by Tia Reed
“Lord Ahkdul, it is good tidings,” a toady, white-bearded man Ahkdul had addressed as Baiyeed deq Ikher was saying. He smelled flowery, like a girl. “The mahktashaan have scoured the histories and decreed flying fish herald a royal wedding.”
Someone tittered at his ear. His eyes flew open. “Did you do that?” he whispered.
“I had no idea how excited everyone would get,” Yazmine answered. One day she might let him see her. She would look real pretty, a match for the faint scent of roses wafting out of her muted glow.
“And what of the Terlaani princess? Is she as fair as they claim?” asked Ahkdul. He was dressing in a fresh saffron kurta the palace servants had laid out on the quilted bedding.
“My lord, with her in your possession, you could not fail to be the envy of every man on this earth,” deq Ikher replied with a twitch of his cheek.
“Oh no, what have I done? I think I’m going to be in BIG trouble,” Yazmine said.
Timak sucked in a deep breath. If the monster wed, it might save him from the attentions of this evil man.
“And what of the prince?” Ahkdul continued.
“Which one?” deq Ikher said, pinning his beard to his chest. He painted every word out of his mouth with the brightness of the gems in his rings.
“The elder, of course. The other is but a child,” Ahkdul snapped. It hadn’t been a stupid question. The monster’s attention faded as he chewed on the last, and the colour rose in his cheeks. Timak pushed himself into the corner between chest and wall.
“Prince Mariano is shaping to be a strong leader, in body and mind. He will not be easy to depose.”
“This scheme of my father’s imperils us all. His greed for land–”
Deq Ikher’s cheek twitched faster. Just then, Timak’s foot slid against the chest. The soft tap drew Ahkdul’s attention.
“And the younger prince?” the monster said, looking at Timak. His voice had grown husky.
“As you said, still a child. About thirteen, I believe, but small for his age.”
Ahkdul licked his lips. Timak found it difficult to breathe. His chest stopped moving altogether when Ahkdul stepped towards him. With a leer that threatened of a lingering night, Ahkdul removed two packets of porrin from his pocket. Timak wondered if he could duck under those hairy arms and escape the room before deq Ikher grabbed him. A rap at the door dashed that plan. He tried not to notice the bulge in Ahkdul’s shalvar as the monster, directing deq Ikher to respond, slid the packets of drug into the top drawer.
“Shah Wilshem awaits your master,” his saviour, a hooded man with a green crystal said from outside the door.
* * *
Ahkdul channelled his frustration into a tighter grip on the arm of the padded chair. Shah Wilshem’s polite queries after Lord Hudassan were tedious in the extreme. Engrossed in diversions of the flesh during the voyage, he had avoided mulling on the purpose of this visit. His father’s purpose. Now, unprepared and tired, he wanted to be done with what must, and return home where he could idle at will and lord over all. He helped himself to another gulp of red wine, making a glib reply to yet another of Wilshem’s questions while perusing the tapestries of immense mountains and barren plains that smothered the stone walls in the snug room. Wilshem claimed it was his favourite chamber. That was easy to believe. Ensconced in a well-proportioned chair before a gilded table laid with trays of venison pies and honey-glazed pastries, Ahkdul might well lull into a state of repose were it not for the shah’s incessant and trivial queries. Wondering when they would get to the heart of the matter, he frowned at a tapestry of steam-veiled scums. It displayed nuances of colour missing from the weaves back home.
It was some seconds before Ahkdul realised Wilshem, a fist over his mouth, had fallen silent and intent. His pose was no doubt meant to impart an air of wisdom, his black kurta and shalvar, bordered in silver, to inspire the same dread as his mahktashaan. Well, Ahkdul saw straight through the neat trim of his dark beard.
“Your father trusts you to negotiate,” the Shah said. He should not think his lack of inflection disguised his contempt. Wilshem might be a shah, but he had no right to judge. He deserved every scrap of loathing Ahkdul was wrestling to keep from oozing over his face.
