The King's Harem

by Derr, Megan

"Yes, I do," Shah agreed with a smile.

  Other Tales of Tavamara

  Knight to Rook

  Being unnecessary did not sit well with him.

  Of course, he doubted being unnecessary sat well with anyone.

  Still, he had once been Prince Ryder LeRoi, a highly respected strategist and nephew to the king of Gollen.

  Now he was nothing except Princess Cordelia's eccentric, useless cousin.

  Oh, he was useful for diplomacy, for helping to figure out how this or that should be handled, but it was more a courtesy than anything that they asked his opinion and assistance. Cordelia could handle it all just as well as he.

  He was used to being someone whose opinion mattered, to whom people turned for advice. Once his mind had been admired, his skills sought.

  These days it seemed he barely existed, and he was confounded as to how to change that.

  Cordelia had fit seamlessly into this new world. Rook did not regret choosing to leave his homeland to make a new home in the Great Desert, but he wished he had more to do here than simply flounder.He could not even make real friends, beyond Shihab, and even next to him, Rook felt inadequate. Shihab, though a concubine now, had once been just as skilled with a sword as with his mind.

  Rook was hopeless at combat. His skill was laughable. That had been fine back home, where his mind was considered a weapon all its own. Here in the Sands where swordsmanship was so highly prized, where skill in battle was so vital, they were polite to the princess's cousin, but that was all.

  His steps slowed to a stop as he passed by the practice yard, the world around him fading out as he watched the sparring match below.

  Two men fought in the main circle—one Fox, one Falcon.

  He followed their movements, unable to not calculate, anticipate. "Low," he muttered as the Fox swung his sword low. "Feint left, downswing." Below, the Fox moved as Rook said. "Feint back, lunge. Drop to avoid, swing around and up."

  The Fox feinted back, and then abruptly threw himself forward, sword flashing in the sunlight. The Falcon stumbled to the side, sword barely lifting to block in time. In the next moment, he was flat on his back in the sands.

  Rook shook his head, tsking softly. The Falcon should have figured that move out; he'd fallen for it before. Rook started to walk away when a flash of movement, a familiar gait, caught the corner of his eye.

  He stepped back, bumping into the wall, for fear of being caught staring as he drank in the sight of the man across the yard.

  General Noor.

  One of Prince Sahayl's closest friends and most trusted allies. He and General Kahlil controlled the royal army of the Great Desert.

  He could not tear his eyes away from the man, and hoped fervently that no one looked up to catch him staring.

  Noor was head to foot a desert savage, and he made that such a very fine thing to be. Dark skin and darker hair, eyes a rich cinnamon, body sculpted by his hard life of first fighting savages, and then driving heathens from the Sands. Though he was currently wrapped up in the robes which fought off the damage the fierce sun could do, Rook had more than once seen him more casually dressed over one of Sahayl's private dinners.

  He would like badly to know the man far more intimately, but he would be more likely to receive a gilded invitation begging his return to Gollen.

  Sighing at himself, he turned away and continued along the open hallway which wrapped around the practice yard, connecting two major wings of the sprawling palace.

  What was a useless strategist to do?

  Return to his room after a stroll to work on his lone little self-appointed project and sulk until suppertime. At which point he'd probably just remain in his room to read and study, rather than make things awkward by joining everyone for dinner. Everyone was cordial, and he got along with Shihab splendidly, but it did not erase the feeling that he did not belong. He was no savage, nor an impetuous princess who found a place for herself wherever she went.

  It had taken him years to earn his place on the seas, and there he did not need to be a warrior, only good at telling them how best to sink ships and staying out of the way while they did it.

  Here … no one needed him at all.

  Slipping into his room, Rook stripped down to just his breeches and undershirt. Setting the discarded clothes neatly aside, he ignored his low work table in favor of the smaller one at the foot of his bed.

  Upon it was a chessboard, one of the few possessions he held dear. It had taken them months of work, but finally his Uncle had begrudgingly sent two trunks of belongings each to him and Cordelia.

  One of the things in his trunks was this chessboard. Custom made, he'd bought it during one of their few stops in Havarin. Rich, dark walnut and fine, pale maple. He kept it vigorously clean, protecting it from the elements as best he could. The pieces were carved from obsidian and amber, gleaming in the sunlight.

  Currently it looked as though a game was in progress, except he was only playing himself, insofar as that was possible. Sighing softly, he moved the black rook, then moved to his desk and sat down to work.

  The royal library was in a sad state. Though the Ghost Tribe had worked their hardest to preserve the tomes left when the palace had become the Broken Palace, a great deal of damage had been sustained.

  He was only one man, but so far he had completely recopied two volumes, both histories of the Sands and Tavamara. Currently he was recopying something most would likely consider more frivolous—a book of songs and poems. He wondered if any of the tribes still knew them, but had not yet managed to ask, half afraid that if anyone knew what he was doing he would find himself in violation of some small cultural quirk.

