RAHIM PULLED HIS royal purple sash across his chest and through the loop at the waist of his blue tunic. Checking his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror above his dresser, he practiced blinking the violent hunger from his eyes. Nearly two months of living at the palace and hiding how much he hated those who still treated him like a puppet was getting easier.
It was about to be easier still.
The coronation was scheduled in three weeks, just after the end of the tournament. He was sure the other prisoners would take the bait and kill Javan during the next round of combat, but he had another plan in place should that one fail. The FaSaa’il was in a fury over Javan’s continued existence—rumors were growing into bold talk as people speculated about the prisoner who looked so much like their ruler.
Rahim wasn’t worried. Rumors would never reach the king. The distrust Rahim had sown with the forged document from Fariq had blossomed into full-blown paranoia as the older man refused to have any staff wait on him, to receive visitors, or to leave the palace unless accompanied by the one person he knew he could trust: his son.
On the day of the final tournament round, should Javan miraculously make it that far, a simple dose of saffeyena could be administered to make the king pliable and open to suggestion. If it seemed the king was fixating on Javan, a quiet word about rumors that one of Fariq’s bastards had been sent to Maqbara would be enough to swing the king’s favor against the true prince once and for all.
Turning away from the mirror, Rahim moved toward the door. He had a packed schedule of visits from the various aristocratic families who lived in or around Makan Almalik. Invitations to the coronation ceremony had finally been sent, and it seemed every wealthy aristocrat in the area wanted to greet him one-on-one and remind him of all they brought to the table as an ally.
Every wealthy aristocrat, of course, except those who’d had children at Milisatria with Javan. Those families were now exiled to distant political posts in Ichil and Eldr or had lost their lands, fortunes, and reputations to accusations of treason. All Rahim’s idea, though he’d had to make it seem like Fariq had thought of it.
Soon, he wouldn’t have to worry about playing the part of a good little puppet.
Soon, he’d be a god among men, and everyone who wanted to survive would do well to remember it.
The families who remained in the crown’s good graces would either immediately accept Rahim as their king and repudiate the rumors about Javan, or they would find themselves in Maqbara.
The priests would continue their little charity work with the poor but would give a portion of all donations to the crown as a reminder of who truly ruled Akram.
And the FaSaa’il, who thought they’d found an uncouth little peasant who would obey their every whim, would go to their graves knowing they’d been outwitted at every turn.
Rahim’s heart beat faster.
It had been a simple matter to mix a sleeping herb into the king’s morning tonic so that he would remain in his bed for most of the day. And it was easy to arrange to have as Rahim’s personal guard Abbas, the man who’d escorted Javan to the magistrate’s office and then allowed him to go into Maqbara instead of executing him as ordered. The crowning achievement of Rahim’s day was the ease with which he’d smuggled into the palace the three peasant assassins the FaSaa’il had tasked with killing Javan in Loch Talam. It had taken a bit of manipulation on his part to get the assassins’ names from Lord Borak, but he’d done it. He couldn’t pull off today’s plan without them.
Leaving his bedroom, he moved through his opulent sitting room and then down the hall in the residential wing until he came to the dining room used only by the Kadars and their closest friends. Abbas followed at his heels, his eyes constantly studying Rahim as if searching for flaws in his claim to be the true prince.
It was infinitely satisfying that he would go to his grave still unsure which boy had been telling the truth.
Voices filled the dining room, and Rahim flagged a page who was standing at attention by the door.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
That title never got old. “Have all the invited families arrived?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Every member is present?”
“Yes, Your Highness. I checked the invitation list as you instructed.”
“Excellent. You’re dismissed,” Rahim said as the kitchen staff began assembling the first course on a table beside the door.
“Very good, Your Highness.” The page left, and Rahim nodded at the two maids who were checking that the orange florets that garnished each plate were in their proper places. “You may begin serving. I’ll be along shortly. Abbas, please take a position in the dining room.”
