Might of the Dragon

by Jessica Drake

  I nearly collapsed to the floor in relief. “Thank you,” I said tightly, wrapping my arms around myself to hide the fact that I was trembling like a leaf.

  Salcombe made no move to approach me, his gaze flicking to the knife on the ground. “Who drew that?” he demanded.

  “I did, when that brute of yours started choking me.” I glared at Trolbos. “He heard me mumbling to myself and charged in here like a wild animal. He probably would have raped me if you hadn’t barged in!”

  “That’s a filthy lie,” Trolbos spat. But lust still lurked behind that angry gaze. “Why would I want you? You’re nothing but gutter trash.”

  “That is enough.” Salcombe jabbed a finger at the door. “Get out.”

  Trolbos stiffened. “But—”

  “Now!”

  He shot me one last glare, then stalked out of the room. I grimaced as he slammed the door behind him, hard enough to rattle the hinges.

  Salcombe sighed, weariness settling into his face. Suddenly he looked every bit his age, despite the disguise he wore. “I will punish him appropriately,” he told me, the closest I’d get to an apology. “This won’t happen again.”

  “How can you promise that, when we still live in the same house?” I countered. “It’s obvious Trolbos has had it in for me since day one. You should give me back one of my weapons, in case he barges in here aga—”

  “I said that it won’t happen again,” Salcombe interrupted. His lip curled in disgust as he took in the bruises on my neck and my rumpled dress. “Get yourself cleaned up before Lady Astilla arrives,” he ordered. “I don’t want her thinking that I beat you.”

  That wouldn’t be far from the truth, I almost said as he strode out. But I sighed, then rang for my maid so she could help me hide the evidence of Trolbos’s abuse. I was going to have to be more careful the next time I contacted Tavarian. I might have convinced Salcombe that Trolbos was hearing things this time, but I knew better than to think luck struck twice.

  5

  “I can’t believe that I spent a whole week prepping just so I could spend hours standing around,” I grumbled to Salcombe as we waited in line outside the great hall in the palace, surrounded by a crush of other nobles. I imagined we wouldn’t take up nearly as much space if we weren’t forced to wear these ridiculously wide hoops, but perhaps it was for the best.

  “This is the game we play,” Salcombe said mildly. He was standing to my right, dressed in long coattails and pantaloons, as was the custom for men being presented at court. The silver wig perched atop his head looked especially ridiculous, but the humor I’d found in it had long worn off after we had been forced to wait in the carriage for several hours, just so that we could spend more hours waiting to be admitted to the great hall. “Be thankful that you are here as a married woman and not a debutante. At least your future does not hinge on this moment.”

  No, just my life, I thought sarcastically. But I knew what he meant. Most of the women in line around me were much younger, anywhere from sixteen to eighteen, their slim forms rigidly straight despite the crushing weight of the jewelry and silks they wore. These women were being presented to the court for the very first time—a “coming out” that marked their “official entry into womanhood and the marriage mart,” Lady Astilla had explained to me. Normally, these women would have been presented to the queen, but the queen was no longer in residence at the palace. Apparently, she had recently been banished to some northern island, and had been dragged kicking and screaming from the palace by the royal guard. So the king was presiding over the presentations for the debutantes along with the other court presentations, and naturally that was causing quite a bit of consternation.

  “It’s preposterous,” Lady Astilla had said as she oversaw my preparations this morning. The dress had arrived, exactly as I’d envisioned it, and I would have looked amazing if I hadn’t also been draped in ostrich feathers and heavy emeralds. Even so, I did get quite a few envious looks from the debutantes, who were forced to wear either white or very light colors, as I’d alighted from the carriage. “It would be one thing if our king was a dignified man, but instead he is going to slobber all over those poor girls while Lady Hariana wiggles around in his lap. No debutante should have to endure such indignities during one of the most important ceremonies of her life!”

  I’d had to stop from rolling my eyes. I’d been shot at, punched, stabbed, jailed, and kidnapped multiple times in my life. If the worst these women ever had to suffer was the king leering at their bosoms and making some lewd remarks, they led very privileged lives indeed.

