Page 82 of The Jasad Heir
“I don’t—I havenot—” Since I would rather have stuck my head under the carriage’s wheels than continued this conversation, I shut my mouth.
Significantly more buoyed by the lack of Vaun in my future, I stretched my legs and tapped the other side of the carriage with my toes. Wes glared from his horse until I slid the window drape shut, pitching us in darkness. Arin’s profile on the opposite bench disappeared. The carriage juddered into motion.
The rocking lulled some of my sharper nerves. I was contemplating the wisdom of dozing when Arin spoke, startling me. “After the Hound attacked me, you didn’t run. If you had used your dagger to deepen the existing wounds, I would have lost consciousness and bled my last. You could have laid blame at the Hound’s feet. The guards would have believed you. My body would have been borne to Nizahl, the Alcalah postponed, and you freed.”
I’d become accustomed to the chilling labyrinth of his mind. Still, this one gave me pause. “You’re right.” The Hound’s claws had raked deep. Cutting into them a bit more wouldn’t have garnered notice. A few scratches and cuts on my person, and the authenticity of the encounter couldn’t be doubted. “Jeru would sway Wes and Ren’s doubts. The Mufsids would be held responsible—maybe Lukub, too, because of the Hound. In the melee, I’d be forgotten. It’s a good plan.”
I hadn’t considered the enormous amount of trust Arin had shown by allowing me access to his wounds. He’d sat there, rigid, contemplating the methods of his own assassination. Though I couldn’t confirm it in the gloom, the prickling on the back of my neck suggested he was watching me. I lifted a shoulder. “It didn’t occur to me,” I said truthfully. “I have to plan in advance for cold-blooded murder.”
The carriage jolted, rocking to the left. Wes rapped on the window in apology.
“Peculiar woman,” Arin mused. The carriage rattled on, carrying us into the heart of Essam Woods.
The trip to Lukub took three days. Three days of jumping at every noise, bathing in the river, and sleeping at the base of the tree with the least ants. Arin’s eyes grew more bloodshot the closer to Lukub we rode. I doubted he had slept more than an hour. The open, uncontrolled environment must have been scraping his nerves raw.
The Nizahl brigade met up with us an hour away from the palace. Fifty soldiers, stiff in their Nizahl uniforms, knelt when Arin descended from the carriage. The sea of black and violet unsettled me to my core.
“My liege, if you will,” Jeru said. He gestured at the carriage the soldiers brought. The new carriage resembled Felix’s gilded nightmare more closely. Undeniably Nizahlan, it rose on massive black wheels, the body painted obsidian and outlined in violet. Sleek and menacing. Twin wings crested from the sides of the carriage, their iron feathers gleaming in the moonlight. Sefa, who possessed an unshakable need to verify her surroundings through contact, reached for a wing. Wes caught her wrist. “If you value your finger, think again.”
The Nizahl royal emblem, a raven soaring between two crossed swords, had been meticulously painted across the side. The raven’s beady gaze followed me.
I observed the new soldiers with contempt, following Arin into the carriage. Did we really need fifty soldiers for the Banquet?
Two panels in the window pushed outward, and Arin didn’t stop me from throwing them open. I poked my head out.
“Greetings, traveler,” I told Wes. He startled violently on his horse. His head bobbed level with mine, such was the carriage’s ridiculous height. The tree line had thinned a few miles behind us, leaving greater room for the carriage to maneuver. The soldiers spilled behind us like rot trickling from a forgotten fruit, the beat of their horses reverberating around me.
“Get inside!” Wes ordered.
I glanced at Arin. “Can you command him to be nicer to me? Or at least less tightly wound?”
Arin unfurled a map of the Ivory Palace onto his lap. “No.”
“I suppose that would be hypocritical, coming from you.”
Wes groaned, long and loud. Luckily, everyone else was riding out of earshot.
“Sylvia, you’re going to have to exercise some forethought before you speak,” Arin said, uncorking a pocket-size vial of ink. He circled a spot on the map. “The other soldiers might take badly to your attempts at humor.”
Outraged, I managed to say, “Attempts?” before I lost track of the rest. The carriage shook as the ground shifted from hard, packed earth to soft soil. To our left, the trees cleared to reveal six identical wells dug into the ground. A revolting stench assailed me as we rode past the wells. I glanced down—and promptly reared back.
“Why are there people in those wells?” I whispered.
Twenty feet deep and smooth on every side, all but one of the narrow wells had an occupant. An elderly man, beard matted with filth, turned to glare as we passed. A pool of foul water sloshed around his ankles. The others were emaciated, slumped in a fetal curl. The wells were too narrow for them to lie down. If they weren’t already dead, they would be soon.
“Traitors,” Arin said. We passed the last well, and I forced myself away from the window. “Sultana Vaida had them dug after her mother’s murder. Traitors to Lukub are thrown in to starve and perish. Half her council died there.”
“Nobody stops her?”
Torture was limited only by imagination. The forms it took were more than anyone could count. But I had thought at least one rule, one unassailable edict, united the hands of cruelty. Torture should be private. Torture was meant for dungeons and stone cells. The quiet of Essam. For the trees that watched you bleed and the silent earth you soaked in your tears.
“You should see what Orban does to traitors.” Arin tapped his fingers against a knee. “Vaida prefers a more nuanced approach.”
I hated that I understood the Sultana. Few weapons tormented as thoroughly and bloodlessly as fear. Lukubis walked past these wells, listening to the prisoners’ mournful wails, and prayed they weren’t next. People from all over the kingdoms escaped to Lukub for its glamor and style. They climbed Baira’s Shoulders, the highest cliff in the kingdom, to gaze upon the beauty of a land founded by an Awala whose face could entrance an enemy to fall on their own sword.
Beauty dazzled. It drew the eye toward it… and away from the horrors hiding in its shadow.
“Malika Palia and Malik Niyar would have their soldiers lift thieves and traitors into the air.” Arin set his neat stack of parchment aside. “Once they were suspended over the crowd, each soldier found a creative way to execute their prisoner. One soldier would drown their prisoner on dry land. Another would split the earth with a wave of a hand, burying their charge alive. I believe one particularly creative soldier decided to split his prisoner in half and shower the crowd in viscera.”
