A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  Inos had preferred not to watch the antelope being pulled down and torn apart. Coursing was low on her list of favorite sports.

  “It fooled most of them,” Kar remarked to the hoof he was studying. “The Big Man didn’t notice, luckily. But this frog does seem a little tender. Did she have any trouble earlier? Real trouble?” Even when he was bent double, there was something very irritating in Kar’s manner.

  Tempted to lash out with her boot at so profitable a target, Inos regretfully refrained. “Not that I noticed. I mean, no! She was fine.”

  He grunted, released the hoof, and went for another. Sesame tossed her head as he ducked below it. “Don’t ever try it when he might see.”

  “I have more sense than that.”

  “I thought you had more sense than to try it at all. You think your sex would protect you?”

  Inos rejected her first choice of response and framed a more civil reply. “Certainly not. I expect I should receive much the same lecture as Prince Petkish did.”

  Kar made a scoffing noise. “Lecture? You think that was all Petkish got, a lecture?”

  As huntmaster, Azak was a fanatic. Princes who muffed a chance at game or displayed anything less than total mastery of their mounts were certain to receive royal reprimands, which were usually long and invariably savage. No matter how senior the culprit, or how many lowborn attendants might be within earshot, Azak would bellow out his scorn and contempt for all to hear. He wielded an enormous vocabulary without pity—ridicule upon humiliation, insult upon sarcasm—irony, scorn, and scurrility. Frequently the tongue-lashing would continue until tears dribbled down the victim’s cheeks, and days might then pass before he dared come again into the sultan’s presence. A public flogging would have been kinder and less feared.

  Azak, in short, treated the princes with undisguised contempt. He was reasonably patient with the lowborn—with grooms, falconers, and other attendants—but he made no allowance for human fallibility in royalty. It was not a style of leadership that appealed to Inos. The third or fourth time she witnessed one of his brutal tirades, the victim had been young Petkish, just two days after he had started inserting marriage into his frequent offers of cohabitation. His horse had balked at jumping a wadi, a very nasty little gully, rocky and deep, its edges crumbling. Azak had somehow seen what happened behind his back and had returned to berate the culprit with a fury of invective that continued until the lad dismounted and threw himself on the ground before Azak’s horse, rubbed his face in the dirt, and begged for forgiveness. He had then been sent home, and Inos had not seen him since.

  Within a few minutes, Azak had been leading the remainder of the hunt at full gallop over terrain that would have caused any reasonable man to dismount and proceed on foot. The remaining princes had clung to him like fleas, with Inos in their midst, heart in mouth—if mere princes could do it, then a queen must not fail. By a miracle no horse or rider had come to grief, but that night she had awakened several times sweating and shaking; and understanding a little better.

  She understood, also, that such leadership did not permit Azak himself ever to fall below perfection. His mount must never stumble, his arrows never miss. And apparently they never did. It was small wonder that the younger men worshipped him, and even the oldest cowered below his frown.

  But now she felt a stab of alarm. She had liked Petkish. Almost alone among the princes he had seemed to appreciate that a woman might be human once in a while. “What else happened to Petkish, apart from the lecture?”

  “He was banished.”

  Kar was still doubled over, but Inos kept her face schooled anyway, hiding her distaste. Banished—for a single refusal, or because he had been too friendly with the visiting royalty? Poor Petkish and his tiny ginger beard! Either way, he had learned a hard lesson.

  Azak couldn’t banish Inos, because she was Rasha’s guest, but if he learned that she had faked a lame horse in order to avoid the sight of blood, then she would no longer be one of the boys. She would be back doing flower arrangements with Kade.

  “You were misinformed, Highness,” Inos said. “My horse did pick up a stone. Had I known I would be doubted, I should have saved it as evidence. Surely you are too much of a gentleman to tell tales?”

  Kar completed his deliberate inspection of the second hoof, then straightened up. He rested one hand on Sesame’s withers and turned to Inos with quiet amusement.

  “I always tell tales,” he said. “I tell everything. I am his chief of security. Did you not know?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Kar shrugged. “He trusts me. I am the only man he trusts.”