  That isn’t quite fair, I chided myself. After all, many of these women were forced into arranged marriages by their families, sometimes to men twice their age. A wealthy life was not necessarily a happy life.

  Eventually, Salcombe and I made it to the doors of the great hall. The guards checked both of us for weapons before allowing us to pass through the double doors and into the grand space where the king’s courtiers mingled. They lounged on couches and chairs grouped on either side of the hall, nursing glasses of wine or picking at small plates of cheese as they gossiped or talked business. Many of them looked over the ladies with interest, and I felt quite a few gazes pause on me and Salcombe, taking in my vibrant peacock dress and red hair. I had to fight the urge not to stare longingly at them—those couches looked quite comfortable, especially with my feet hurting in these heels.

  “There,” Salcombe murmured in my ear, startling me. We hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. “Playing chess by the hearth. That’s the man we need to speak to.”

  Discreetly, I looked where Salcombe had indicated. A man with chin-length black hair and a red velvet hat was sitting at a walnut table, playing chess with a balding man. He stroked his goatee as he considered the board, his attention wholly focused on the game. My chest tightened, unsure how to feel about his presence—if Salcombe did get what he wanted from the man, that meant we would be leaving soon. And I would be separated from Lord Tavarian yet again.

  You’re just going to have to figure out how to get the heart away from Salcombe if we find it, I told myself firmly. If I could get hold of another piece of heart, that would put two out of Salcombe’s immediate reach. I knew better than to think that the tentative peace between Salcombe and me could last forever; eventually, he would want me to help him retrieve Tavarian’s piece of heart from wherever he’d hidden it, and if I refused, he would try to use me as a bargaining chip. The dragon god-inflicted madness Salcombe suffered from may have been temporarily absent, but it would return with a vengeance the moment I tried to interfere with his goals.

  “We’re here,” Salcombe muttered, jolting me from my reverie. “Be ready.”

  I sucked in a breath. We stood right outside the doors to the presence chamber—the king’s inner sanctum, where he gathered with his most trusted courtiers. Steeling myself, we stepped through the open double doors together, my hand on Salcombe’s arm.

  The presence chamber was significantly smaller than the great hall, but still large—my entire apartment could fit in this space, I thought as we began the slow walk toward the dais at the end of the room. Nearly two dozen pairs of eyes fixed on me as we approached, but I ignored them all, focusing on the king. He was an extraordinarily fat man, his bejeweled clothing straining at the buttons to contain his bulk, with a ruddy face and thinning blond hair mostly hidden by his crown. His thick blond beard helped hide some of the fat rolls around his jawline, and I could tell if I looked closely enough that he had once been a handsome man, but there was no getting around it—King Zoltar had really let himself go.

  And yet, even with the slovenly state of his body, the king still had an air of command around him. His bulk was intimidating, and he sat straight in his chair, making the most of his broad shoulders. I might have even taken him seriously, if not for the fact that a young woman was draped across his lap, her slender arm looped around his neck. She wore a dress of pale gold that clung to her curvy figure, a
nd an absolutely garish necklace and tiara encrusted in rubies that matched the brooch the king wore. My treasure sense told me they were incredibly valuable, and I had a feeling they were part of the Traggaran crown jewels. As she leaned forward a little, scrutinizing us with eyes of dark chocolate, I half-expected her breasts to tumble right out of her bodice.

  But the king barely paid her any mind. His eyes were on me as Salcombe and I were announced, and as I sank into the awkward curtsy I’d spent hours practicing, I could feel his gaze glued to my breasts peeking out from behind the peacock feathers. Lady Astilla had thwarted my attempts at modesty by forcing the maid to cinch my corset as tight as it would possibly go, forcing my breasts in and up. Apparently, just because she didn’t approve of the king’s lascivious behavior didn’t mean she wasn’t going to help him feast his eyes on my chest.

  “You may rise,” the king finally said.

