Ammad eased himself down onto a cushion and popped an apricot in his mouth, trying to convince his body that he was, in fact, guiltless.
“Ahhh, here is my son, the Crown Prince,” Mastiq exclaimed.
The Ruler of Drome still wore his elaborate headdress which looked like a hand stuck on top of his head at the wrist, palm facing forwards with fingers spread. It had been made with a wire frame which was wrapped in luxurious materials including Peqkian brocade, and adorned with bells, jewels, gold, and other trinkets hanging from the fingers. Small bones, thought to have belonged to Mastiq’s father, were tied on with colourful thread and knocked together with a revolting sound. Two long strips of cloth fell down Mastiq’s back, pinned either side of his hump, which was on show through a slit i
