The throne room was crowded with courtiers — men and women whose clothing, while crude by the standards of any civilised nation, was fine enough to speak to their relative position in Ushoran’s new hierarchy. In the sea of warm veins and throbbing pulses there were one or two spots of ugly cold. Vorag hadn’t been exaggerating. The men were swaggering bullies, not much different from Vorag — a warrior aristocracy, not long removed from the saddle. The women interested her more. They had the look of she-wolves barely broken to the leash. They had grown sleek on their husbands’ new statuses, but the hunger, the drive for more, lurked below the smiles and laughter. And, even more interestingly, none had been given the blood-kiss.

Of course, Ushoran had never been all that fond of women, beyond their more obvious qualities. A trait he had shared with her husband, Lamashizzar. It was a blind spot that a king could ill afford, let alone a spymaster.

She restrained a smile. It wasn’t hard. The situation was designed to annoy. One of Ushoran’s more prized abilities was being able to insert his hooks into the most painful soft point on psyche or physicality and to twist.

Ushoran wanted her to see him this way; to see him enshrined in glory. Or maybe he wanted her to do something foolish. That would be like him. His mind was crooked, and if Neferata was a leopardess, Ushoran was a spider. He wanted her to fly into his web.

Well, two could play at that game.

Razek stumped forwards at a gesture from Strezyk, cradling his axe in the crook of one brawny arm. It was a calculated insult, she knew, though whether by Strezyk or his master, she couldn’t say. ‘Hail, Ushoran, King of Strigos,’ Razek boomed, raising his free hand in greeting. ‘I, Razek Silverfoot, Thane of Karaz Bryn, bring you the greetings of my father, Borri Silverfoot, King of Karaz Bryn, which manlings call the Silver Pinnacle.’

Neferata blinked. That explained that. What little she knew of the dawi suggested they wouldn’t have sent just any warrior to open delicate negotiations, but a king’s son? That implied that this was something special or else that they took even the most routine political engagement extremely seriously. It also explained why he had been so secretive. Her mind spun off in new directions. Had the beast attack truly been what it seemed, or had something else been behind it?

‘You bring more than greetings, I trust, especially considering what you went through to get here,’ Ushoran said, chuckling. Dutiful laughter rose from the gathered court. Razek’s expression was like stone and Neferata hid a smile. Ushoran was a fool. In Lahmia, jape and jest had been the way of such things; informality hid the true currents of negotiation. But Razek was not human. And his greeting had told her everything about his view of such things. The dawi were a formal people, and Ushoran had just inadvertently insulted their official representative. Fool, she thought again.

‘Aye,’ Razek said as the sounds of amusement died away. He cleared his throat. ‘I offer you our hand in friendship, and oaths of trade and alliance.’ He proffered his hand in a ritualistic fashion.

‘I’d wager that hand is hoping to be filled with good Mourkain gold,’ Strezyk murmured to Ushoran in a too-loud voice. Razek’s face tightened and Neferata shook her head, amazed. It boggled her mind. How did Ushoran expect to do anything with fools like Strezyk serving him? It was disappointing. Whatever his other flaws, the Lord of Masks had at least been cunning while in her service. Perhaps he had lost his edge here in these uncivilised mountains.

Pay attention, she thought, focusing on the dais. Ushoran had been offered a truce and had launched an attack, though not a successful one. Contrary to popular opinion, it wasn’t always the weaker party who offered terms first; it was simply the party with the most to gain. Razek was talking again. She was impressed that the dwarf had held his temper; Naaima had said that they could be a volatile people. ‘Aye,’ Razek agreed. ‘We want your gold, as you want our artifice,’ he said bluntly. His temper might be holding, but it was definitely frayed if he had discarded formality, Neferata judged. ‘It seems a fair enough trade to us,’ Razek went on, setting his shoulders and raising his chin. ‘What about you, King of Strigos?’

Ushoran frowned. He had never liked being shown up, Neferata recalled with a flush of humour. ‘That is perhaps a conversation for a later time, Thane Silverfoot,’ he said, leaning back in his seat. ‘We have other matters to attend to this day.’ He waved and Strezyk clapped his hands. Men stepped forwards, surrounding the dwarf. For a moment, it looked as if Razek wasn’t going to move. Then, with a grunt and shrug, he turned to allow his escort to remove him from the hall. He glanced at Neferata as he stomped past. His face was unreadable. Regardless, she knew that it was a warning.

Strezyk clapped his hands again and she stepped forwards, leaving her own escort stumbling after her, trying to catch up. The crowd of backwoods nobles murmured. She ignored them.

‘We bid you greetings, Lady Neferata,’ Ushoran said, holding out his arms and stepping down the dais towards her. As she had noted before, the bland, innocuous Lord of Masks she remembered was gone, replaced by a handsome creature that seemed to have stepped straight out of a hero-myth. Even so, she caught a flickering glimpse of something else, a monstrous phantom shape superimposed over Ushoran. Which was his true form, she wondered?

‘Lady,’ she repeated, stepping forwards and flinging back the edge of her furs. ‘You forget yourself, Lord of Masks.’ She could sense the faint tremors in his web. What gambit would he employ? Would it be courtesy?

‘Neferata—’ Abhorash growled, making to step forwards. Ushoran gestured for him to remain where he was. He smiled at his former queen with apparent good humour.

‘No, my lady, I do not think that I do. Much has transpired since our last meeting,’ he said.

Neferata looked around the room, taking in the gathered faces. Though she did not know them, she recognised them well enough — the great and the good who clung like parasites to any throne. ‘So I see,’ she said.

‘I am hetman here, Neferata,’ Ushoran said, striding the rest of the way towards her. ‘From Mourkain, I rule the mountains of Strigos. Here is the seat of empire…’ he said grandly. A sudden burst of applause made him stop and raise a hand.

No, not courtesy then. He wanted her angry. That was her weak point.

‘Oh, well done,’ Neferata said. ‘Delightfully stage-managed, oh Lord of Masks.’

‘I am not the Lord of Masks any longer,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘There are no masks in Mourkain. I am king. And it is only fitting that you should bow.’

Neferata burst out laughing. It was an obvious ploy. He had gone soft.

‘Impudent wench,’ Strezyk snarled, dragging the mace from his belt. He swung it at Neferata, intending to batter her off her feet. She whirled, ripping off her fur cloak as she did so and flinging it over his head. He roared and stumbled and then she was behind him. She sank into a crouch and her claws plunged into his legs, ripping through the leather of his boots to get to the flesh within. Strezyk screamed as he fell, hamstrung. Ushoran stepped back as his servant’s mace crashed to the floor.

Neferata rose and stepped over Strezyk’s thrashing form. The vampire was already healing, but he would be out of her hair for a few moments at least. She looked at Ushoran. Had that been planned? Was it a tug of the web? Ushoran retreated slowly up the dais, smiling insufferably at her. ‘As impressive as ever, my lady,’ he said. ‘Truly you are first among us, in power if not in status.’

‘The latter can be easily rectified, Ushoran,’ Neferata said, flicking blood from her fingers to the floor.