The Prime Minister, a man named Akarat who possessed the spinal column of a wet noodle, sat across from Kraisorn in the private pavilion. He was sweating. It was a rhythmic, steady sort of perspiration that suggested he knew exactly how many people had died in this specific spot over the last month.
Kraisorn wasn't looking at him. He was staring at a biscuit.
"My Lord Duke," Akarat began, his voice wobbling. "The King is concerned about the... recent uptick in burials. He feels it's bad for morale in the capital."
Kraisorn snapped the biscuit in half. "Does he, now? How quaint. Tell me, Akarat, does the King also have an opinion on the weather? Or perhaps the quality of my silk? Because frankly, I couldn't give a toss about what he feels."
Bua stood behind Kraisorn's chair, her arms folded. She leaned down and whispered loudly enough for the Prime Minister to hear. "You're being a prick again. He's asking a simple question, and you're acting like a spoiled toddler who's lost his rattle."
Akarat's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He looked at Bua, then at Kraisorn, waiting for the executioner to be summoned.
Kraisorn didn't reach for his sword. He sighed and leaned back. "See? This is why I kept her. She's remarkably blunt. Akarat, meet Bua. She's my new conscience. A bit dusty, but functional."
"Your... conscience?" Akarat stammered. "My Lord, she's a servant. She shouldn't even be in the room, let alone speaking."
"And you shouldn't be breathing my air, but here we are," Bua snapped. She stepped forward and plucked a grape from the Duke's plate. "He's asking about the killings because the merchants are scared to bring their goods to the city. If they don't come, the tax revenue drops. If the revenue drops, the King can't pay for his new summer palace. It isn't 'morale,' you idiot. It's money."
Kraisorn looked up at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Is that so? Money? I thought it was just because I was making the place look untidy."
"It's always money," Bua said, popping the grape into her mouth. "Now, answer the man before he has a heart attack on your rug. It'll be a nightmare to clean."
Kraisorn turned his gaze back to the Prime Minister. The playfulness vanished instantly. His eyes went flat and cold.
"Go back to the King," Kraisorn said, his voice like a razor. "Tell him that if he wants fewer burials, he should stop sending me corrupt officials who think they can skim off my estates. I'm doing him a favor by thinning the herd. If he has a problem with it, he can come and tell me himself. But tell him to bring a shield. I'm feeling particularly restless this week."
Akarat scrambled to his feet, bowing so low his forehead hit the table. "I... I shall convey the message, My Lord. Immediately."
He fled the pavilion without looking back.
Kraisorn watched him go, then slumped in his chair. "Well, that was tedious. I should have killed him just to save myself the boredom of his next visit."
"You do that and you'll have a war on your hands," Bua said, kicking the back of his chair. "Sit up. You look like a sack of potatoes."
Kraisorn turned his head to look at her. "You're pushing your luck, rat. I'm in a foul mood."
"You're always in a foul mood," Bua retorted. "Now, what's next on the schedule? Or are you just going to sit here and brood until the sun goes down?"
Kraisorn stood up, his movements fluid and dangerous. "Actually, I think I'll go to the dungeons. I believe there's a spy from the southern provinces waiting for me. Would you like to come? I promise it'll be more educational than cleaning floors."
Bua shrugged. "Lead the way, Your Grace. But if you start singing while you're torturing him, I'm leaving. I have standards."
"Deal," Kraisorn said, heading for the stairs.
The walk to the dungeons was conducted in a silence that Kraisorn seemed to find immensely amusing. He hummed a low, discordant tune, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. Bua followed two paces behind, her wooden sandals clacking against the stone steps with a stubborn rhythm.
"You're remarkably quiet, Bua," Kraisorn said without turning around. "Most people start crying by the third flight of stairs. It's a bit of a tradition."
"I'm saving my breath for the climb back up," Bua replied. "Besides, your humming is grating enough. I don't need to add to the noise."
They reached the heavy iron grate at the bottom. Phichai was already there, waiting with a bunch of keys and a look of profound boredom. He unlocked the door with a sharp metallic snap and stepped aside.
"The prisoner is in the third cell, My Lord," Phichai said. "He's been remarkably stubborn. Claims he's just a silk merchant who lost his way."
Kraisorn stepped into the cramped space. A man was chained to the wall, his clothes tattered and his face bruised. He looked up, his eyes widening as the Duke approached.
"A silk merchant," Kraisorn repeated, leaning against the damp wall. "How fascinating. Tell me, what kind of silk merchant carries a coded map of my northern fortifications in his boot? Is that a new trend in the markets? Do the ladies find it fashionable?"
The man remained silent, his jaw set in a hard line.
Kraisorn turned to Bua. "What do you think? Is he a merchant or a spy? Give me your expert opinion."
Bua walked up to the man, squinting at his hands. She grabbed one of his wrists, ignoring his flinch, and turned it over. She ran her thumb over the thick calluses on his palm.
