Dead Girls Tell No Tales

t w o

SHAHRAZAD FEELS BLOOD TRAILING A COPPERY path down her neck, not quite bruising but enough to convey an intention. Her breathing normalises, relieved when the calculative sword is withdrawn, sat on the table, yet its master's hand never truly leaves the jade hilt.

His stance is always prepared to kill.

"Tell me this tale of yours," he repeats, eyes hard. "Before your time runs out."

Her fingers grimly trace the outline of the shallow cut, a puckery line foreshadowing more sinister meanings. She despises him, with all the bones in her body, she loathes his entire being. The dagger's kiss on her skin reminds Shahrazad of her purpose in the palace, and she trembles slightly, before meeting his gaze, "This one is about a King."

Shahryar smiles darkly. "I fail to see where you are going with this."

Hopefully your head.

Shahrazad is a storyteller. Her silver tongue weldes words, stringing them into endless tales. Her baba has always told her that words are magic, more than what they seem. She believes it.

Gingerly, she bunches the expensive fabric of her dress, the gold threaded embroidery fascinating, ringlets of colours swirling in chaotic madness. "In a land far, far away," She begins spinning syllables, "Ruled a Shah of Persian origin. He was brought up by Arabs, versed in Arabic, and skilled at archery and swordsmanship. There was rarely anything the king could not do."

Across her, Shahryar leans imperceptibly, the gravitation miniscule but noticeable. His strong jaw rests on a basin of iron fists, eyebrows knitted in a sliver of curiosity.

"But he lacked the resolve to rule over his people--"

"A pity, really," he interrupts.

Shahrazad gently tucks tendrils of obsidian hair behind her ear, the sound of light tinkling ensuing from the drooping earring. His eyes follow the source, the careful movement of her lean fingers, looking away almost instantly. "May I continue the story?"

"So, the king sought out his vizier, a man who was more shrewd than anything, and asked him how to win the support of the people. The vizier said, 'throw them a banquet, lavish and long, and invite merchants from all continents known to the eastern world.' The king then held a celebration that night, no reason at all. His people were overjoyed. They didn't need a reason for a feast. Years of rule under foolish leaders had turned them into blindly led puppets of monarchy."

Outside, the shade of the night has dulled, from leaden to dimming blue, and it is only a few hours before the first glint of a dawn she wishes never arrives. At this, Shahrazad hastens her pace. If the beginning has been words touched with detailed exaggeration, the present is a seam of lengthy rush. "Traders arrived from all corners of the world for the banquet. You see, the vizier had suggested that important traders be invited to establish economic relations. The celebrations wore through the night, merry for most part, but it was a certain African merchant who sparked the interest of the king. He seemed distressed, in a state of frenzy, avoiding the other guests. His aloofness garnered the King's suspicion. Though he had never taken interest in matters of the empire, he wished to understand the reason behind the merchant's haste."