CHAPTER ONE

      THREE MEN STRODE through the gleaming marble corridors of the Emir’s palace.

      Past the great council room where the walls were hung with decorative displays of lances, swords and ancient muskets. Where brightly coloured martial standards hung as if waiting for the next call to arms.

      Past sumptuous banqueting halls and audience chambers. Past colonnaded courtyards filled with pleasure gardens, the tinkle of fountains loud in this still hour after midnight. The only other noise was the march of boots.

      Past the studded medieval door to the empty harem and another that led to the passage carved down, through the very rock of the citadel, to the vast treasure chambers and dungeons.

      Finally they reached the corridor to the Emir’s private suite.

      Sayid paused. ‘That will be all for now.’

      ‘But, sire, our orders are—’

      Sayid swung round. ‘Your orders change tonight. Halarq is no longer on the brink of war.’

      Saying it aloud still sounded unreal. Halarq had been on the verge of war most of his life, principally, but not solely, with the neighbouring kingdom of Jeirut. It was why every male was armed and trained to defend his country to the death.

      Sayid thought of all those years primed for conflict. Of unending border skirmishes and casualties. Of missed opportunities to invest in better lives for the people, as opposed to diverting energy and funds into armaments.

      His mouth firmed. If he achieved nothing else, he, Sayid Badawi, the new Emir of Halarq, had done that—brought peace. Later, when it sank in, he’d rejoice. Tonight all he wanted was to lay his head on a pillow for the first time in three days and find oblivion.

      ‘But, sire, our duty is to protect you. We spend the night at the guard stations outside your suite.’ The soldier nodded towards the other end of the long arched corridor.

      ‘The palace is guarded by your colleagues on the perimeter and by the latest security technology.’ Sayid’s uncle, the previous Emir, had spent lavishly on his own protection and comfort, as well as on armaments.

      It was a shame he hadn’t been as ready to spend on his people.

      Still the guards didn’t shift. Sayid’s patience frayed. ‘Those are my orders,’ he barked. His eyes narrowed and the guard blanched.

      Instantly Sayid’s anger eased. The man was only trying to do his duty as he understood it. Questioning the orders of the Emir would, in the past, have met with terrible punishment.

      ‘Your devotion to duty, and to your Emir, is noted and appreciated.’ He surveyed both men, giving them time to absorb that. ‘But our security arrangements are changing. Your commander will brief you on that later. In the meantime, it’s my desire, and my order, that you return to the guard hall.’ He didn’t wait for a response but turned away.

      ‘That will be all,’ he said as he strode down the corridor, his dusty boots leaving marks on the graceful inlaid patterns underfoot.

      Silence. They hadn’t attempted to follow.

      Sayid filled his lungs with the cool night air wafting from a nearby courtyard. This was the first time he’d been alone in days. The first time he could allow himself to relax.

      Tonight’s ebullient celebrations with every Halarqi clan leader, regional governor and warlord, plus most of their fighting men, had been on a monumental scale. The plain beyond the city walls was filled to the brim and the scents of festive cooking fires drifted through the whole city. Every so often the crackle of rifle fire indicated the celebration continued. They’d probably still be at it as dawn broke.

      Whereas he’d be up at sunrise, in the office he hadn’t had time to make his own since his uncle’s death, immersed in the paperwork and diplomatic detail that would put flesh on the bones of the peace agreement. A peace that guaranteed the borders, the safe passage of travellers and even, potentially, trade and mutual development between Halarq and Jeirut.

      Sayid’s pace slowed and he smiled, the action tugging his cheek muscles taut.

      Who could blame his people for celebrating? He’d do the same if he weren’t weary from the long negotiations with Huseyn of Jeirut. And from keeping his more bellicose generals in check long enough to prevent provocation and violence. Some had thought, despite his military record and his reputation for decisive action, he’d be easily swayed into supporting his predecessor’s war plans. But Sayid’s priority was his people, not the posturing of old men who thought others’ lives expendable.

      Reaching the Emir’s private suite, he entered, a sigh of relief escaping as the tall door closed behind him. Alone, finally.

      Sayid strode through, past the study and the media room, through the vast sitting room and lavish private dining parlour, to the bedroom. His eyes went immediately to the vast, beckoning bed. Its cover, embroidered in the royal colours of blue and silver, was pulled back invitingly. The overhead light was off, leaving only the gentle glow of a few decorative pierced lamps.

      He rocked to a halt, tempted to forget about the state of his clothes and just topple onto the mattress as he was. He’d be asleep within seconds.

      Instead he crossed the spacious room towards the bathroom. He’d shower first.

      Sayid pulled off his clothes as he walked, his tension easing as the hand-stitched layers came off. The fine cotton of his shirt masked a jaw-cracking yawn as he tugged it up, over his head, rolling his shoulders in appreciation as he felt cool night air brush his flesh.

      He was about to toe off one boot when something made him pause. He stilled, his weight on one foot, his senses prickling at the certainty something was out of place.

      A lifetime’s training as a warrior, always aware, put him on alert.

      Something was wrong. He was certain in less time than it took to form the thought.

      It would serve him right if he’d dismissed his guard only to find himself under threat in his own chambers. The youngest and shortest-lived Emir of Halarq in all its history. That would be a fine epitaph!

      Keeping his movements easy, Sayid wrapped the cotton of his discarded shirt around his left hand and forearm. The cloth wouldn’t stop a bullet but might deflect a knife in a pinch. He didn’t spare a glance for the long silvered scar running up that arm from his wrist to well past his elbow. It proved a well-honed knife could easily cut through several layers of clothing.

      Slowly he turned, nostrils flared to capture any unusual scent, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkened corners of the room.

      Nothing. Exhaustion must be interfering with his perception.

      Sayid swung right around towards the bed again and—

      He stiffened, his hand going to the ceremonial but razor-sharp dagger at his hip.

      ‘Who are you?’ The words issued through clenched teeth. ‘What are you doing here?’

      As