Page 3 of The Desert King's Spy (Magic and Kings 2)

I couldn’t be squeamish. I was an orphan who would do anything to survive.

CHAPTERONE

Nineteen years later…

The crowd spoke nota word as I emerged onto the stage, my features—even my hair—veiled, my body wrapped in scarves, tiny bells sewn along the seams. The only part of me that peeked out? My heavily kohled eyes, the lashes thick and dark, and my sandaled toes, the nails painted with a gold glitter.

I stood on that stage unmoving, a statue for longer than most would dare. I waited until all eyes fixed on me. Tendrils of smoke from the braziers placed around the stage wreathed my lower body, giving the impression of mist. After all, this was a song about the marsh, the almost impassable wetlands to our south, guarded by a coven of evil witches. A song about the love of a witch for a veiled stranger that ends in her killing him when he wants her to leave the marsh.

A strange choice to sing in a pleasure house, perhaps, but only if I’d been singing the words, which I wouldn’t. The third verse had a line about the eating of manhoods to strengthen witchy magic that ruined the mood.

But I wanted the melody of that song. The building of a mood that began as a simple beat on a drum, the kind made of tanned skin stretched taut. Each slow percussion was followed by a twitch of my hips. A light tap to his left drum, my right hip jiggled. Right and I went the other way, the gentle motion making my chimes ring lightly.

With their gazes fixated on my hips, I entered the second stage of the dance, where a flute brought in more sweeping sounds. High. Low. I began twirling, lightly, my scarves fluttering to match my movement, flattening against my frame or hanging depending on what limb I lifted. There was an art when it came to molding the fabric to the body and hiding it.

The bells that jingled as I moved added to the song, and I increased their sound as I tugged at my scarves, unwinding one to reveal the indent of my waist. Covering it again. Showing off the curve of my hip. A glimpse of my navel, where a jewel nestled.

Never too much at once. Never enough to do more than whet their appetite. A proper dance of seduction—as my mentor, a formerly in-high-demand tizana, taught me—was about giving as little as possible and leaving them begging for more.

By the time I finished the song, I had the audience thinking they’d seen intimate parts of me while unable to remember exactly how any of me appeared. They would try and piece together a full picture of me and fail. It would make them desperate for more.

I exited the stage, moving rapidly that I might have a moment to myself before my client for the evening arrived. That would be decided by who showed the most generosity. Small brass pots would be collected from interested patrons and inside there would be coins or jewels. How much really depended on how desperate they were. No refunds even to the losers. Only the gift that impressed me most would receive a private meeting.

I expected it to be a lucrative night. Two of my regulars would be vying for my attention. After all, I was the cream of the Luxuria Gradeena, the most exclusive pleasure house in the country’s capital. I worked only when I felt like it. Another lesson from my mentor, Qynn: “They’ll pay more if they think it’s exclusive.”

I missed having Qynn around, but I’d known her retirement neared. Once my mentor reached a certain age, and a level of comfort wealth wise, she hung up her dancing bells. I’d have a way to go before I could do the same.

My boudoir on the fourth floor had a panoramic view of the city at night. Bright lights blinked like jewels, and if I sat on the ledge, I could catch snippets of song from the tavern just up the road. When it was just me, I liked to keep the windows open, but it made my clients nervous. As if they’d not been seen coming into the gradeena. There were no secrets in the city.

I pulled closed the drapes as the door to my room opened. I guessed without turning who I’d see.

“My love, I’ve returned.” Filik Dagnon oozed eagerness. The great and mighty advisor of the king, putty in my hands.

“Filik. You really shouldn’t. What would your wife say?” A shrewish woman who’d squeezed out an heir and a spare. The Lady Dagnon had a penchant for her housekeeper and thus preferred her husband be occupied elsewhere.

“She doesn’t have to be my wife anymore. Marry me,” Filik begged. Part of his fantasy was he liked to pretend he’d actually have the brass balls to kill his wife and wed me. He wouldn’t. The highborn only rarely married lower than their station. And it didn’t get any lower than a tizana, even if I worked at the most exclusive gradeena.

“How do I know you aren’t lying to me?” I added a pouty lilt to my words. He couldn’t see my face. None of my clients did. Part of my mystery.

“Let me prove my love.”

I knew how he wanted to prove it. But as usual, I had him give me what I wanted instead. “Tell me something secret. Something that shows you trust me.”

Filik didn’t hesitate. “The king is said to be looking for a wife.”

“Bah. They’ve been saying that for years.”

“For real this time, though.”

“Not a secret.” I waved my hand. “I guess that answers my question of whether you truly love me.” I went to the door, and suddenly fearful of being tossed out, Filik yelled, “No. I do. Believe me. There have been reports of monsters attacking towns.”

“Is it the gigamanders again?” We’d been hearing of more and more attacks lately. The deaths of my family? Just the start of the monsters. It had gotten so bad we’d been seeing refugees arriving in the city as people migrated away from the towns built atop the deep sands out of fear they’d be next.

“Worse than gigamanders. Flying monsters that swoop from the sky. Some claim they spit flame.”

“Dragons?” I snorted.

His frantic nod almost sent him to the floor. “I heard the witnesses myself. And that’s not all. The storms are bad this year.”

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