. But this … she could not.
“I refuse.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Kattan looked up, his black eyes twinkling with sudden amusement. “I cannot say that I am surprised.”
“Why not?”
“We have heard all about Your Majesty, even in Cadare. You have a will.”
“Then why offer?”
“It is my job, Majesty, to carry the master’s wishes and offers. Incidentally, this offer will remain open until my master withdraws it.” The ambassador leaned a few inches closer, lowering his voice. “But for your sake, I am glad that you do not accept. You are not such a woman, to be content in my master’s harim.”
Kelsea met his smiling eyes and felt her mouth twitch back. She found him attractive, she realized … attractive in a way that only the Fetch had been before. It was a wonderful feeling, almost like freedom. “Will you be staying with us long, Lord Ambassador?”
“Sadly, Majesty, I am to report back to my master as soon as negotiations are concluded. We will beg your hospitality for one night only.”
“A pity.” But Kelsea knew it was probably for the best. She already spent far too much time thinking about the Fetch, and another handsome man would only be a further distraction. Deep in her mind, a small voice rose in protest: would she never deserve any pleasure for herself? But Kelsea smothered it easily. Whenever she needed a cautionary tale, her mother was always there, waiting in the back of her mind.
Mace cleared his throat, reminding Kelsea of her duties as a hostess: Cadarese hospitality had well-defined rules, and they would expect to share at least one meal with her before they left.
“Well, gentlemen, we have—” Kelsea began, but she got no further, for the doors at the other end of the throne room suddenly exploded in commotion.
Kelsea’s guards drew in tight. Her memory doubled back to that terrible day of her crowning, and the muscles of her shoulder tensed automatically, bunching up beneath her scar. Something was happening at the doors; a group of Queen’s Guards and Tear army had coalesced into a huddle. Several men shouted to be heard.
“What is it?” Mace called across the room.
No one answered him. An argument was clearly going on, army men bickering with the Guard. But finally a group won through, two men hauling a third between them. They approached the throne slowly, haltingly, followed closely by soldiers and guards.
“Good Christ,” Mace muttered. Kelsea, whose eyesight was not good, had to wait a few moments, but as the three men came closer, her mouth dropped open.
On the left was her Jailor, Ewen, his open, friendly face now scuffed with bruises, one eye swollen shut. On the right was Javel, the prisoner from the Argive. His wrists were manacled, but he appeared to be unharmed.
Between them, nearly unconscious, bound with thick rope and bleeding from multiple wounds, was Arlen Thorne.
EWEN RECOGNIZED THE man the moment he saw him. He didn’t need the silence at the top of the dungeon stairs, where two soldiers were supposed to be on duty at all times. He didn’t need the swift intake of breath by the woman in Cell Two or the way her eyes blazed as she stared up through the bars. He didn’t even need the glimpse of the knife tucked behind the man’s back. A tall, starving-thin man with bright blue eyes, the Queen had said … and when Ewen looked up and saw the scarecrow, he simply knew.
Still, he was determined to handle things the right way. The scarecrow had a knife, and Ewen had three prisoners to think about. He was big enough to knock the scarecrow flying, and it was good to know that he would need no weapons to do so. But he also knew that he was big enough to accidentally kill the scarecrow with such a blow. Da had always warned Ewen to remember his own size, and the Queen, Ewen reminded himself, wanted this man alive.
“Good afternoon,” the scarecrow greeted Ewen, leaning over the desk.
Javel, the prisoner in Cell Three, sat bolt upright from his cot.
“How can I help you, sir?” Ewen asked. From the corner of his eye he saw that his other two prisoners, Brenna and Bannaker, had moved up to stand at the bars. The torchlight played cruelly over the now-healing welts that covered Bannaker’s body, but his face was sly and expectant.
“The Queen has ordered me to transfer all three of your prisoners to the central New London Jail,” the scarecrow told Ewen. He had a low, somehow unpleasant voice, and Ewen didn’t even question how this man had gotten past the soldiers at the top of the stairs. He guessed they were already dead. “I’m to escort them myself.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard about a transfer,” Ewen replied. “Give me a moment to note it in the book.”
He pulled out the logbook and began to ink up his pen, trying to think. Da had always told Ewen that he had the ability to be clever; it would just take some time and work. After Ewen finished with the book, the scarecrow would expect him to get up and walk over to the cells with his keys. If Ewen could only get the scarecrow to walk in front, it would be easy to disarm him … but something told Ewen not to be too sure even of that. The scarecrow was skinny, yes, but he looked quick. He wore the black uniform of the Tear army. If he was a soldier, he might have another knife hidden somewhere.