The Hanging City (92)

“Then we will goad you out into the open. Tell me, how could I best accomplish that?”

I’m starting to feel sick. Father asks more questions, and soon I’m on my knees, panting with my own terror. In the past, he always used me more subtly. He didn’t want others to know they were being manipulated. He uses no such tact here.

After fifteen minutes, I cut off the fear. Blink sweat from my eyes. Cold flows from my erratic heartbeat and through my limbs. My belly and sinuses burn.

But it’s satisfactory. “Well done, Calia.” Ottius Thellele brushes his hands off and turns toward the door. “You’ve finally learned your place.”



During the day the army moves northeast, farther from Cagmar. My father rides a horse—one of only three such animals among the men—and he has me walk beside him. We keep up a steady pace, but by the time we make camp for the night, I’m exhausted. My father must be itching to speak with the other war leaders, for he assigns a soldier named Dunnan to tie me up for the night, instead of doing it himself.

But this is a good thing. First, I must be gaining some trust if my father delegates the task. Second, any other man will be easier to fool than Ottius Thellele.

And fool him I must. I have just over a day to meet Qequan’s messenger at the Pentalpoint. I need information, and my father admitted the men here were anxious for “sport.”

As Dunnan leads me into a hastily erected storage tent, I bank on the assumption that not a single soldier here would dare touch me without his general’s consent. Like me, none of them would risk his anger.

If my assumption proves wrong, I’m going to pay the price.

I’m not a practiced flirt, but I’ve seen it done. I understand the basic concepts of seduction: the goal is to make a man see me for my body only. Make him want it. When Dunnan drops the flap and sets his lamp aside, I lean into him, brushing my cheek against his.

“Ottius must trust you a lot, to handle me.” I try to put a sexual inflection in my voice. It sounds stupid to my ears, but it gives Dunnan pause, so it must be doing its job. When I don’t move, he grasps me by both shoulders and pushes me ahead of him. Grumbling to himself, he looks around, probably for the cot. It isn’t set up.

At least he won’t make me sleep on the dirt.

While Dunnan searches I pull my shirt forward and jerk it down as low as it can go, trying to show off a little more skin. I never had to use such a tactic on Azmar. But I force him from my mind. If I want to help him, I need to wrap this soldier as tightly around my finger as possible. Get him to do me a favor or . . . something.

He finds the folded cot and pulls it into the lamplight. His gaze catches on my chest, lingering for a couple of heartbeats, before he sets the cot up against the far wall, the only place where there’s room.

I weave my hair through my fingers. “What rank are you?”

“Nothing impressive.” He gestures toward the cot and pulls out a length of fabric. I wonder if someone took the rope for something else. Or if he couldn’t find it.

Making a point of looking him up and down, I say, “That’s not true.” I do my best to saunter to the bed. I’ve never sauntered in my life.

His lip quirks. “Don’t be trouble, Miss Thellele.”

Matching his smile, I raise him a grin. “Call me Calia.”

I hate that name.

I sit on the cot, as close to him as I can. Cross one leg over the other and run my fingers from my knee to my hip. He watches. I’m glad the poor lighting hides any rookie mistakes I’m making.

“Wrists.”

Changing tactics, I try a pout instead and offer my wrists, leaning forward and squeezing my elbows together, trying again to emphasize my breasts. “Be gentle, Dunnan. I’m delicate.”

Looping the cloth around my wrists, he asks, “How do you know my name?”

Because my father called for you in front of me. But he doesn’t need to know that. “I’ve noticed you, is all.” That sounded right. Like something Finnie might say to a boy she liked. But in my memory, Finnie is fourteen years old. I need to be careful.

His eyebrow rises, or the shadows around it do. “Oh?” He ties a knot around my wrists. I stroke his collar. When he leans forward to loop it behind my back—and he definitely leans too close—I swallow a gag and nip at his ear.

He pulls back. “Miss Thellele.”

I run the inside of my foot up his calf, where he’s not armored. “Calia.”

“The general would not approve.”

“Of what?” I blink at him. I try a coy expression. Rub his calf some more. Worried that I’m playing too dumb, I add, “He’s not here.”

A bud of fear sprouts behind my navel. Please don’t do it. I could press a little fear into him if he does. Make him change his mind. As long as my father doesn’t find out. But Dunnan should naturally fear Ottius Thellele.

He crouches down to knot the binds around my ankles. His knuckle grazes the side of my knee and draws downward. When he’s finished, he plants his hands on either side of my hips. I fight the instinct to pull away. Pretend he’s Azmar. Pretend anything you have to.

I lean closer.

“Calia,” he says, a hint of tease in his voice. “The battle will be swift. Afterward”—he thumbs my chin—“we’ll talk.”