“I—” Zuri’s silhouette hesitated behind the screen. “I could help you wash it out. If you like.”

For a horrifying, fascinating moment, I imagined being beneath him, awash with his scent as I sat against the tub, head tilted back as he ran his strong, dark fingers through my hair.

“Or not,” he said at my stunned silence. “There’s a turban on the stool. Should be clean.”

I retrieved it and wrapped my coils, which had fallen out of their twists in the water. When I stepped from behind the screen, Zuri sat before an elegant luncheon. While I had bathed, servants had come and gone, leaving a tureen of peanut stew, a platter of doughy fufu, and a steaming pot of tea.

“Your clothes should arrive soon,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Nothing too obviously Djbanti. It could be . . . complicated for the court rumor mill to know you were here. Bathing.”

I cringed and nodded, hugging his robe closer around me.

“You should eat,” he added, filling two polished wood cups with tea and offering one to me. “You’ve had a shock.”

I accepted the cup after a pause, sinking down onto the cushion. “You didn’t answer my question,” I pointed out. “Why trust me with your secret? In fact—why have secrets in the first place?” I frowned down at my tea. “I understand concealing the Crocodile’s identity. But you live a lie every moment of every day—even among your own people. What kind of king makes his own subjects think he’s a fool?”

“A king who survives,” he replied, handing me a bowl. “How much have you heard about the Wanguru—my family?”

I dipped a piece of fufu in the stew, chewing thoughtfully. “I know your older brothers died. Hunting accidents. It’s why you came to the throne so young. Your parents died too . . .” I trailed off, a chill racing up my arms. “Am’s Story. Was your family—”

“Murdered? Yes. Though my father might have killed himself. Too proud to live as a puppet, you see. I, on the other hand . . .” He flourished a hand, then smiled tightly. “Djbanti has long been controlled by merchant-warlords. Their riches outweigh my treasury, and if it were up to them, they would erase my family altogether. But the common people of Djbanti revere us, and so we remain. The warlords could snuff out a peasant uprising, of course, but civil wars are expensive, and would interrupt what they love most: their precious supply lines.”

“So they made the Wanguru puppets, instead.” I tried to hide the pity in my voice.

Zuri nodded once. “We look the other way as the warlords seize every mill, mine, and quarry that the Kunleos don’t own already. And if any king dares show a hint of backbone, he’s eliminated. When I was still a boy, I learned to keep my temper quiet, and my words pretty.” He ran a calloused hand through his locs, which fell in sheets over his dark shoulder. “The warlord system was initially well-intended. Their merchants were supposed to compete with each other, keeping prices low for the people. Then they realized they were stronger together. They united and made pacts to drive up the price of basic goods, like rice and palm oil. My people were driven to desperation.”