  Inos felt very much aware of being alone in an empty desert with this smiling, baby-faced enigma. She had never spoken with Kar before, and he made her scalp pucker. She wished the rest of the hunt would come into view. “The only one he trusts completely, you mean? He must trust some of the others somewhat?”

  “How can you trust anyone somewhat?”

  “Well …”

  Kar’s smile widened. He moved around to check Sesame’s rear feet. “Why do you wish to speak with him?”

  Ah! So this was business? She should have guessed! Obviously the straightforward approach was suspect and she was supposed to do things in devious ways. Faking a lame pony might be the correct form of address when seeking audience, and now Azak had sent Kar to open negotiations.

  “I wanted his advice, as one monarch to another.”

  “Why should he give you advice?”

  Nonplussed, Inos snapped, “Why should he not?”

  Kar was scratching at the hoof with the quillon of his dagger and he spoke without raising his voice at all. “You are in league with the bitch sorceress. She brought you here for some purpose of her own. Your aunt spends half her days drinking tea with her, spreading dissent and sedition among the women of the palace.”

  “I bear no malice toward Arakkaran!”

  “What evidence do you offer, apart from your own word?”

  Idiot! She should have expected this suspicion. She had not been thinking about local politics at all, only her own.

  This was not the Impire. It most certainly was not Kinvale, and she had been playing games. Azak might indulge in sport, but he would never play games. “Do I look like a threat to Arakkaran?”

  Kar straightened and regarded her with less smile than usual. “You look like an Imperial spy.”

  “That is rubbish! I no more look like an imp than you do.”

  “There is a scent of war in the wind.”

  “Yes, there is. The imps stole my kingdom!”

  “So you have been telling the women. You have also been asking questions,” Kar said softly. “Strange questions. “You asked how the sultan is chosen, for example.”

  “Yes! How is the sultan chosen? That can’t be a state secret, yet no one will tell me. Azak has many older brothers. Why him? In Krasnegar, and in the Impire—”

  “In Zark it is done otherwise.” Kar bent to the fourth leg. “By election.”

  “Very democratic!”

  “Yes. When a sultan dies, then the imam calls the princes to assembly.”

  “Imam?”

  “Bishop. He asks who is to succeed. If more than one steps forward, the imam dismisses them. The next day he calls them again.”

  She felt sick. “Until there is only one claimant?”

  “Exactly.”

  Election by elimination? “And how many stepped forward with Azak?”

  Kar completed his inspection and straightened. He was still smiling, if redder-faced than usual. “How many would you have expected?”

  “I think I understand.”

  “That is good. Lead the mare around.”

  I’m sure she’s all right.”

  “Do it! You never know who may be watching.”

  Did he mean mundane eyes or occult? Inos led Sesame around in a small circle, wondering if the sorceress had driven the whole palace mad or if all Zark was like this.
Even Kade had become strangely tight-lipped and jumpy lately.

  “She is fit to ride,” Kar said.

  “The previous sultan—”

  “Zorazak. Our grandfather, of blessed memory.”

  “And how—”

  “Extreme old age.” Djinn eyes darkened in bright sunlight, and Kar’s were now the color of dried blood. “Very sad.”

  Despite the brutal heat, Inos shivered. Now she knew why no one had been willing to discuss this. “How old?”

  “Almost sixty. His passing was slower than we expected, but quite painless.”

  “I am greatly relieved to hear that.” Honest as a djinn! Now she knew what it meant.

  Kar nodded. “The sultan said to tell you that you have made your point, and your continuing presence on these hunts is no longer necessary.” The smile grew more loving. “And I give you some advice from myself. Stay out of politics, Inosolan. They are an art too dangerous for women—even queens regnant!”

  Slender and lithe, Kar strode across to the gray, which had hardly moved a hoof since he left it. He vaulted into the saddle without using the stirrups and instantly was gone, cantering away over the gravel, leaving Inos standing beside Sesame.

  Sesame snickered loudly.

