in women, that’s a pretty big giveaway, don’t you think? But I can’t trust you to stick to the plan, so—”
“That’s enough.” The last time Jasimir had taken that tone, it was when Hangdog had heckled Tavin about his parents. “Tavin signed a death warrant for Fie’s people, and you want her to seduce him? You have no right asking that of her. We’ll find another way.”
Khoda pursed his lips. It wasn’t hard to read him in that moment: they might find another way, but it wouldn’t be as swift or as easy. And her Crows didn’t have the luxury of time.
“What…” Fie’s voice cracked. She coughed. “What was your plan?”
Khoda looked from her to Jasimir and back. “Nothing too salacious. Let him chase you around enough to start raising serious questions. He could say Jasimir’s tastes have changed, but…”
“I, er, had opportunities to be interested in women,” Jasimir said awkwardly, cheeks darkening. “I was not.”
Fie’s eyes widened with wicked glee. “Oh, I need to hear about that.”
“Later,” Khoda said. “But between that and you writing bastard over his head in fire, the rest of the palace ought to start catching on.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Rhusana needs to reschedule the coronation. I suspect she’ll be throwing parties and revels left and right to keep the nobility busy and happy in the meantime. That’s where we’d start, making sure plenty of people see him haring after you. The prince and I can pose as servants to eavesdrop and get a sense of who’s having doubts.”
There was a knock at the door. “Food for the sick,” Yula called from outside, their code for entry.
“Come in,” Khoda answered.
The door swung open only wide enough to allow Ebrim and Yula to slide in, both bearing large clay pots and a few rough bowls. Once the door shut, they both bowed deep. “Your Highness.”
“Please—I think we’re past that now,” Jasimir said, slightly strained. “Besides, you’re risking so much for me. I owe you a tremendous debt.”
The Sparrows straightened, but both Ebrim and Yula looked everywhere but at the prince, uneasy. Ebrim set his pot on the floor and revealed a fluffy, steaming heap of rice. “You’ve raised quite the hell in one day. The queen’s saying the Phoenix priests used the wrong oil, that it gave everyone fever visions. All the priests are being interrogated, and word is she thinks they sabotaged the ceremony. She’s pushing the coronation back two weeks, to the first of Swan Moon.”
“There was half a riot in the guest quarters,” added Yula, unveiling her own pot of a stew heavy with chicken and lentils. Fie’s stomach growled. “The nobles are furious they’re being asked to stick around that long. Some say it’s disrespectful, waiting until after Phoenix Moon.” She passed a bowl to Jasimir first, then Khoda, then Fie. “We’ve placed someone to intercept any messages sent to ‘Lady Sakar,’ but we can also give you an empty chamber to keep up appearances. His Highness may be more comfortable in the guest quarters as well.”
Jasimir ducked his head. “I’ll be fine either way. Fie and I have slept on much worse on the road.” He frowned. “Not to imply that this is bad, of course. Just—you don’t need to go to any trouble for me.”
“What His Highness means is ‘Yes, thank you,’” Khoda drawled. “Weren’t you the one just lecturing me about resources?”
Ebrim and Yula traded looks. “Let us know what you decide,” Ebrim said delicately. “And there’s something that’s come to my attention. No one’s come forward themselves, but I’m hearing rumors of other servants having, oh, encounters with the queen. Strange ones. She wasn’t what I’d call beloved among us, but this is new.”
“What kind of new?” Fie asked warily.
Ebrim ran a finger along the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut. “Mind you, it’s all hearsay. But the story always starts with three or more servants on a job. One, just the one, gets called off by an attendant of the queen. They don’t return for at least an hour, maybe more, and when they do … they can’t remember a damned thing about where they’ve been.”
“Not a scratch on them,” Yula added. “Same clothes, no sickness like they’ve been drugged, nothing to say what they’ve done. The last thing they all remember is the queen’s attendant leading them away.”
Khoda set down his bowl, face sour. Then he got up with a grumble of “Of course she has one” and wrote below Rhusana’s