by A. M. Deese
The palanquin stuttered to a stop, and Jura felt it slowly sink to the ground. Why have we stopped? They couldn’t have made it all the way to the palace yet. She sighed, eager to be home, and poked her head out from behind the curtained wall, annoyed by their delay.
She hadn’t realized it was so dark outside. The moon was hidden and the only light came from the courtyard fire pit. It flickered against the clay walls of the square. She met the eyes of East, but of course he couldn’t answer. She noticed that his hand sat ready on his scimitar. In fact, all of her Arbe stood ready.
She directed her question at one of Beshar’s litter men, ignoring the sight of the man’s oiled, rippling muscles.
The man smiled at her, bowing low, and Jura noted that even the top of his shaved head was oiled. “The litter up ahead. It’s stopped. We are just making sure the roads are safe to continue.”
She squinted, trying to make out the litter’s colors in the dim firelight. “It’s the House of the Third. Continue. We will see if they need assistance.”
She was hoisted back up without another word, and she gripped the cushions on either side of her to keep from toppling out. When they arrived beside the Third’s palanquin, it was raised and once again continuing on its way. Jura frowned at the unfamiliar faces. The Arbe was definitely not Amira’s. She nearly shrugged it off. It would make sense that Amira’s father would make use of his own Arbe when he was out, and though she knew the faces of each of Amira’s Arbe, she had hardly committed to memory the faces of the Third’s.
She relaxed again against her pillows, ignoring the nagging feeling pulling at her gut. She would have to apologize to Amira in the morning. She should never have let herself listen to Beshar and ignored Amira at the Arena. Amira would be furious and was sure to feel slighted. Now she would have to plead for Amira’s forgiveness. She liked to hold grudges and Jura was sure her friend found joy in Jura’s apologies. Perhaps I will throw a luncheon in her honor once things are back to normal. Amira like to be fawned over.
Jura tried to settle back against the pillows, but she still had that strange feeling in her gut. What was this nagging anxiety and why wasn’t it going away? Politics must be getting to her. She was as paranoid as any member of the Thirteen. Amira would get a laugh out of that. She was always saying Jura was too trusting, that she needed to be more cautious as a member of the First house.
Jura sat up in alarm. Where was Amira’s Arbe? Even if Amira was with her father, she would still have her own Arbe with her. Afterall, Amira wouldn’t even so much as use the privy without her Arbe in tow.
“Stop the litter,” Jura shouted. She pushed back the voluminous curtains and cursed as they twisted about her tiny frame.
“Greatness?” One of Beshar’s oiled men frowned back at her. She ignored him and reached for East. He looked down into her eyes.
“Something’s wrong with House of the Third’s palanquin. Amira should be in there but where is her Arbe? She never leaves without her Arbe.”
Understanding dawned on his face. East and West took off at a run, scimitars drawn. North and South stepped in front of Jura and drew their swords.
At the same time a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the Third’s litter, and Jura felt ice run through her veins. Oh, please let Amira be all right. She pushed herself out of the pillowed box, running toward the other palanquin, but she was grabbed by one of Beshar’s men. She struggled against him.
“Let me go,” she cried.
“You will stay,” the man growled. “It’s not safe.”
She pushed against his oiled arms, but she slipped against them. His grip around her arm was like a vice. At least now she knew what the purpose of the oil was. She watched as her Arbe came upon the Third’s litter, scimitars crashing.
It was dark, and Jura squinted into the night, cursing her bad vision.
She sagged in relief when she noticed a slender figure running toward her.
“Amira!” The oiled giant let her go and she flew at her friend, wrapping her in a crushing embrace. “You’re okay. Thank the Everflame, you’re okay.”
Amira sobbed into her hands. Her shoulders shook, and Jura had the fleeting thought that her friend even cried prettily.
“He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.” She whispered it over and over.
She rubbed her friend’s back. Jura’s Arbe walked back toward her, blood dripping from their scimitars.
“Your father?” As soon as she asked the question, she saw an anguished Third drop to his knees between the two litters.
“Antar,” Amira wailed, and Jura squeezed her friend tighter. “Our wine was poisoned. Father and I didn’t drink any but, but…” Amira trailed off in tears.
She had never been close to Antar, but news of his sudden death was stunning and she swayed on her feet. Death was common in the Sand Sea, but she felt she would never become jaded to its presence. She swallowed the rush of bile that rose in her throat and tightened her grip on Amira. She had to remain strong for her friend.
“Where’s your Arbe?” Jura heard herself asking. “I knew you were in trouble because I didn’t see your Arbe.”Amira looked up, the tears in her eyes made them sparkle. She stared at Jura in wonder.
“You saved my life.”
Chapter Twenty
ASH
He lingered behind Beshar as he said goodbye to the First. Ash was surprised when the councilman called for separate litters, but grateful. Now was his chance to talk to Beshar alone.
“Councilman. If I could have a word?”
Beshar turned around, his face one of anger, but he smoothed it into a smile when he saw Ash.
“Ash, hello again. You’re still here?”
Ash wanted to grab Beshar by the throat and smash his face in, wipe that smug smile off the councilman’s face, but that wouldn’t solve his problem. He needed the voucher of a councilman to purchase new cadets. It was his last chance to work as a trainer this season. The houses that owned the Chosen had their own trainers and their own steady stream of Dancers from their slave population. Ash was a free man, but he still did not have the right to purchase a slave. Only a member of the Thirteen could do that. While Ash would be a trainer to his new cadet, he could never own one of his own. A former slave himself, Ash wasn’t permitted to own one of the Chosen. Freedom had its limitations.
“I wanted to speak with you about your cadet training.”
Beshar shook his head. “I have only one cadet, and he’s already being trained by the best.”
Ash flinched. He clenched his fist tight by his side so he didn’t do anything stupid.
“Why not another cadet? A new trainer? Have some friendly competition in your own training field. It will make Timber’s cadet work harder and my cadet—”
“You have someone in mind?” Beshar interrupted, wiping at his brow. He stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket sewn into his sleeve.
“No, but tonight—”
“I know what tonight is.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he paced. “You need the voucher from one of the Thirteen. And dare I say that I’m the only member of the Thirteen you’ve ever met?”
Ash didn’t respond. What Beshar said was true. The only other member of the Thirteen he had ever known had been his last owner, Fajir, but he was long dead and his house was no longer one of the Thirteen.
“You need me to attend so that you may purchase an illegal slave for my house. And then you want me to, what, hire you on as the cadet’s trainer? Never mind the extra cost to me and ignoring the fact that I already have a very promising cadet?” Beshar heaved a sigh and then shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?” Ash couldn’t keep the surprise from hitching his voice. He hadn’t expected it to work out so easily.
“Yes, I’ll escort you there. I will vouch for you and leave you with water chips, but I’m not staying for the auction.”