Page 73 of A Dance of Lies

But of course. So long as she’s judged a criminal, she can be stripped of all rights. Legally.

Sorrow burrows deep into my heart. Whatever she did, deserving or not, she will spend the rest of her life a prisoner, at the mercy of whoever purchases her.

“Let’s start with ten quatra,” the scum of a king beside me says. “Vasalie, if you please.”

The woman’s hands shake, like my own, but she does not cower.

I loathe myself as I step forward and call it out.

“Fifteen quatra,” someone yells.

“Thirty-five quatra, and a ruby.”

“Fifty!”

I don’t even have to raise the price. The bids come fast.

“A hundred, and three pearls the size of my fist! She’s a darling, that one.”

“A hundred, and my wife!” The crowd erupts into laughter.

“Is she really worth it?” someone else calls. “A bit scrawny, no?”

My dinner swarms in my gut, threatening to rise. They pick apart her appearance. They joke about what she’ll be good for, how she’ll be used.

“Small hands. At least they look soft—”

“But those lips. Imagine—”

No, stop.

“Twenty thousand quatra and five chests of pearls. For all of them.”

The bidding halts.

I swivel, horrified, and meet Anton’s sparking eyes.

“Really, Anton,” King Estienne drawls. “Glory Court running thin these days?”

Glory Court. Of course.

Hatred rises up my throat. I had hoped, foolishly, that Anton might not be as despicable as I’d thought. That he might have been protecting me, earlier. That everyone was wrong about him.

But this is a game to him. A sport. Everything is, and he’s in it to win.

Anton takes a casual step forward, pilfering a half-empty glass from an unsuspecting noble. Downing it in a swig, he winks at the man before swaggering toward the throne, clapping the backs of two men he outbid. “Can anyone beat my offer? No?”

The prick has a bounce in his step.

King Estienne rolls his eyes and slaps the key into Anton’s hands, mumbling a low, “You ruin everything.”

Anton merely flashes a pleased smile. “A pleasure, as always.”

With a curl of his fingers, Anton’s guards swing forward from their positions along the wall, their glass-like helms reflecting glimmers of amaranthine torchlight. He relays his orders—something about letting the prisoners enjoy the revelry for a while. Come dawn, they will be loaded onto a ship and escorted to theirnew home.

Courtiers snicker throughout the room. Their amusement is like hot wax burning into my stomach. And then Anton tosses me a key, nodding his head toward the prisoner. “Vasalie, be a darling, would you?”

He wants me to lock her back into the main chain.