  Salcombe and I did so. “You have a very lovely wife, Lord Trentiano,” the king said to Salcombe, though his eyes were still on me. “Have the two of you been married long?”

  “Two years,” Salcombe said smoothly. He settled a hand on my waist, and even though I found these necessary public displays of affection repulsive, I appreciated the act more than ever under the scrutiny of the king’s gaze. Judging by the glint in his eye, I had a feeling that if Hariana wasn’t in his lap, he would have invited me to come and take her spot, husband be damned.

  Hariana seemed to know it too, for she twined herself more tightly around the king. “My king, surely we should move these people along,” she purred, thrusting her well-endowed chest into his face. “There is still a long line of people waiting, and I want to get through them quickly so we can enjoy a bit of time together before the garden party.”

  The way she wriggled in his lap told me exactly how she planned to spend that time, and I had to hide a grimace of disgust as the king gave her a piggish grin of delight. “Very well,” he said, waving a meaty hand toward us. His other hand crept up Lady Hariana’s skirts, and she gave a girlish giggle in response. “You may pass on.”

  The ripple through the observing crowd told me that the courtiers did not approve of Zoltar’s scandalous behavior. Salcombe and I bowed and curtsied one more time before slowly backing out of the room—Lady Astilla taught me it was considered extremely rude to turn your back on royalty. As the king buried his face in Lady Hariana’s chest, Salcombe caught my eye. I nearly lost my composure at the look of incredulity and disgust in his eyes, and had to bury a swell of sudden laughter at the absurdity of the situation.

  “What a pathetic man,” Salcombe said under his breath, once we were far out of earshot of both the king and his courtiers. “Another idiot who rules by his loins instead of his brain. It is a wonder he manages to get anything done with that floozy squirming in his lap.”

  “At least you don’t need anything from him,” I said, although part of me wished that he did. If I could gain access to the king’s ear, perhaps I had a shot at changing his mind about allying with Zallabar.

  Yeah, right, I thought as I remembered the way he groped Lady Hariana in front of all those men. Who was I kidding? Women were nothing but playthings to a man like Zoltar. The only thing he’d want from me was my body, and I’d sooner stab my own eyes out than debase myself like that.

  Salcombe steered us toward the chess table where the man he’d wanted to speak to had been, but two different players occupied the board, and he was nowhere to be found. We spent the next two hours hanging around, mingling with the other courtiers while we waited for the servants to finish preparing the royal gardens for the reception.

  “That dress looks like something from last century,” a woman dripping in pink silk and lace said as she looked me up and down with a critical eye. “Did you find it in a consignment shop? I can’t imagine any modiste worth her salt would have made something so out of fashion.”

  The real Zara would have thrown back some snarky retort, but since I was Lady Zara, I merely smiled. “If I did, perhaps it was at the same shop you frequent,” I said, giving her diamond necklace a pointed look. My treasure sense told me that they were fakes, worth less than a quarter of what a real diamond necklace would go for. Her family had likely fallen on hard times and she’d sold the real necklace to pay off some debts.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the woman said, but her face went sheet-white, and she unconsciously lifted a slender hand to her faux necklace. I hid a smirk as she struggled to change the subject, knowing she was likely terrified that I would expose her for the fraud she was. “A lady of my stature would have no need to patronize such a shop!”

  Lady Zara: one. Stuffy Nobles: zero.

  Thankfully, the steward came in and announced the garden was now open to guests, giving the woman an out. The side doors to the great hall had been thrown wide, and the crowd of bored nobles immediately spilled out, heading for the expansive gardens. Salcombe and I made a few more rounds before he ended up in a spirited conversation with a man who turned out to be the royal librarian. The conversation was actually fascinating, but after a few moments, Salcombe strongly hinted at me to make myself scarce. I tried not to be insulted as I did as I was told and wandered off—I knew it was easier for Salcombe to extract information out of these highbrows when I wasn’t around, as men tended not to speak freely in front of the gentler sex.

