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The ambassador shut his eyes, then opened them again. “Don’t fight them,” he said softly.
Annie kept walking. She saw a pile of crimson-colored rags with black polka dots out of the corner of her eye.
Ah, God!
It was a pile of bodies in a sea of blood, dotted with huge black flies.
She tried not to react, but it was impossible. She gagged, and that turned out to be a true knee-slapper. The bandits—the barbarians, she thought grimly—howled with laughter. So did their fat leader.
Annie took a long, steadying breath. Don’t, she told herself. Don’t get sick, not with them watching.
It was hard, but she dragged her gaze from the bodies, forced down a mouthful of bile and kept going.
When she was a couple of feet from the fat man, she stopped.
“Who are you?” she said in English. “Identify yourself immediately.”
Okay. Maybe they all spoke English because there was a gasp behind her. The men on either side of him went stone-faced and reached into their robes.
This is it, Annie thought. They’re going to kill me.
But, to her astonishment, Fat Man laughed. The men standing with him dutifully followed suit. Ha ha, they said, ha ha.
“You are either very brave or very foolish,” the fat man said.
Annie drew herself up. “Do you know who I am?”
Another knee-slapper. Maybe she had a future in stand-up comedy—assuming she had a future at all.
“I am,” she said, “the Princess Anoushka of the Royal House of Qaram.”
Not even a blink.
“Do you know the power of the Royal House of Qaram?” she said. “You will be hanged for this insult unless you set me free.”
“Why would I set you free when you are worth two millions American dollars to us?”
It was Fat Man doing a comedy routine now. Her uncle would never pay that kind of money for her.
“Qaram will not pay you. It will destroy you. You have a band of useless fighters. Qaram has an army. It has planes…”
Fat Man stepped forward and grabbed her arm. His thick fingers dug deep into her flesh. His stench was overwhelming and she tried to turn her face away, but he clasped her chin and forced her to look at him.
“Qaram is weak. So is Tharsalonia.” He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “And neither will fight to get you back, not when they know who has claimed you.”
Claimed? Why did the word make Annie’s pulse skitter?
“You were on your way to be claimed today,” the fat man said. “By the Tharsalonian king. How disappointed you must have been to learn that you were not going to be a bride.” He leaned closer. Annie tried not to inhale. “But there is no need for disappointment, Princess. You will not be married to the bridegroom you expected, but you will be married. Does that please you?”
Annie felt her courage falter, but she knew better than to let that show.
“You speak in riddles,” she said.
Fat Man snapped his fingers. One of his men handed him a framed photograph. He shoved it into her hands.
“Look,” he commanded.
She stared at the photo of a bearded man in his thirties or forties. His arms were folded over his chest, and he held a long, curved knife in one hand. The blade dripped with something dark.
