Discarded silks littered the floor. Bright yellows and greens and blues. The best colours, the best dyes, the finest silk. It all came from the silk farms on Tyan’s Peninsula, close to his home in Furymouth. ‘Does it hurt?’ The voice came from somewhere under the tangle of soft furs piled up on the bed. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘Not at all.’ Three months had passed since Shezira had tried to neuter him. He threw on a robe and went to stand in one of the windows. Vale was out there somewhere, the Night Watchman who’d placed the crossbow in Shezira’s hands the day before he’d cut off her head. He’d be down below, stomping up and down and shouting at his men most likely. At any other time, Jehal would simply have had Vale hanged, drawn and left to die in a cage outside the gates, that old ritual that Zafir had so gleefully revived. But I need him, and he needs me, and however much we’d love to slit each other’s throats, neither of us can stand alone. Put him away for later.
