“But it’s okay for a battalion of the Peneggan army to fight?” Bael asked.

Kett made a wavering gesture with her hands. “They’re not technically part of the Peneggan army,” she said. “It’s some bureaucratic bollocks. Don’t ask me the details.”

“Is that why you didn’t let your dad come?” Bael asked.

Kett snorted. “My dad is an international incident. And he’s far too old for all this.”

“Technically, he’s younger than me,” said Striker.

“Technically, you’re a psychotic freak,” Kett responded, lightning fast, “so it doesn’t matter.”

Bael tried not to laugh too hard.

The colonel, an intelligent and hardy man by the name of Darson, gave them food and drink and a tent in which to rest. Striker lay down on one of the bunks, closed his eyes and immediately appeared to be asleep. The other four exchanged glances. None of them were fooled.

“So,” Dark said. “Is there a plan?”

“Second time in a bleeding month I’ve been in a dress,” Kett said in disgust, looking at herself in the smallish, wobbly mirror Darson had provided.

“You look charming,” Lya said, trying to keep a straight face. Kelfs were usually good at this, but apparently not when something was as hilarious as Kett in sequins. “Very…pretty.”

“I look like a Pradeshi whore,” Kett said, and Lya giggled. Kett had never heard Lya giggle before. It wasn’t encouraging.

“You’re supposed to look like one,” Lya said. “That’s your cover story, remember?”

“Yeah.” She sighed gloomily and tweaked at the very low, very short, beaded bodice Chance had given her. Her own charms didn’t quite fill it, but one of the advantages of being a shapeshifter was that you could alter yourself to fit clothes, instead of the other way around.

She’d erased all signs of scars on her body, not that there were many left after Bael had spent the previous night licking her all over and making her scream. Her nipples puckered at the memory and she tried to banish it.

The tiny bodice was matched by a full skirt, also embellished with enough beads and mirrors to dazzle an army. Her feet were bare but for a couple of decorative rings and anklets. Bangles clanked on her arm. Necklaces, earrings and a sort of jeweled headpiece completed the look.

Kett felt like a Yule tree.

She’d altered her appearance to that of a young Pradeshi woman, kohled her eyes and made an effort with her hair. With a lot of concentration, she could make the curls straighten themselves out.

“Ready?” Bael asked, pushing back the tent flap.

“No.” Kett plucked at her clothing in disgust.

He stared. “Is that really you, Kett?”

“I wish it bloody wasn’t. How do people walk with these skirts? They get tangled up. And the whole thing weighs a ton. I’ve worn armor more comfortable. It-”

Bael had her in his arms, kissing her hard, his hands roaming over her bare waist. His body pressed against hers, and even through the heavy skirts she could feel the hardness of his arousal.

“But then again…” Kett swallowed when he let her go. Behind him, the tent flap was closing. Lya had vanished.

“I’d never have recognized you,” Bael said, nuzzling her neck, “until you opened your mouth.”

“I could be another tavern whore.”

He stiffened for a moment then said, “And if you were, I’d know you weren’t, because if you were then how would you know that I wouldn’t know?”

“Um,” said Kett.

He grinned. “Can I see your face?”

She let the shape slip away and the look that came over Bael’s face was her reward. His eyes softened, his lips curved in a smile. He looked like a man in love.

“I prefer you this way.”

“You don’t think they’d recognize me?”

“Mmm.” He nuzzled her neck again. “No. I think they’ll be distracted,” his hand slipped to her breast, “and unable to even look at your face.”

She let him feel her breasts before telling him, “You know those aren’t real, right?”

“They’re real enough. Their reaction certainly is.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Her nipples were hard, her breath was coming faster, and her breasts were rising and falling in a way that seemed to absolutely fascinate Bael.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly, “are you wearing anything under that skirt?”

“I-” Kett began, but his fingers brushed her stomach, making her shiver. She found herself whispering, “Why don’t you find out?”

He looked up, grinning, and started gathering folds of embellished fabric.

“Just don’t tear anything,” Kett said. “I need this costume.”

“I won’t even take it off,” Bael promised, and disappointment swept through Kett.

Disappointment that fled when he dropped to his knees, stuck his head under her skirt and licked up the inside of her thigh, past the leather straps holding a knife to her thigh.

“No underwear,” he said, his breath hot against her pussy lips.

“I hadn’t gotten around to it,” Kett breathed, trying to keep steady on her feet.

She needn’t have bothered. Bael wrapped his arms around her legs, holding her steady, and buried his face between her thighs. His tongue burrowed between her folds, seeking out all the places she was most sensitive and licking them relentlessly until she came with a gasp, shuddering and nearly falling.

It was all over in a few minutes, Bael’s tongue so expert that she didn’t need any more. He rose to his feet, leaned her back against the heavy pole supporting the tent and kissed her.

He still had her skirts bunched up around her thighs. His hand slipped between and caressed her wet folds.

“Yes,” Kett murmured, her eyes closed, floating on a sea of bliss, and she heard a rustle of clothing before Bael’s thick cock was pressing at her entrance. “Yes,” she said again, opening her eyes, and he pushed inside.

“I love you,” he told her as he began to thrust. “I love fucking you. I love you.”

When they went outside, Lya and Dark kept their eyes averted, both of them hiding smiles.

Striker leered. “Made the tent shake,” he said.

“I know,” Kett replied smugly. She slipped her arm around Bael’s neck, kissed him softly and sighed. “Time to get to work.”

The Maharaja’s palace looked like a child’s drawing of a castle onto which someone had dumped a lot of cake decorations. Every wall, turret and curved roof glistened with colored tiles, jewels and gaudy adornments. In the shimmering heat and ever-present clouds of dust and sand, it looked like a mirage. Or perhaps a hallucination caused by eating moldy dodo meat.

“Tasteful,” Kett murmured, shielding her eyes against the gaudiness.

“Even Nuala’s not that bad,” Lya agreed.

Bael snorted. He was in Var’s body, a magnificent black stallion, his muscles bunching between Kett’s thighs as she rode him. Beside her sat Lya on a borrowed munta and Dark on Colonel Darson’s mount. Striker was nowhere to be seen-which in no way meant he wasn’t around.

Dark’s regal bearing, his kelfish slave and youthful courtesan were enough to convince the guards of the Maharaja’s palace that they should be admitted.

Inside, Var was taken to the stables, making Kett’s stomach constrict even though she knew he’d be fine, and the rest of the party was led through a series of small courtyards and piazzas, green with plants and trees, but never quite escaping the ever-present sand blowing on the breeze. Fountains tinkled. Somewhere, someone played music.

Eventually they were taken to a grand, high-ceilinged room where kelfs operated ceiling fans and a man lounged on a throne, watching a girl play the sitar terribly badly. He was the Maharaja, and she his beloved only daughter.

Kett winced. She didn’t want to kill the daughter. Hell, she didn’t really want to kill the Maharaja, but justice was justice, and he’d broken the terms of their friendship by betraying her to a man who wanted to kill her.