Page 45 of A Dance of Lies

“That you stock it full of concubines. Nearly a hundred women at any given time, there at your disposal.”

“And if it were true?” He steps closer, until he’s towering over me. “Little Minnow, are you jealous?”

Minnow. A fish.Really?I glower at him, cheeks aflame. “They say those who reside there were forcibly abducted from theirhomes.”

“That’s quite the accusation.”

“And the moment you tire of them, they are never seen or heard from again. Hundreds upon hundreds have disappeared.” The mere thought makes my fists curl, my nails scoring into my flesh.

He leans down, meeting my gaze. A lock of hair falls softly over his cheek. If I was closer—if I wasn’t disgusted with him—I’d itch to brush it back. “If you would like to know about my Glory Court, ask anyone who actually spends time there. I hear there are some around these very halls. And,” he tacks on with no short amount of mirth, “there’s room for you, should you find yourself tempted to join.”

I stare at him, aghast. But I refuse to let him pry his way under my skin again. And yet . . . “Are you not going to defend yourself?”

“That seems like an awful lot of work.”

“You aren’t afraid of what they’ll say?”

“Fear is not to my liking,” he says. “Anything else?”

“You seduced the queen to stop a war. Or was it bribery?”

“Neither, but I am flattered.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“I have an innate ability to turn anything into a compliment. One of my favorite qualities. I assume there’s more?”

Aggravation climbs up my throat. “The amount of hard-earned Miridranian funds you waste on your ridiculous parties, then. You have an entire port full of pleasure barges. Four vineyards to stock your palace . . .”

“Diplomacy is never a waste, Miss Moran.”

“They say you set your own hall on fire during one of them. That you were playing with fireworks—inside—while drunk.”

“The place needed a remodel anyway.”

His casual air only serves to unnerve me. But there is one last question I have, albeit a risky one. Offensive. I could never—

“Ask,” he dares.

“They say you fell off Mount Carapet ten years ago,” I blurt. “That you couldn’t have survived.”

Again, that strange smile spreads across his cheeks.

“What?” I ask.

“You,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re so . . . I don’t know. Serious. I find myself wondering what your smile looks like.”

The fire on my cheeks intensifies; it’s a struggle to keep my composure. Especially when he’s so . . . amused. And so close. “My smiles are earned, Your Majesty,” I tell him, shrinking back.

He watches me for a few uncomfortably long seconds before extending his arm. “I meant what I said earlier. Relax tonight. Enjoy yourself, for once. And by the Fates, call me Anton. Shall we?”

I don’t miss the way he’s skipped over my question about his supposed death, but it’s just as well. It’s likely a rumor devised to make him seem more like a god.

I take his arm only because I cannot refuse him, even if he acts otherwise.

About that. “Would I not be chastised for addressing you so informally?”

“Perhaps, though not if no one’s around.”