"He's no merchant," Bua said, dropping his hand. "Merchant's hands are soft from handling fine fabric. These are the hands of a man who spends ten hours a day gripping a spear or a rowing oar. He's a soldier, Your Grace. And a common one at that."
Kraisorn's eyebrows shot up. He looked at the prisoner, then back at Bua. "A soldier. Well, fancy that. You're actually useful for something other than backtalk."
He turned his attention back to the man on the wall. The playful edge in his voice vanished, replaced by a cold, flat tone that made the air in the cell feel thin.
"Right then. You've heard the lady. You're a soldier. Which means you have a commander, and that commander has a name. Tell me the name, and I'll let Phichai give you a quick, clean end. Don't tell me, and I'll let Bua here describe the various ways I can make the next three days very, very long for you."
"I have nothing to say to you, butcher," the soldier spat.
Kraisorn didn't blink. He reached out and gripped the man's throat, squeezing just enough to make his face turn a dull shade of grey.
"I've been called worse by better men," Kraisorn whispered. "But 'butcher' is a bit on the nose, don't you think? It lacks imagination."
He let go and stepped back, looking at Bua. "He's being difficult. Should I kill him now, or should we keep him for the weekend? I find that Sundays are always better with a bit of a show."
Bua looked at the soldier, then at the Duke. "He's not going to talk because he thinks his friends are coming for him. Look at his boots. The mud is fresh. He hasn't been in this city more than six hours. His unit is likely still within five miles of the walls."
Kraisorn froze. He looked at the man's boots, then at Phichai.
"Phichai," the Duke said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Check the perimeter. Now. If there's a scouting party within five miles and you missed it, I'll have your head on a plate before dinner."
Phichai didn't wait for a second order. He vanished up the stairs at a dead run.
Kraisorn turned back to the soldier, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He drew a small, thin dagger from his sleeve.
"Well, well. It seems you've actually made my day interesting after all."
Kraisorn didn't wait for a response from the man on the wall. He simply drove the dagger through the soldier's hand, pinning it to the wooden post behind him. The scream was short, sharp, and cut off by Kraisorn's palm slamming over the man's mouth.
"Do shut up," Kraisorn whispered. "Bua is trying to think, and I find your dramatics quite taxing."
Bua didn't flinch. She stepped closer, inspecting the soldier's belt. She plucked a small brass coin from a hidden pouch and held it up to the torchlight.
"Southern border patrol," she said, tossing the coin to the Duke. "They aren't scouts. They're a vanguard. If he's here, there are fifty more in the tall grass by the river."
Kraisorn caught the coin and tucked it into his waistcoat. He pulled the dagger out of the post with a wet crunch, ignoring the man's muffled groan as he slumped.
"Fifty? How marvelous," Kraisorn said. He wiped the blade on the soldier's shoulder. "Phichai will be delighted. He's been complaining about the lack of exercise lately."
He turned to the door, beckoning Bua to follow. "Come along. We've work to do. If we hurry, we can catch them before they have their porridge. I've always found a pre-breakfast slaughter to be remarkably refreshing."
"Are you going to leave him here?" Bua asked, gesturing to the bleeding man.
"He's served his purpose," Kraisorn said, walking up the stairs. "Phichai can finish him off when he returns. I've a war to start, and I'm already behind schedule."
They reached the top of the stairs where the air was thinner. Kraisorn stopped abruptly and looked at Bua.
"You're quite good at this, aren't you? Spotting the details. Most girls your age are too busy fainting at the sight of a scratch."
"I've seen more blood in the slums over a loaf of bread than you've seen in your fancy court," Bua replied. "Don't act like I'm doing you a favour. I'm just trying not to get killed when your palace gets burned down."
Kraisorn chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "A pragmatist. I like that. It's so much more useful than loyalty."
He stepped out onto the balcony, looking toward the distant treeline. He didn't reach for a telescope; he simply stood there, his hands resting on the stone railing.
"Phichai!" he barked.
The commander appeared instantly at the foot of the balcony. "My Lord? The perimeter is being secured."
"Forget the perimeter," Kraisorn shouted down. "Get the horses. We're going to the river. Bua says there's a party waiting for us, and it would be rude to keep them hanging."
Phichai looked at Bua, then back at the Duke. "The girl said that? My Lord, is that wise?"
"Of course it isn't wise, you berk," Kraisorn snapped. "It's fun. Now move your arse before I decide to use you for target practice."
Kraisorn turned back to Bua, his eyes bright with a sudden, manic energy. "Well? Are you coming, or do you have a floor to scrub?"
Bua sighed and adjusted her tunic. "I'm coming. Someone has to make sure you don't fall off your horse like a posh idiot."
"Splendid," Kraisorn said. "Let's go and see if these Southerners have any better manners than the last lot I executed."