  Annoyed, I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and nursed it as I floated through the crowd. In no mood to indulge the various inane conversations swirling around me, I eavesdropped on a group of naval officers sitting on a trio of benches that curved around a fountain sculpture of a mermaid. Her bared breasts would have been shocking enough, but the streams of water spurting from her nipples were an attraction in their own right. I wondered if King Zoltar had installed the piece himself, or if it had been commissioned by a former king. The idea that all Traggaran kings were as piggish as the current monarch made me glad to have been born in Elantia, not here. Yes, there were problems with our republic, but at least we didn’t have to deal with men like this.

  “Quite a party, isn’t it?” one of the officers said as he raised his glass to the others. “One of the last we’ll be enjoying for a while, I think.”

  “Thank gods for that,” another man said heartily. “We’ve been waiting nearly two months for the king to sign that declaration of war, cooling our heels on the shores when we should be sticking our swords in Elantian bellies.”

  “You mean sticking our cocks into Elantian whores,” another officer said.

  My stomach curdled as the officers laughed. “We’ll be doing both soon enough,” another man said. “The king is going to sign the declaration tomorrow, and the general will give us our orders that same afternoon. The armada is nearly ready to go and will be finished in time for the new cannons to arrive. Those dragon-riding bastards won’t know what hit them!”

  Not wanting to hear more, I moved away from the officers. As I passed into another clearing, I saw the king had finally emerged from his chambers and was mingling with the nobles. He roared with laughter at something one of his courtiers said, jowls quivering, and Lady Hariana simpered as she leaned into him, trying to wrest his attention back to her. I curled my lip as I watched his big hand slide down her back to splay against the curve of her ass. A wave of disgust filled me, and suddenly I wished I had my knives. It would be so easy to bury a dagger in the king’s back, to end his miserable life and my woes all at once. If the king was dead, he couldn’t sign the declaration, could he?

  But no, I thought, depression settling into my bones. That wouldn’t work. I was no assassin, and even if I could kill the king in cold blood, that wouldn’t help us. The king’s death might delay the war for a few days, but I would likely be hanged as an Elantian spy, and the new king would have even more reason to go to war with my country. Words, not weapons, were the only thing that could sway Zoltar from his path, and the only person who could wield those words effectively
was nowhere to be found at the party tonight.

  Thoroughly fed up with watching the king, I wandered off, looking for Salcombe. Had he found Elliot yet? Perhaps I could sneak up on the two of them together and do some eavesdropping. When Salcombe relayed these conversations to me, he only told me what he deemed salient, which meant I could be missing out on vital clues.

  Lost in thought, I rounded a corner, and nearly ran straight into someone. “Lady Zara!” Firm hands gripped my shoulders. “Are you all right?”

  “General Trattner!” My cheeks colored, and I hastily stepped back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t look where I was going.”

  “No need to apologize,” he said kindly. “There’s no harm done. But are you sure you’re all right? You look as if something has upset you.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” I lied. “I merely wish I was home, so I could get out of this silly dress. Court garments are quite cumbersome.”

  “Indeed.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “I can’t imagine having to wear all the fussy contraptions you females put up with on the regular. I think I would die if I had to wear a corset all day. Whoever said women are the weaker sex is a fool.”

  I laughed and took his offered arm. The two of us fell into easy conversation, as we always did, talking of Zallabar. But this time, the general seemed more interested in talking about his career as a soldier than the ancient history we usually discussed.

  “I confess I miss the old days, back when I was a soldier and only had to worry about following orders and carrying out the tasks I was given,” Trattner said morosely. “The weight of command is difficult enough, but now that I am a diplomat as well, I must be careful to watch my tongue at all times.”

  “I can sympathize with that,” I said, and I meant that more than he could ever know. During my all-too-brief stint in the military I felt I couldn’t be honest with anyone, and I hadn’t even been a diplomat! I couldn’t imagine how men like Trattner and Tavarian felt, having to constantly put on a show for others and hide their real feelings and opinions. “It must be especially difficult when you have to deal with heads of state.”