Page 14 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

SEFA

C lose to six years had passed since Sefa’s survival depended on tricking lecherous men out of their coin.

A spoon of mahalabiya nudged her lips. “Open your mouth, darling,” said a man at least thirty years Sefa’s senior. “A sweet for my sweet.”

“Oh, I don’t eat milk desserts. They make my stomach sing. You wouldn’t wish to be a one-man audience to its special melody, trust me.” Sefa patted her middle.

He blinked, as befuddled as if she’d started barking.

Docile, sweet lap girls did not turn away the hand that fed them, no matter how catastrophically its contents would implode in their bellies.

He nudged the spoon against her mouth again, and Sefa reluctantly parted her lips, pulling the creamy mahalabiya onto her tongue.

Treacherously delicious. She could almost forget the consequences.

On the substantial list of schemes she and Marek had used to swindle their way across the kingdoms, seduction had always ranked last for Sefa.

They usually avoided it unless they were on the brink of starvation, especially since Marek’s own charms could usually save them from a predicament or ten.

The difference was Marek had no qualms following through on his illusions of seduction, whereas Sefa had never allowed it to go so far.

But Marek wasn’t here, and Sefa hadn’t eaten more than four stale pieces of bread in the same number of days.

What she wouldn’t give to squeeze a lime over a steaming bowl of fūl speckled with black pepper.

To plunge a piece of freshly baked aish into a bowl of molokhia.

Bless Baira, she’d even settle for Maya’s eggshell omelets.

Corpse Walker’s hand landed on her head.

She’d forgotten his real name within minutes of hearing it.

Balanced on the edge of a small stool at his feet, Sefa forced herself to stay motionless as he petted her hair and ran proprietary fingers along her neck.

Just another Lukubi courtesan for the garden of debauchery.

Sefa glanced around the Ivory Palace’s verdant estate. Lush green vines wrapped around the ivory pillars encircling the palace. The stone-forged skulls of Ruby Hounds glared from the cornices over the archways, the torchlight glittering across their bejeweled eyes.

With so much to observe, nobody but Sefa seemed to note the peculiar dent in the patch of poppies.

If Sefa unfocused her eyes, she could almost see Sylvia, broken glass surrounding her and a knife protruding from her chest. Gah —the memory still made Sefa nauseous.

Despite possessing the height of a centuries-old tree, Sylvia had looked so small lying there.

It was also the moment Sefa saw the relationship between Sylvia and the Nizahl Heir was more dangerous than anyone recognized.

Arin had been shouting—him, shouting —and the look on his face.

Oh, that look. Sefa had never seen anything equivalent to it in her twenty-three years.

It had sent foreboding shooting straight through her.

Sylvia had the power to make the most careful man in the kingdoms reckless.

“Fetch me another drink,” Corpse Walker said.

Sefa shook herself back to the present and compulsively checked behind her for Marek. But Marek had wound up somewhere else after Sylvia’s magic whisked them out of the collapsing ballroom. Sefa was alone.

She climbed off the stool, wincing at the twinge in her back. Corpse Walker snapped his fingers, summoning a courtesan to warm his lap while he waited.

Decadent desserts and chalices brimming with a honey-gold liquid tempted Sefa at the table. Corpse Walker had forbidden her from eating unless it was his hand feeding her, but maybe he wouldn’t notice if Sefa snuck a few bites.

As soon as the evening ended, Sefa planned to skulk away, a handful of stolen coins the well-earned compensation for her troubles.

She needed him drunk and oblivious, which meant not drawing unwanted attention to herself.

It was already risky returning to the Ivory Palace after what happened in the Citadel.

Surviving the night hinged on the hope that no one remembered the small, quiet seamstress accompanying the Nizahl Champion’s team.

As far as she knew, none of the guests at the Victor’s Ball had seen past her glamor except Arin and the High Counselor.

Bile burned in Sefa’s throat at the memory.

Seeing the face of her nightmares after so many years had invited Sefa to a rage she didn’t recognize.

She had imagined seeing him again, of course.

Everything about the day she would cross paths with her stepfather had been rehearsed and rewritten down to the most minor detail.

What Sefa would say, how she would stand, the exact set of her chin. She’d even planned out his response.

But when the moment came, all Sefa had felt was disgust. He didn’t deserve her rage or her defiance. He didn’t deserve to know she had become someone she was proud of despite what he had done to her.

She’d spat at his feet, and it felt better than anything she’d prepared.

A man bumped into her, jostling Sefa along the dessert table. He grabbed a platter of ruz bil laban without hesitation, his spoon cutting through the film of cooled milk with confidence Sefa envied.