“Would you not trust your son?” he asked, and downed the contents of his silver goblet. The generous chair well accommodated his bulk, but he was past bored. If deq Ikher were correct, this interview should be naught but a formality.
Wilshem allowed a pause, then picked up the wine pitcher and refilled the cup. “These are weighty matters. If our discussions must obtain Lord Hudassan’s approval, it is best he and I meet on neutral ground.”
“I carry my father’s authority,” Ahkdul said, staying his hand from the drink. Now they were on to matters of state, he needed a clear head. The thought called Wilshem’s hospitality into question. He glanced at his goblet, twice filled when Wilshem’s stood untouched, then at the elaborate embroidery on his saffron kurta and black shalvar. His acceptance of the fine Terlaani garb had proclaimed Verdaan the backwater it was; to refuse would have meant he appeared before the Shah in clothes this condescending realm deemed unfit for rank. His initial pleasure Wilshem had forborne a lavish reception gave way to suspicions this comfort was a shrewd design meant to lower his guard.
“Then let us see how well you can convince me to proffer my daughter’s hand.”
Seething, unable to help himself in the mire of that particular emotion, Ahkdul took another draught of wine, cursing his father as the drink seared his stomach. “Verdaan needs heirs.” On this, he and his father had agreed, however insufferable a wife might be.
Curse Wilshem for mocking him with solemn eyes.
Ahkdul placed the goblet on the circular table beside his arm. He licked his lips as Wilshem rose just far enough to fill it once again, waiting until the shah was settled to speak. “Princess Kordahla’s beauty is famed. If her company is as pleasurable, I should be happy to elevate her to queen. She would birth future kings.”
“Do you do her a favour, Ahkdul, that you would be happy and not honoured?” The Shah was still, his voice taut in its softness.
Ahkdul’s blood screamed for another drink but his sense – what little of it he was displaying, curse Wilshem – warned him off. “As my wife, she would be a queen in her own right.”
“Kordahla is a princess. Do not pretend you and your father claim royal status. It is she who will bestow rank on you.”
To the scums with deq Ikher and his tidings. Ahkdul leaned forward. He hated it when his face became tight. “We rule. Scour history and you will find as much bloodshed when your ancestors took the throne as when my grandfather did.”
“Perhaps,” Wilshem said, waving towards the goblet and lifting his own. Ahkdul was dismayed to find he was taking another sip. Had a mahktashaan been in the room, he would have suspected coercion of the magical kind. As it was, he had no one to blame except his own indulged self. “However, we live in a peaceable age, a very different time,” Wilshem continued, “and your lineage is yet to prove its worth. This union you seek would lend substance to Hudassan’s request for Shah Ordosteen to recognise him as an equal.”
“Is that so very bad?”
“Then there is the matter of your reputation.”
This conversation was treading on dangerous ground. Had Ahkdul guessed how direct Wilshem intended to be, he would have imbibed porrin to calm his nerves. This weak wine did not suffice. “Would you care to explain your remark?” he said, injecting a veiled threat into the words. A mere moment passed before he regretted the demand. In the privacy of his home, his guards outside the door, Wilshem very well might elucidate.
“I would not.”
His relief was no doubt palpable.
“Nor am I so naïve as to believe a man’s predilections might change,” the shah continued. “But I ask you this, for my daughter will find her nature subdued in Verdaan, and life will be hard after the liberties I have allowed. S
he may be a mere woman, but she is a princess, and I will not have her humiliated. Are you a man of discretion?”
“I will do my duty as a husband. She will bear heirs, if that is what concerns you.”
“It is not. My child might complain of the need for a veil, for sleeves that cover the wrists and long skirts that shield her ankles. None of this would I heed, for it is not long past that Terlaan demanded these not only in the street but also in the confines of the home. A husband who neglects his conjugal duties, who openly flaunts perverse desires, though, I would think has reneged on his marriage contract. A husband who cares not for the dignity of a royal Terlaani child, my child, within his court would not deserve her. Terlaan would bring her home. Whatever the cost. So I ask you again. Will you remain discreet?”
