“You have many?”
“I’ve lost count at this point.”
Aren blinked and she smiled. “That’s the nature of the harem, Master Kertell.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, as though to call him such was the epitome of ridiculousness. “Every son or daughter born to the harem is family to every woman within it. So while I have no child of my own blood, I have countless children of my heart, and I’d protect each with my life.”
And there was no greater enemy to the harem’s children than the man who’d fathered them all.
The conversation was cut short as two men sat at the table. The shorter one settled in the chair to Coralyn’s right and the tall skinny one to Aren’s left, the latter shifting his chair as far from Aren as he could without climbing into the neighboring seat.
Coralyn laughed. “Clearly he’s up on the gossip and not wanting to find that chain between your wrists around his neck.”
“What? This?” Lifting his hands, Aren set his manacled wrists on the table, taking a sort of wry amusement from the way the reedy man recoiled.
“Don’t bother learning their names,” she said. “They’re nothing more than my husband’s sycophants sent to spy on your every word, the risk of you breaking their necks worth the favor they might gain by delivering valuable information. Not much you can do about that, but at least you need not trouble yourself making small talk with them. Or with trying to take them hostage.”
The two men glowered but made no retort.
“What of you, my lady?” Aren asked, taking in the rest of the individuals filling the table. All Maridrinian nobility, with the lone exceptions of a red-haired man with pale skin, whom he suspected was the Amaridian ambassador, and a blond man with an enormous nose who’d be from Harendell. They sat at opposite sides of the table, both of them glowering at each other with undisguised disdain. The blood between the two nations was nearly as bad as between Maridrina and Valcotta, though they tended toward trade embargoes, political posturing, and the occasional assassination rather than outright war.
Aren turned back to Coralyn. “Were you also seated here to spy?”
“I was seated here because protocol demanded you be given female conversation, but Silas wasn’t willing to risk one of his favorites. He’d shed no tears if you did me in, lest you get any ideas about putting that chain around my neck. He’s been trying for years to find a way to shut me up that won’t turn his bed into a dangerous place. You’d be doing him a favor.”
Doing Silas a favor and also costing Aren any chance of gaining assistance from the harem. “I’ll have to suffice myself with verbal sparring.”
A soft chiming filled the room, and everyone rose. Aren only leaned back in his chair, watching as Silas entered the room, flanked by his bodyguards and six of his wives. Each of the women were dressed in gauzy silk and adorned with jewels, all young and strikingly beautiful.
Silas took his seat at the head of the table, his wives gliding into the empty chairs between emissaries and viziers, all of whom remained standing. His eyes fixed on Aren’s lounging form, his face expressionless as he likely considered whether to have his guards force Aren to stand.
Aren suspected his presence here tonight was to demonstrate to all the kingdoms, north and south, that Ithicana had been cowed. But every one of them knew Ithicana was not yet broken—not with Eranahl still autonomous. Forcing Aren to stand would only draw attention to Ithicana’s defiance. But saying nothing would make Silas look weak. No fool, the Maridrinian King said, “Do we need to find you a lighter set of chains, Aren? Perhaps we could have one of the jewelers fashion you something less burdensome?”
The heavy links joining his manacles clunked and rattled ominously against the wood of the table as Aren reached for his tiny tin cup of wine, drinking it without waiting for one of the tasters to check it for poison. Then he shrugged. “A lighter chain would make a fine garrote, but there is something more . . . satisfying about choking a man to death. I’d ask you if you agreed, Silas, but everyone here knows you prefer to stab men in the back.”
Silas frowned. “You see, kind sirs? All the Ithicanians know are insults and violence. How much better now that we no longer have to deal with their ilk when conducting trade through the bridge.”
The Amaridian ambassador thumped his hand against the table in agreement, but the ambassador from Harendell only frowned and rubbed his chin, though whether it was because he disagreed with Silas or was loath to be seen agreeing with the Amaridian, Aren couldn’t be certain.
“I’m afraid Valcotta does not concur with your sentiment, Your Grace,” Zarrah said. “And until Maridrina withdraws from Ithicana and you release its king, Valcottan merchants will continue to bypass the bridge in favor of shipping routes.”
“Then your aunt best get used to losing ships to the Tempest Seas,” Silas snapped. “And you would do well to remember your place and curb your tongue, girl. Your presence is only a courtesy. You should be thanking me for sparing your life, not testing my patience with your prattle. Your head would look rather nice spiked on Vencia’s gates.”
The young Valcottan woman lifted one brown shoulder in a graceful shrug, but next to her, Keris’s knuckles whitened around the stem of his wineglass, seeming to take issue with Zarrah’s life being threatened. Which was rather interesting, given that they were supposed to be mortal enemies.
Sipping from his own cup, Aren said, “As one intimately acquainted with this issue, Silas, allow me to let you in on a little secret: An empty bridge earns no gold.”
Zarrah and the Harendellian smirked behind their hands, but it was the Amaridian ambassador’s reaction that Aren watched, a faint rush of excitement filling him when the man frowned and cast a sideways glance at Silas. It seemed someone was late on paying his dues to the Amaridian queen for the continued use of her navy.
Whether by some silent cue or the innate sense of well-trained servants, young men bearing plates of fancifully sculpted greens chose that moment to enter the room, cutting the tension. One of them gingerly set a plate in front of Aren, next to the wooden spoon that was all he was ever given.
Something fell into his lap, and he glanced down to see a silver fork. “Pardon me,” Coralyn said. “My fingers aren’t quite as nimble as they once were.” Then she snapped those very fingers loudly, a servant scuttling forward to provide her a replacement.
“Are you mad, woman?” the short man to her right demanded. “Guards, he’s got a—”
“Oh, shut your mouth, you cowardly twit. It’s a fork. Just what do you think he’s going to do with it?”
Aren could put those silver tines through a jugular in short order, but instead he took a mouthful of salad, barely tasting the vinegar and spices of the dressing as he chewed. One of the guards started in his direction, but a sharp glance from Silas had him retreating. An individual who was supposed to be in a position of power did not quibble over forks.
It was, however, too much for the skinny man on Aren’s left, who muttered something that implied he needed to relieve himself, then scuttled out the door. The young wife who was seated one over continued to eat, but Aren didn’t miss how her eyes flicked to Coralyn, or the faintest nod she gave to the older woman.