The maids curtsied, picked up the trays, and entered the dining room. Abbas frowned as if he wanted to argue that he should stay with Rahim, but a quick glare from the boy sent him into the room as instructed.
Rahim examined the tray of goblets the maids had left behind. Pale, golden apple wine shimmered in the sunlight that streamed in through the nearby windows.
His breath was a ragged gasp that sounded deafening in his ears, and his hands shook as he unstoppered a bottle Fariq had purchased from an apothecary weeks ago for the king’s tonic.
Poison.
A soft white powder made from grinding cyallip seeds.
Rahim had ordered cyallip tarts for dessert even though there would be no one left alive to eat them. It had seemed fitting.
Tipping the bottle over each glass, he watched as the powder spilled into the goblets, spinning like a tiny sand devil until it disappeared into the golden liquid. A small amount, as was given daily to the king, would weaken the body, eat away at the immune system, and confuse the thinking as the body fought to heal the damage to itself.
The large amount he’d just mixed into each goblet would do far worse than that.
When the maids returned for the trays, Rahim had the bottle concealed in his pocket again. He waited until the maids were finished serving the drinks before excusing them.
“You can come out now,” he said quietly. A rustling came from the drapes that flanked the windows along the hall and then the three peasants hired to assassinate Javan joined him outside the dining room. “You remember what to do?”
“Wait until you shout, and then enter and kill the guard,” one of the men said.
“He’s highly trained. I trust you brought poison-tipped blades as instructed,” Rahim said.
“We’re ready,” the tall man said.
Turning away from them, Rahim entered the dining room and closed the door behind him.
The members of the FaSaa’il sat at the table glaring at him.
He met their eyes calmly.
“What is the meaning of this?” Borak demanded. “You don’t call meetings with us. We call meetings with you.”
Rahim raised a brow. “Then why didn’t you refuse to come?”
“And have it be said that we disobeyed the prince?”
Moving to the head of the table, he inclined his head graciously and said, “I can see your dilemma.”
“Where is Fariq?” Borak demanded.
Sweeping the assembled aristocrats with his gaze, Rahim said, “I apologize that Fariq is unable to join us as promptly as he wished. He’ll be along as soon as he’s able. In the meantime, we have excellent news. The coronation plans are proceeding without a problem. The king is fully in support. In a few weeks, all you wanted will be accomplished.” He raised his glass as Abbas stiffened, his eyes widening as he stared at Rahim. “A toast! To the success of your plan and to many years of prosperous rule in Akram!”
They stood with him. Raised their glasses. Spilled a drop as an offering for Yl’ Haliq before raising the liquid to their lips.
The shortest man went first—the poison working rapidly as it shut down his organs and dropped him to the floor. The others realized something was wrong, but they were already too far gone to do anything but fall to the ground, convulse briefly, and die as well.
Rahim set his goblet on the table with a click as Abbas scrambled for the closest aristocrat, calling for someone to send for the palace physician.
“Happy to oblige,” he said. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Help! Bring the physician!”
The door burst open, and the three peasants rushed in, poison-tipped weapons drawn. By the time Abbas realized he was in danger, it was too late.
Rahim reached inside the pockets of his tunic for his throwing stars. The first star embedded itself in the tallest assassin’s neck. The second burrowed into the shortest man’s chest. The third man tried to run, but Rahim simply adjusted his aim and sent the final star deep into the man’s back.
In moments, all three were dead, their blood spreading across the hand-painted tiles of the floor like a river. Rahim took an extra minute to arrange the bodies so that it would look like Abbas had taken out the intruders and lost his own life in the process and then rehearsed the story he’d tell about being the last to raise his glass to his lips, seeing the others fall, and realizing that someone in the kitchen staff was a murderer. He’d call for a full investigation, and no one would doubt his word. After all, he was their prince.
His smile stretched wide and feral.
A god among men indeed.