"Feed me!" the abina demanded. "Fetch more cakes and feed me, whore!" He reached for the whip that always lay by his side. He was too weak to cut her skin, but the lashes still stung, leaving red marks. "Feed me!"

Issari nodded. Numb, she took a few steps back toward the table. Her chain jangled behind her. She reached across the table, feeling so hollow, so hurt.

"Feed me!" the abina's voice rose behind.

She lifted a golden platter of honeyed almond cakes and stepped back toward her husband. The obese abina smacked his lips, and his tongue darted greedily. His hands opened and closed.

"Mmm, good. Feed them to me. Feed me my sweets."

She stepped closer, her fingers tingling. His mouth opened like a baby bird's beak. She placed a cake inside.

"I will feed you," she whispered. Her eyes burned. "Sweets for my sweetling."

She placed another cake in his mouth. He chewed lustfully, crumbs and drool dripping down his naked chest. She placed a third cake into his waiting jaws.

For Tanin.

She placed another cake in the king's mouth.

For Eteer.

"Wh— Iss— sto—" The abina sputtered, crumbs falling from his mouth.

For Requiem.

She lifted three cakes and shoved them into her husband's mouth.

He began to choke. He tried to spit them out.

"I will feed you," she repeated. She shoved more cakes in, ramming them down his throat. Her eyes burned with tears, and rage exploded through her. Her limbs trembled. She kept shoving cakes in. "Eat! Eat them!" Her voice rose to a shout. "Eat them all!"

She grabbed his jaw with one hand, forcing it open, and stuffed more cakes in, driving them down his throat as he sputtered. His hands flapped uselessly; he was too weak now to raise his massive arms. His legs twitched under his blanket, too heavy to kick. His face reddened, then began to turn blue.

"Eat them and choke, my dearest, beloved husband," Issari whispered and shoved the last cake in.

Three palace guards rushed forward. Their long, curled beards swayed, and they reached for their swords. They stared at her, eyes filling with rage. Issari faced them, allowing her anger to flow away. She let concern wash her face.

"He's choking!" she cried to them. "My dear husband is choking! Help him! Help him!"

If the guards had suspected her, that suspicion now vanished. They raced toward their king. The obese man had fallen over, his rolls of fat splayed out around him. His limbs twitched, and his face turned deep purple. He tried to speak but he could utter only choking sounds. The guards began to pound his chest and reach into his throat, desperate to revive him.

The guards' backs faced her. Issari tightened her lips, reached to one guard's belt, and grabbed his khopesh. She scurried backward, holding the sickle-shaped sword.

The guard spun toward her, eyes widening.