Dania’s sacred skirt, Sefa was not going to be intimidated by a man who was one strong exhale away from disintegrating. If she wanted dessert, she would take it.

Glancing furtively behind her, Sefa heaped as many sweets as she could fit onto a plate and scurried across the garden, weaving between clusters of other guests.

She needed a private place to eat. If Corpse Walker questioned her absence, she’d describe in graphic detail what the mahalabiya had done to her insides.

Servants bustled out of a small door on the eastern side of the palace. Sefa waited for a break in their stream and slid inside. She didn’t recognize this side of the Ivory Palace. Then again, she and Marek had barely left their room during their visit.

The splendor of the Ivory Palace was muted here.

The sconces holding the torches were still in the shape of Ruby Hounds, the flames dancing inside their unhinged jaws and reflecting red crystals onto the floor.

But the walls were a bland white instead of ivory, and soap and dust replaced the cloying smell of dying flowers.

Checking over her shoulder, Sefa turned down a narrow hall and ran right into a guard.

Positioned in front of a stairwell, the guard raised her brows at Sefa’s appearance. “Wrong way, girl.”

Sefa’s stomach growled. She couldn’t linger down here for long—sooner or later, Corpse Walker would come searching for her and his missing drink.

Sefa drew herself to her full height—which, admittedly, didn’t amount to much. “What are you doing here? Tayra said tonight was her shift. I am meant to bring her a plate.”

Suspicion clouded the guard’s face. “How do you know Tayra?”

She was somewhat certain Marek had slept with the giggling guard while she and Sylvia looted the Sultana’s bedroom. “She recommended me. I am the new kitchen girl.”

“Then perhaps you should stay in the kitchen.” The guard assessed Sefa for another endless minute before rolling her eyes and stepping aside. “Go. Tayra’s probably napping on the third floor.”

Sefa gave a curt nod of thanks and tried not to trip in her rush up the stairs. She kept climbing until the only sound she could hear was her own labored breathing.

When her legs turned to jelly, Sefa found a quiet hidden spot behind one of the countless tapestries strewn across the Ivory Palace and collapsed. Without waiting to catch her breath, Sefa consumed her plate in minutes.

Four days, four pieces of bread. Breathing could wait until later.

She was dabbing at her mouth when a clatter whipped her head to the right.

“You know where to find me when it’s done,” said a gruff voice. “Make sure she doesn’t scream. Her guards are crawling all over this place.”

Sefa squeezed her legs to her chest and flattened herself against the wall.

A second man spoke. “There are dozens of guests downstairs. Are you sure this is the best time?”

“Dozens of guests means dozens of suspects. They won’t know where to start searching for the Sultana’s killer.”

Sefa went still. They were talking about assassinating Sultana Vaida. Tonight. Right now.

“Do you remember where her chambers are?”

“I turn right here and walk to the end of the hall.”

“Good. Don’t get lost.”

Sefa was directly in their path. There was no scenario where they let her live after eavesdropping on a plot to kill the Sultana.

“The guards will be drawn away. You will have minutes before they return. Do not waste them.”

“What if she isn’t there?”

Sefa crawled backward until they fell out of earshot and climbed to her feet. Hurrying in the opposite direction of the assassins’ voices, panic replacing her sugary euphoria, Sefa didn’t slow at the bend of the hall.

A corridor came into view, lined with guards dressed in the elaborate uniforms marking them as the Sultana’s highest guard. At the end of the short corridor, twin drapes covered the doors leading into the Sultana’s chambers.

If she could tell the guards in time, maybe they could—

A scream rang from behind her. “Someone help! Help!”

The front set of guards glanced over, attention bypassing Sefa entirely. They made no move toward the voice.

Sefa started to relax. These guards were likely instructed not to deviate from the Sultana’s doors under any circumstances. The assassins would never be able to get past them.

An explosion shook the ground beneath her. Sefa slammed into the wall as rocks cascaded from the ceiling, tearing through a tapestry. The statue of Baira at the end of the hall tipped over, crashing beside Sefa. The Awala of Lukub’s severed head rolled.

Dust formed a gray haze throughout the hall. The guards ran toward the source of the scream—and presumably, the explosion. There was no other point of entry to the Sultana’s chambers, and she wondered how the assassin would evade the sudden rush of guards.

Sefa took tentative steps to the Sultana’s unprotected door.

Her pulse rioted, sensing the danger on the other side.

What did Sefa care if someone killed the Sultana?

Vaida was no ruler of hers. She had orchestrated the death of her Champion and threatened the lives of everyone in Mahair.

Half-Lukubi or not, Sefa owed the Sultana no loyalty.

Yet it was her hand that found the door handle and pushed it down.