Servants had appeared with more trays of food: glass noodles, steamed mussels, and salted duck eggs, followed by pickled cabbage and tender oxtail and dipping sauces of every color. The smells assaulted Imeria’s senses, and the music soared even louder than before. She couldn’t hear herself think.

According to Yari’s observation, Hara Duja could be harboring a foreigner behind these walls. He must have posed a threat if she was so determined to keep him a secret. Imeria needed better information, and for that she needed a keener set of eyes⁠—eyes that could penetrate deeper into the palace’s inner workings. A lowly serving girl would be of little help to her there.

Perhaps Luntok’s tryst would prove useful, after all. In a single gulp, Imeria finished her wine and threw her goblet onto a passing tray. Her gaze, alert now, swept over the crowded hall of the receiving room. She needed to find her son.

Nine

Laya

Laya collapsed against Luntok’s chest, pink cheeked in pleasure. “Oh, darling,” she whispered breathily, “tell me you are never leaving Mariit.”

Luntok sighed into her hair, his breath tickling her earlobe. They’d snuck away after the feast, stumbling and sloshing wine across the wax-glazed floorboards, and were now lying naked beneath Laya’s sheets. The sun, once high and bloated on the horizon, had long since dipped beneath the golden crocodile jaws that dotted the palace roofs. Pale shadows streaked through the window screens, painting lines across Luntok’s flushed face. Laya hadn’t thought she could want him more until just minutes before, when he had been pressing their hips together and moaning her name. She loved that it was her name on his lips, no one else’s. She’d wear his name like a brand. She’d let him carve it with his nails, sharp as razor blades, into her unmarked skin.

“I’d stay in bed with you forever,” Luntok said as he ran his fingers along her back, leaving a trail of goose bumps down her spine.

Then stay. Laya swallowed the words. The bustle and alcohol of the feast had made her giddy, but she had yet to completely lose her head. Instead, she allowed herself to giggle⁠—and Laya never giggled. She raised her head to peck him on the lips, her mouth curling and wet and ravenous.

“You must never leave. I forbid it,” she said.

“Would you take me as your prisoner, Dayang?” Luntok asked, grinning.

“Oh, yes.” She clambered on top of him. The feast wine had given her a playful spark of energy, along with a set of thumbs. She grappled for his wrists, pinning them clumsily to the sheets. When she sat up, the room spun around her. Laya braced her weight against Luntok’s shoulders to steady herself. Maybe she was more inebriated than she’d thought.

Nestled between the pillows, Luntok feigned confusion. “And what crime have I committed, Dayang?”