“A man may not help his predilections, but it is the soul which governs the flesh. Princess Kordahla will be the jewel in my palace.” Ahkdul leant forward. “This union is right. There has been a clear sign from the gods.”
“You, who in a matter of hours have become such an expert on Terlaani lore, stand advised. The fish denote a marriage, but from no one, and least of all me, has this union received sanction. Kordahla’s marriage to a Myklaani lord would satisfy the Vae. Indeed, her marriage to a Terlaani of standing would do just as well.”
“I ask you to consider the timing of the miracle. It came with the delivery of my proposal. The union can be intended with none other.”
“You may test me on this, though it would be to your detriment to do so. Kordahla, though liberal by our reckoning, is a prize for any man whose loins lean in the right direction. For you, she is a trophy, and the means to a crown. So I ask you blunt, what has Terlaan to gain?”
Ahkdul smiled. Terlaan would appear to have a great deal to gain if he could but persuade Wilshem his words were sincere. He downed a long draught, for courage and a tongue loose enough to gild his words. “We come to the matter on which you have long desired action. Naturally–”
“This–,” Wilshem interrupted, and Ahkdul’s hand tightened on the goblet. He drained the remaining sips to help him endure another patronising caution. “–is not a pact glib words can broker. Terlaan has called for responsibility for some years. Not once has Lord Hudassan seen fit to address our concerns. And now he sends his son to barter on the most pressing political issue, the single one, perhaps, for which there is no solution since no measures can secure our borders against smugglers. Have a care what you propose, Ahkdul. A shah does not rule for thirty years without deducing other’s wiles.”
The empty goblet weighed heavy in Ahkdul’s hand. Wishing it full, he set it down with more clatter than was elegant for a man of his standing. Such words were not appropriate for the next ruler of Verdaan. Words such as these brought doubt to his mind. Had Wilshem guessed their scheme? He could not think on it for fear a mahktashaan lurked close by, one talented in mindreading. Those soldier-magicians might voice vehement denials the skill existed, but a prudent man did not trust a hooded fiend. Ahkdul’s fingers twitched as once again Wilshem poured wine, a good measure into Ahkdul’s cup, a splash into his own. The ruse was obvious but he licked his lips, craving the balm of the fiery drink. He stayed his hand. Too much lay at stake, his inheritance not least if he returned to his father in disgrace.
“Please,” Wilshem said, picking up his goblet and taking a sip. “It is an especially smooth Myklaani vintage.”
Ahkdul’s nerves screamed for another draught. It took great effort to ball his hand and slap it to his thigh. There was porrin waiting, he comforted himself, and the boy. “I would engage in the negotiations, Majesty. You may decide for yourself what worth our offer holds.”
The Shah reclined in his chair. His hand was back over his mouth, a finger tapping his lip as his eyes flicked between Ahkdul and his full goblet. Ahkdul smiled. He was far from inebriated, and he would show this Shah how much a master of his flesh he could be.
“Then speak,” Wilshem said, when he refused to take a sip.
“Verdaan is prepared to direct its porrin trade to Myklaan. Lord Hudassan will order his brother, Lord Kamir, to send his merchants south. He will double the patrols along our border, and ensure customs searches any vessels headed for your shores.” Ahkdul paused to gauge Wilshem’s reaction. It was a mistake that saw him relinquish control of the conversation.
“These measures may slow the trade of porrin; they may even reduce it; but they will not eliminate it. What of smugglers that bypass your checkpoints, or enter through Myklaan?”
“We are not responsible for the actions of the Myklaani. You will have our assurances any traders through that route will not come from Verdaan.”
“That is all I have. Your assurances, and those of your father if you are to be believed. But Hudassan does not have a reputation for keeping pledges. You will have to do better than your word.”
“Verdaan will welcome Terlaani officers to serve alongside our own, in the watchtowers and in the ports. They will answer to their own command, of course, though they must adhere to our codes of conduct. In return, we ask that we might leave our ambassador with your court.”
Wilshem’s answer was a long time in coming. “I must admit, I had not considered this offer would come from Hudassan.” The shah fell silent again. A contemplative mood, by the look on his face.
