Chapter 31
Zarek
THE MAN IN WHITE
The new clothes are a bad sign.
Mortimyr is watching me as Malrik’s tailor fusses over the scarlet belt at my waist. It’s hard to tell with Mortimyr, of course, but he seems especially smug this afternoon. Which is also a bad sign.
“Are you going to tell me what these are for?” I ask the tailor.
The man scoffs, like he’s not going to dignify that ridiculous question with a response. Mortimyr presses his thin lips together; clearly, he’s not going to be any help either.
No, this is not good.
Petrys told me the king was assembling a small group of Syvan’s soldiers in Vsenrog and outfitting them with dress uniforms. Why was anyone’s best guess.
It probably had something to do with tomorrow’s Planting Festival, although the king usually relies on his own ceremonial soldiers for that event, for obvious reasons.
King Malrik’s brother, the original heir to the throne, was murdered during a summer festival decades ago, leaving Malrik with no choice but to seize the throne himself.
That day is still set aside as an official day of mourning, followed immediately by a debaucherous celebration of Malrik’s benevolent rule.
The tailor snorts, then smacks me with his ruler. I raise my arms, and he clucks like a disappointed chicken. Somehow, it’s always my fault if the clothes he makes for me don’t fit perfectly.
One new outfit I could understand. Tomorrow is the Planting Festival, after all, and Malrik likes to trot me out with the rest of his court, to have me dance and smile in the town square, just another one of his captured pets. Of course he wants me to look good. I’m representing his crown.
But this is the fourth new outfit the tailor is adjusting around my body. And that means I’ll be representing King Malrik for something much more complicated than just the Planting Festival’s annual celebration in the town square.
I frown, then glance at the window. The clouds outside are low and dark, scuttling across the sky like they’re in a rush to be out of here.
Yet another thing that doesn’t bode well for tomorrow.
Bad weather tends to put Malrik in a foul mood, and the rest of us usually end up paying for the king’s ill temper.
The tailor clucks again, then smacks me in the back. I stand up straighter, pulling my shoulder blades together. The tailor comes around the front and fastens my new jacket across my chest. It’s lined with scarlet silk, this jacket, and he folds back the lapels to make sure the scarlet shows.
Scarlet is the color of weddings. It features prominently in all four of these new outfits, which is disquieting. My wedding was almost a month ago. I can’t imagine why Malrik would want to draw attention to it now.
Unless he’s just trying to torment me. I haven’t spent the night in my own bed since the king told me not to get my wife pregnant.
Hopefully, the rumors of my presence at the Golden Rose brothel have reached his royal ears.
And thank the stars for Rose herself, the queen of the Golden Rose.
Her pregnancy will soon be obvious, and she told me she’ll happily credit me for the deed.
It cost less to bribe her than I’d expected.
“Usually, it’s the other way around,” she said, with a sparkle in her eyes. “Men never want to claim the seeds they plant here.”
I kissed her on the cheek.
“Men are scum,” I said.
She laughed, and the gold I laid on the table vanished into her pocket.
“I’ll tell anyone who asks that we go at it all night, every night,” she said.
I thanked her, then slipped out the back door and into the shadows of the alley.
Rose didn’t have to help me, gold or no, and I was grateful to her in a way I wasn’t sure I could ever put into words.
Hopefully, claiming the snake of Vsenrog as the father of her next child would afford the kid a bit of respect in the streets without attracting the attention of the palace.
The key would be for me to stay the hells away from the kid once they were born.
I sigh. The tailor smacks my shoulders again.
“Your posture is abominable,” he snaps.
I stand up straighter. My back aches after standing like this all damn morning. Idly, I wonder who the father of Rose’s child really is. She’d never tell, of course, but it’s probably someone I know. The Golden Rose is the current favorite brothel for men within the palace.
Mortimyr clears his throat, and the tailor pulls back so quickly it’s almost funny. A moment later, the door behind me creaks open. I watch the dark reflection of the door through the mirror in front of me. King Malrik enters the room. Alone.
Or, no, he’s not alone. There’s a man with him, tall and thin, with a pinched face that makes him look like he’s aged beyond his years.
He’s wearing robes that are blindingly white, and something about him sets my teeth on edge.
The air in the room suddenly feels strange, like I’m standing too close to a wood stove.
“A moment of privacy,” Malrik says.
The tailor bows low, then scurries past the king and into the hallway. I step off the wooden stool, my bones practically creaking after standing for so long in one position.
“Not you,” Malrik says, meeting my gaze.
I smile. Mortimyr leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Now it’s just me, the king, and the odd man in white. When the man in white steps forward, my skin prickles as if I’ve just touched a metal doorknob on a cold winter day.
“Interesting,” the man says.
He cocks his head and narrows his eyes as he stares at me. I feel like a side of beef in the marketplace; I half expect him to reach out and pinch my flank. His white robes are so blindingly bright it almost hurts to look at him.
“Will he do?” Malrik asks.
It takes me a moment to realize the king is talking about me. Anger flares in my chest; I smother it beneath another smile as I cross my arms over my waist. The silk-lined jacket is smooth against my skin.
“How may I be of service?” I ask.
The man in white turns back to the king.
“It’s a shame we didn’t get him earlier,” the man says. “Such potential! The things we could have done.”
Malrik snorts as the man in white shakes his head. Fear pricks the back of my neck. I feel like the air in the room is draining away, like it’s filling with invisible smoke.
“So, you can use him?” Malrik asks.
“Yes, of course,” the man in white replies, with a little jerk of his chin. “He’ll be quite useful, I should think.”
My chest feels tight. This explains the new clothes. Malrik is sending me off with this man, and whatever the reason, it’s probably going to involve blood. I dip my chin, then turn to Malrik. The king is watching me with a strange look in his eyes. For a moment, none of us speaks.
“Damn shame,” Malrik finally says.
“All power has a price,” the man in white replies, which is not especially comforting.
Malrik sighs, then turns toward the door.
“Your Highness?” I ask.
Malrik turns back to me. He looks almost surprised to find I’m still in the room.
“Am I traveling with this man?” I ask, tilting my head toward the man in white. “And do you have any requests?”
Malrik frowns, then laughs.
“No,” he snorts. “No, you’re not traveling with Fyrris. I have something much better planned for you.”
He claps, and the door opens. Mortimyr stands in the hallway, looking like he has a stick shoved up his ass, as usual.
Malrik hesitates on the threshold, then glances back at me with that same strange expression.
It only lasts a heartbeat, there and then gone, but something about it makes me feel cold.
It’s too similar to the look another king once gave me, at the start of another journey.