from her usual position at Jomo’s side. Gracefully, as she did everything. Her slender hands clasped each other and she bowed. Not at all as deeply as she should.
General Changa frowned, letting his displeasure show. The princess showed no signs of remorse at the slight or even that she’d noticed his displeasure, and yet she’d spent her entire life at court. She knew damned well how to bow to him; she just chose not to.
He ground his teeth. This was one part of the plan that was not coming together as was meant, and it was not acceptable.
Princess Paso had been born and brought up in Nhala, spending her entire life in the Palace, sworn to her royal duties. Unlike many in Nhala, she hadn’t been sent abroad to study, her parents preferring to bring in foreign tutors. And ever since Jomo became king fifteen years ago, she’d dedicated herself heart and soul to helping her brother.
That kind of upbringing should have made for a nice, subservient woman who would embrace her duty, and the general. For the good of the country, even if she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but snub that pretty nose at him as a man.
Nothing Changa did worked. Whenever he tried to engage her in conversation, she turned out to be hurrying somewhere else, out of duty, of course. At formal events, he arranged to be seated next to her only to find that she’d changed the arrangements, or skipped the event to tend to someone ill in the royal entourage.
She was unfailingly polite, always using the formal form of address. Fifteen fucking years, and he hadn’t been able to breach her defenses in any meaningful way.
She hid behind the façade of the king, but once the king was no more, this farce would end. Changa would see to it. He needed her by his side and he needed her obedient.
“General Changa,” the princess murmured, eyes downcast, as they properly should be. The princess was following the Old Ways that dictated a Nhalan woman never look into the eyes of a male who was not a family member.
Nowadays, nobody followed that rule. Young women wore Western clothes, looked men in the eye and answered back. Changa would even have approved of the princess’s modest behavior if not for the fact that she smiled at everyone and looked even the palace servants right in the eyes.
Just never into his.
Without a word, the princess turned gracefully in an invitation for him to enter the room. Changa could never reproach her for her manners, which were impeccable. Well, soon enough the princess would be by his side. With her brother dead, and no other protector, she would have to turn to him. He would enjoy making her pay for her insolence.
General Changa approached the king’s sickbed, keeping his face utterly impassive even at the sight of the bag of bones lying on the monumental royal bed.
King Jomo was the last of a line that had ruled the country for a thousand generations, ever since Nhalans had settled the small, fertile river valley. Nothing but royal blood flowed in his veins, and now it was killing him.
The royal bed dwarfed the king. He looked like a sickly child, shoulders held up by huge silk pillows. His skin was gray, falling off the underlying muscles since he’d lost so much weight. His lips were blue and his nostrils pinched tightly as he tried to pull in air.
Changa barely stopped himself from frowning. Maybe his lab rat had miscalculated the thallium dosage, because it looked like Jomo was going to die any minute. Changa needed him alive, yet incapable of any action, for just a little while more, until the moment came to strike.
If the king died now, the beautiful saffron silk canopy over the elaborate carved wooden bed would be slashed to ribbons, and each and every member of the Royal Guard bedecked with a ribbon. The city and the country would shut down for the obligatory forty days of mourning, during which only the work necessary to feed the population and keep them warm would be allowed.
Travel would be
General Changa frowned, letting his displeasure show. The princess showed no signs of remorse at the slight or even that she’d noticed his displeasure, and yet she’d spent her entire life at court. She knew damned well how to bow to him; she just chose not to.
He ground his teeth. This was one part of the plan that was not coming together as was meant, and it was not acceptable.
Princess Paso had been born and brought up in Nhala, spending her entire life in the Palace, sworn to her royal duties. Unlike many in Nhala, she hadn’t been sent abroad to study, her parents preferring to bring in foreign tutors. And ever since Jomo became king fifteen years ago, she’d dedicated herself heart and soul to helping her brother.
That kind of upbringing should have made for a nice, subservient woman who would embrace her duty, and the general. For the good of the country, even if she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but snub that pretty nose at him as a man.
Nothing Changa did worked. Whenever he tried to engage her in conversation, she turned out to be hurrying somewhere else, out of duty, of course. At formal events, he arranged to be seated next to her only to find that she’d changed the arrangements, or skipped the event to tend to someone ill in the royal entourage.
She was unfailingly polite, always using the formal form of address. Fifteen fucking years, and he hadn’t been able to breach her defenses in any meaningful way.
She hid behind the façade of the king, but once the king was no more, this farce would end. Changa would see to it. He needed her by his side and he needed her obedient.
“General Changa,” the princess murmured, eyes downcast, as they properly should be. The princess was following the Old Ways that dictated a Nhalan woman never look into the eyes of a male who was not a family member.
Nowadays, nobody followed that rule. Young women wore Western clothes, looked men in the eye and answered back. Changa would even have approved of the princess’s modest behavior if not for the fact that she smiled at everyone and looked even the palace servants right in the eyes.
Just never into his.
Without a word, the princess turned gracefully in an invitation for him to enter the room. Changa could never reproach her for her manners, which were impeccable. Well, soon enough the princess would be by his side. With her brother dead, and no other protector, she would have to turn to him. He would enjoy making her pay for her insolence.
General Changa approached the king’s sickbed, keeping his face utterly impassive even at the sight of the bag of bones lying on the monumental royal bed.
King Jomo was the last of a line that had ruled the country for a thousand generations, ever since Nhalans had settled the small, fertile river valley. Nothing but royal blood flowed in his veins, and now it was killing him.
The royal bed dwarfed the king. He looked like a sickly child, shoulders held up by huge silk pillows. His skin was gray, falling off the underlying muscles since he’d lost so much weight. His lips were blue and his nostrils pinched tightly as he tried to pull in air.
Changa barely stopped himself from frowning. Maybe his lab rat had miscalculated the thallium dosage, because it looked like Jomo was going to die any minute. Changa needed him alive, yet incapable of any action, for just a little while more, until the moment came to strike.
If the king died now, the beautiful saffron silk canopy over the elaborate carved wooden bed would be slashed to ribbons, and each and every member of the Royal Guard bedecked with a ribbon. The city and the country would shut down for the obligatory forty days of mourning, during which only the work necessary to feed the population and keep them warm would be allowed.
Travel would be
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