Ahkdul felt the time judicious for another sip of wine. “You obviously have an alternative in mind, or at least an adjunct,” he said as the silence extended.
When Wilshem spoke, his quiet voice had divested itself of its superiority. “I ask you to burn the crop. Terlaan will provide recompense, and without doubt Myklaan will join us in supplying your farmers with wheat seed and corn. I ask you to grow what nourishes rather than what wastes.”
“You ask us to surrender the most lucrative of our exports. Verdaan would perish without the income from porrin. No other crop will match its earnings.” He picked up the goblet, and took a slow, considered sip. “And we must consider the balance of power.”
Ahkdul had not known how Wilshem would react to that last. Grow angry, most like, he had thought. He had not expected the chuckle, for it was clear to them both, to all save the porrin-wasted addicts and right down to the barefooted youngsters at their mother’s knee, that without porrin only one source of magic existed in The Three Realms.
“Rightly argued,” Wilshem said, raising his goblet. “But why not allow Myklaan to grow their own seed?”
His father had expected this, had schooled him in the response and for all his growling at the time Ahkdul was now pleased for it. “The balance of power,” he repeated. “Verdaan must have a place among the realms.”
“It seems we are at an impasse,” Wilshem said.
A bow of his head hid Ahkdul’s smile. “It seems we are,” he agreed, knowing the offer was everything Wilshem had hoped for.
The Shah’s fingers laced on his lap, his thumbs tapping as he gave the proposal further thought. It surprised Ahkdul that he spoke next of something other than their agreement. “You must be anxious to view your father’s ship. It is a pleasant trip to the boatyards. You will appreciate company, and Princess Kordahla will be grateful for the outing. It is not often I permit her to leave the palace.” Ahkdul’s surprise gave way to displeasure as the Shah rose, his words again bearing the weight of his authority. “My daughter, however much she is expecting an arranged marriage, will not be ecstatic about this union. I trust – no, I expect – you will be delicate in your handling of her. I shall hear from Prince Mariano of your conduct before I decide.”
Ahkdul tugged the corners of his lips out of a smile. There was no question he had won.
Chapter Twenty-two
Jordayne stretched out on the cushions a servant had arranged to her precise specifications on the bench in the drab little courtyard and appraised the behinds of the guards as they prepared to stage her entertainment. The burly executioner was knotting the noose as two soldiers escorted Raj the Verdaani porr
in merchant out of the dungeons and into her presence. The amusing little man, puffed up with pride, gloated so much at the sight of her that he did not notice either the filth caking him or the gallows.
“Hah!” he said, his stench steaming off him. “I knew Shah would let me go.”
“Indeed,” Jordayne replied. “Shah Ordosteen believes a minor moon is long enough for a Verdaani thief to enjoy his hospitality.”
Grinning, Raj executed a little bow.
Jordayne yawned, covering her mouth with spread fingers. In the languid stillness of the summer afternoon, she had little hope a breeze would sprinkle the fragrance of the frangipani over the man. “Well. I do appreciate your change in attitude. Has it extended as far as considering our request?”
He chuckled at that. “Lady, it is not reasonable request. Maybe next time we meet at certain inn we come to mutually acceptable arrangement.” Could you believe he had the audacity to wink at her? Ignorant chauvinist that he was, Jordayne was beginning to like the man. If he had been even a smidgeon more attractive, she might have condescended to have one of her maids educate him in the finer points of the ‘arrangement’ he had in mind before casting him aside to mourn the divine mysteries he had but glimpsed. She rose into a lazy stretch, which set her bracelets jangling. Her lips could not help but pull into a smile. To him she must appear as elegant as the avocet flying overhead.
“We shall not be meeting again for a lifetime, I’m afraid. I have rather a great deal left to accomplish on this earth, not least of which is to initiate worthy males into Vae’oenka’s feminine secrets. How many deserving males are there on this earth, Sul?”
The bald executioner, a happily married man nonetheless known for his lewd comments, tugged upon the noose. “Lady, I dare to hazard not a dozen fit to savour your charms.”