Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,11

a bit of exaggeration never hurt anyone.

“They’re trespassing on Count Nerenski’s land.”

Nikolai let the mantle of Lantsov authority fall over him. “I am Ravka’s king. The count holds these lands at my discretion. I say these people are welcome here and under my protection.”

“So says the bastard king,” grumbled the butcher.

A hush fell.

Zoya clenched her fists and thunder rolled over the fields.

But Nikolai held up a hand. This was not a war they would win with force.

“Could you repeat that?” he asked.

The butcher’s cheeks were red, his brow furrowed. The man might well keel over from heart failure if his ignorance didn’t kill him first. “I said you are a bastard and not fit to sit that fancy horse.”

“Did you hear that, Punchline? He called you fancy.” Nikolai turned his attention back to the butcher. “You say I am a bastard. Why? Because our enemies do?”

An uncomfortable murmur passed through the crowd. A shuffling of feet. But no one spoke. Good.

“Do you call Fjerda your master now?” His voice rang out over the gathered townspeople, the Suli. “Will you learn to speak their tongue? Will you bow to their pureblood king and queen when their tanks roll over Ravka’s borders?”

“No!” cried Mirov. He spat on the ground. “Never!”

One down.

“Fjerda has loaded your guns with lies about my parentage. They hope you will turn your weapons on me, on your countrymen who stand at our borders even now, ready to defend this land. They hope you will do the bloody work of war for them.”

Of course, Nikolai was the liar here. But kings did what they wished; bastards did what they must.

“I’m no traitor,” snarled the butcher.

“You sure sound like one,” said Mirov.

The butcher thrust his chest out. “I fought for the Eighteenth Regiment and so will my son.”

“I bet you had quite a few Fjerdans running,” said Nikolai.

“Damn right I did,” said the butcher.

But the man behind him was less convinced. “I don’t want my children fighting in another war. Put them witches out front.”

Now Zoya let lightning crackle through the air around them. “The Grisha will lead the charge and I will take the first bullet if I have to.”

Mirov’s men took a step back.

“I should thank you,” Nikolai said with a smile. “When Zoya takes it into her head to be heroic, she can be quite frightening.”

“I’ll say,” squeaked the butcher.

“People died here,” said Mirov, trying to regain some authority. “Someone has to answer for—”

“Who answers for the drought?” asked Zoya. Her voice cut through the air like a well-honed blade. “For earthquakes? For hurricanes? Is this who we are? Creatures who weep at the first sign of trouble? Or are we Ravkan—practical, modern, no longer prisoners of superstition?”

Some of the townspeople looked resentful, but others appeared downright chastised. In another life Zoya would have made a terrifying governess—straight-backed, sour-faced, and perfectly capable of making every man present wet his trousers in fear. But a Suli woman was staring at Zoya, her expression speculative, and his general, who could usually be counted upon to meet any insolent look with a glare powerful enough to scorch forests, was either oblivious or deliberately ignoring her.

“Khaj pa ve,” the woman said. “Khaj pa ve.”

Though Nikolai was curious, he had more pressing matters to attend to. “I know it is little comfort, but we should discuss what aid the crown can offer in recompense for your lost land and homes. I will—”

“I’ll speak to the governor,” Zoya said briskly.

Nikolai had intended to talk with Mirov himself, since the man’s interest in status might make him susceptible to attention from royalty. But Zoya was already directing her mount his way.

“Be charming,” he warned her under his breath.

She flashed him a warm smile and a wink. “I will.”

“That was very convincing.”

The smile vanished in an instant. “I’ve had to watch you smarm all over Ravka for years. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

“I don’t smarm.”

“Occasionally you smarm,” said Tolya.

“Yes,” conceded Nikolai. “But it’s endearing.”

He watched Zoya slide down from her horse and lead Mirov away. The man looked nearly slack-jawed, a frequent side effect of Zoya’s beauty and general air of murderousness. Perhaps there were some things more intoxicating than status for Mirov after all.

But Zoya hadn’t been pressing an advantage with Mirov. She was running away. She hadn’t wanted that Suli woman to confront her, and that wasn’t like his general. At least, it hadn’t been. Since she’d lost Juris, since their battle on the Fold, Zoya had changed. It was like he was