Imeria followed them off the deck and onto the wharf, where the carriage was waiting. Vikal helped the boy hoist the trunk onto the roof of the carriage. She saw Vikal making calculations. Imeria had brought twice as many trunks as the previous year.

“Traveling light, are we?” he said, amused.

His remark brought a dry grin to her face. She knew what he was thinking. Imeria had arrived in the capital armed to the teeth, and she had been awfully clever about it. The Royal Maynaran Guard would not blink at Luntok’s impressive collection of weapons; he was competing in the feast-day tournament, after all. Imeria spared no expense on additional arms⁠—convincing replicas of antique swords with engraved blades and ivory hilts, each too precious to appear useful. If the guards troubled her, Imeria need only say the swords were part of her generous tribute to the queen.

Hara Duja. Imeria looked up at Mariit’s skyline. The sloping, tiered roofs of the palace peeked out over the outer walls. Her stomach twisted when she remembered the first time she had met the queen. That had been three decades earlier. Duja, only a princess back then, had not allowed Imeria to kneel too long.

Rise, Duja had said in that soft, gravelly voice of hers. She’d given Imeria a shy smile as she pulled her to her feet. Don’t trouble yourself, she’d added, noticing how Imeria’s eyes had widened in apprehension. There will be no need for that with me.

Duja had not smiled at Imeria that way in years. She did not acknowledge Imeria if she could help it. The Kulaws’ disgraceful legacy aside, Imeria could trace much of the court’s hatred of her back to the queen.

Imeria remembered a time when she’d hungered for any opportunity to see Duja again⁠—to beg for her forgiveness. That was when Imeria had been a desperate girl, with a broken heart and without the slightest care for her own dignity. So there she stood, twenty-two years later, a bitter woman plotting the Gatdula queen’s demise.

“Do you believe this year is the year, then?” Vikal asked, lowering his voice to a cautious whisper. He helped Imeria into the carriage and climbed into the seat across from her.

“I believe in preparedness,” Imeria said blithely.

She glanced over Vikal’s shoulder. The driver had finished strapping the last of the trunks to the top of the carriage. He took a seat at the front bench with the serving boy at his side. For months now, Imeria had been making promises to the battle-starved servants under her employ. Like Imeria, they harbored their own hatred for the Gatdulas. Vikal had warned her more than once about their growing impatience. How much longer could she count on their loyalty?