  Then he would lose the only thing in his life that made him feel useful. Sahayl's birthday was swiftly approaching, and the children of the Sands were looking forward to celebrating the birth of their Sandstorm Prince.

  Rook wanted to present the restored books as a gift, partially in thanks for Sahayl's taking him in. That was the other reason he asked no one about the songs and poems—it would ruin the surprise.

  Someday he hoped to begin writing translations, but he would prefer to have permission for that.

  A knock on his door some time later brought his head up sharply, and it was a moment before Rook realized what the sound was. Shaking his head, focusing on the world around him rather than the pages of a book, he moved slowly on stiff legs to the door. "Yes?" he asked.

  The palace servant smiled politely and sketched a low bow. "The princess would like to speak with you."

  "Ah. Certainly. Thank you."

  "My pleasure."

  Pulling on his clothes, smoothing everything out and ensuring it fell as it should, Rook stepped into the hallway and retraced the path he'd walked before.

  Once again he found himself pausing as he reached the yard, unable to help himself. He could not resist watching, analyzing, predicting. Strategy was his life, and he had been trained to analyze and anticipate everything. Nothing was more fascinating than men sparring. War he could do without, even though a war would give him purpose … but sparring. Yes, this would never grow boring.

  The yard was mostly empty, only a half dozen men—four to spar, two observing.

  "My man will take it," said one of the observers.

  "It does rather seem that way," said the second man with a sigh.

  Rook frowned, unable to resist responding to that though his eyes never left the sparring men. "No, the Cobra will take it."

  The second man, a higher ranking Fox to judge by his marks, sneered. "How would you know, heathen? You cannot even hold a sword."

  Rook ignored them as the first man, a Cobra, agreed with the Fox. He kept his eyes on the battling Cobra, who to judge by the comments of the observers seemed to be losing. Obviously they weren't paying enough attention.

  "Feint left," Rook muttered. "Lunge past, backswing—down."

  Even as he finished speaking, the Cobra completed the moves Rook had anticipated.

/>   The two men rounded on him. "How in the Sands—"

  "Most impressive," said a familiar voice that jolted right through Rook.

  Startled, he struggled not to show it, managing to turn around slowly and offer a polite nod. "Thank you."

  "How did you so clearly predict what he would do? I have faced men more times than I can count, and watched twice as many fights, and I cannot predict what they will do with even a portion of your skill. You acted as though you knew the fight in advance, which is not possible."

  Rook shrugged. "You are trained to fight. I am trained to predict how you will fight. The smallest movement can give away a strategy."

  "These men fight with no strategy in mind," Noor said, moving closer, putting them at a friendly distance. "How do you know what they will do, when even they do not?"

  He could feel Noor's curiosity, the distrust of the other men. The lack of trust was familiar; soldiers disliked being so easily read. Still, it was his one skill, and he was proud of it. "One cannot predict battles if he cannot first predict men." He motioned to the fighters. "To predict men, you must be able to predict every element of them … I think you would say 'predict mind, body, soul.' The hardest things to predict are what a man will do in the heat of anger or the heat of passion. If these can be predicted, the rest is simple."

  Noor's eyes lit with respect, a faint smile curving his far too tempting mouth. "Impressive. Yet you claim you cannot fight, even knowing all you do about combat?"

  "I am a strategist, not a combatant," Rook replied. "Every waking moment of my time has been devoted to anticipating and devising, to planning and plotting. There was no time left for anything else."

  "I see," Noor said.

  Rook could see some of that respect die. It shouldn't hurt. He did not know Noor well enough for his opinion to matter, and it was simply a fact of life in the desert that those men who could not fight were looked down upon.

  He ignored the hurt as best he could. Likely he was just lonely, and that was acerbating everything. He was good at what he did, that was what mattered. All the same, he had lost all interest in the conversation. He sketched the small group of men a bow. "If you will pardon me, Her Highness requested my presence and I have delayed here long enough."

  "Oh?" Noor asked. "How strange. I was on my way to see her as well. We can go together, then." Bidding farewell to the men, he fell into step alongside Rook as they left the practice yard.

  They walked in silence. Rook wished miserably he could devise a strategy for attracting Noor's interest, but this unexpected encounter had already gone poorly, and he had started with a severe handicap. He bit his lip in thought, but as always his so-called brilliant mind failed him when it came to his own dilemmas.

  "So how does one learn to anticipate a man lost in the heat of passion?" Noor asked suddenly, something that sounded suspiciously like amusement threading his voice.

  Rook frowned in confusion. "By observation, of co—oh. No." He shook his head, embarrassed. "I did not mean it that way, only when a man is intent upon something about which he cares deeply."

  Noor chuckled softly, but said nothing more as they approached the suite of rooms which belonged to the Princess of the Great Desert.

  "There you are," Cordelia said. She did not get up as they entered, merely motioned for them to join her in the sitting area, a thick, plush rug with various piles of pillows and cushions and low tables holding wine at each pile. "Rook, I was beginning to think you had been coerced into another game of taaki. General Noor, good evening to you."

  "Princess," Noor said, bowing low before taking his place on the floor.

  Rook rolled his eyes and took his own, immediately reaching for the dark gold wine set out. "What did you need, Lia?"

  Cordelia laughed gently as Noor looked torn between offense that Rook would speak to her so casually, and amusement at the quirks of heathens. "You mentioned that you needed to go into Tavamara for your project."

  "Yes," Rook said slowly. "I need to visit the different shops, determine which would be most fit for establishing long-term business. I should not be gone more than two or three weeks."

  "Perfect," Cordelia said with a smile. "Sahayl and I were talking it over. General Noor has been assigned the task of checking up on the banished individuals who assaulted Shihab. He has never been outside the Sands, however, and expressed interest in having a guide go with him. You would be ideal, Rook—you know Tavamara, the desert, and everything in between."

  Rook blinked.

  Three weeks in Tavamara with Noor? He would not be so busy he would lack free time, and Noor's duties would not take long to execute … Perhaps he might devise a strategy for a dalliance after all. He ruthlessly cut off the part of his mind that wanted more than a dalliance. There was no chance of anything more, not the way he was.

  Three weeks. Surely even he could do something with that. Was he a brilliant strategist or not?

  "I would be more than happy to assist," Rook said, looking first at Cordelia, then at Noor.

  Unfortunately, Noor's expression gave none of his thoughts away, and he held perfectly still so that Rook could not even judge his movements with much accuracy. Such absolute stillness … most often it was a negative reaction. Occasionally it was merely one of confusion. Very infrequently it could be containing more positive emotions, but in such cases people tended to relax a bit.

  Perhaps the next three weeks would not be as pleasant as he was hoping.

  "General Noor?" Cordelia asked. "Does this suit you?"

  "Of course, Highness," Noor said respectfully, bowing low, head not quite touching the floor. "I am honored you would trouble yourself in this matter. Lord Rook, I thank you for being willing to assist me. I hope I do not impede your own affairs."

  Rook shook his head. "Not at all. My mission is a trifle, I assure you."

  Cordelia clapped her hands briskly. "Wonderful. Then I shall cease to trouble you this night. When will you depart?"

  "I am ready to leave as soon as Lord Rook is," Noor replied. "His Highness has bid me leave whenever I so choose."

  Rook shrugged. "I can pack tonight, and unless there are duties preventing General Noor from leaving on the morrow, I see no reason we cannot leave then."

  "Tomorrow is fine," Noor replied.

  "Then I shall leave you both to your rest, and wish you best of fortune in your travels."

  Making their formal farewells, the two men left.

  "I apologize if I am putting you out," Noor said outside, cinnamon eyes meeting Rook's. "When I mentioned that I would prefer to travel with someone familiar with Tavamara, I did not expect them to trouble you."

  Rook waved the words away. "It's a pleasure, I assure you. It will be nice to have something worthwhile to do, and Tavamara is a fine country. That my former homeland prefers war to peace, I will never understand. I will see you in the morning, General."

  Nodding, Noor murmured a good night and turned to stride down a different hallway than the one they'd taken here.

  Sighing, Rook made his way slowly back to his room. He could not say for certain whether things were going well or not. Noor was proving difficult to read.

  But it had taken him only three months to sink Solna's greatest warship. Surely he could garner Noor's brief attentions in the span of three weeks.

  *~*~*

  "You look as though you would very much like to be back home," Rook said with a faint smile.

  "Yes," Noor replied, looking distinctly uncomfortable. They had arrived early in the morning, met with King Shahjahan, and only recently finished a tour of the palace. Tomorrow Noor would meet with the exiles. Until then, King Shahjahan had said they were welcome to attend the banquets as they desired, had free access to all the palace, and should do as they pleased. "Too loud, too busy … simply too much. Even at its busiest, the desert is never like this." He shook his head and fell silent.

  It was odd, to see such a stoic man so discomfited—but Shihab had said Sahayl and
Bahadur were equally disconcerted upon their arrival. Not surprising, really. Noor had said it—the desert was never like Tavamara.

  Rook finished his wine and smiled again. "Would you like to explore the city? It is chaos down there, with the market open, but fascinating. Perhaps being in the thick of it will adjust you to it, faster." He laughed. "I promise it is no worse than a battlefield."

  "Of that I would not be so certain," Noor muttered, but nodded. "As you say, then." The briefest of smiles flickered across his face. "My royal guide."

  Rolling his eyes at the jest, Rook stood and shrugged into his outer robe, smoothing down the dark green fabric before wrapping a deep brown sash around his waist to cinch it in place.