  2

  Alone and early, Inos returned to the stables; there were no guards available to escort her. With a snort of indifference, she gave Sesame a farewell pat and set off by herself, striding along a well-known route through halls and cloisters, shady groves and narrow short-cut alleys. She moved within a glow of anger that burned worse than the sunlight, that seemed to be still increasing. Perhaps it was easier to be angry on foot than on horseback.

  She had been a complete imbecile! A child! She had charged into Arakkaranian high society like a mad bull, expecting all those royal princes to change their entire way of thinking just because a slip of a girl could ride a horse—expecting the sultan himself to change!

  She had been wrong and Kade had been right, and that hurt worst of all.

  Imagine Azak at Kinvale? Impossible! Azak at Kinvale was unthinkable. Inosolan in Arakkaran was unthinkable, too. She must have seemed brash and wanton and insolent and … Ugh! Immature!

  A queen must always think politically! She would remember that in future.

  In a scorching open courtyard, about fifty small boys were doing sword drill under the raptor eyes of a couple of elderly family men. She swept by them, staying close to the wall, and no one paid any attention to her. Fifty more princes in training, fifty more arrogant, women-hating, pig-headed … Bah!

  Rasha was absolutely right!

  Now Inos had thrown away her chance to enlist an ally, a disinterested advisor. She would have to rely entirely on the kindly intentions of the sorceress and somehow she felt less inclined to trust that shape-changing old hag than she did to trust Azak, even if he did treat women like livestock and had murdered his grandfather. Anyway, that story had come from Kar, whom she trusted less than anyone.

  Still, Mastery is made of mistakes, as Rap had always said, and she must try to learn from this one. She stalked along a cool arcade, hearing her bootsteps echo in odd patterns from the arches of the roof. The second day … That was where she had gone wrong. The audience with Azak, the riding of Evil, even the first day’s hunt—all those had been sound strategy. Her presence that first day could almost have been passed off as an accident. Exactly who had invited her to hunt again the next day she could not recall—one of the graybeards, she thought—but she should have declined. Politely, of course. Very gratefully … but declined. Then they might have come to her. Azak might have. Out of curiosity. Instead she had turned herself into an everyday spectacle, a curiosity instead of a marvel.

  Do anything! she had vowed, do anything to recover her kingdom. And all she had done was play games and flutter eyelashes. Well—no more games!

  But the first order of business must be to apologize to Kade and admit that she had been right. Grrr!

  Inos swung around at the sound of feet running. One of the family men was chasing after her. She stopped and waited until he arrived, flushed and gasping in the heat. He was shorter than most, very youthful. He wore a scimitar and at least two daggers and an odd sort of conical cap that she had noticed before among the guards. His face was round and innocent, and very, very red.

  “Came … escort … Majesty …” he gasped, chest heaving.

  Inos was practically at her destination and quite obviously in no real need of an escort, but she nodded graciously. “That was very kind of you. You need to rest for a minute?”

  He shook his head, and she would not have been suprised to see drops of perspiration fly off him like rain. In some way this earnest young guard reminded her very much of the banished Petkish, with his well-meaning offers of protection; and he did need to catch his breath.

  “Tell me something,” she said, not moving. “What do the rings on your hat mean?”

  He raised coppery eyebrows in surprise. “Mean? These? Nothing, your Majesty. They’re a weapon.” He raised a hand and hooked the top ring off his cap to show her. The outside edge was honed like a razor. “It’s called a chakram, Majesty. I throw them. Off a finger.” He raised a free finger and twiddled it around to illustrate.

  “Deadly?”

  He nodded, grinning, and drew the finger across his throat.

  Inos shivered. “Thank you.”

  He replaced the ring, and the two of them started to walk.

  Get them alone—that was the secret! Kar had talked when he was alone with her. They didn’t like to be seen talking with a mere woman. She smiled over her shoulder, and the coppery eyebrows jumped nervously.

  She did a little dance step that put her at his side instead of in front. “Tell me something, then. Why are you guards known as ‘family men’?”

  He had recovered most of his breath, so he was able to puff himself up proudly, even if for only a moment. “Because we have sworn our loyalty on the heads of our sons!”

  Which was what she had been told before. Allowing for the beard, he looked about seventeen. With a sudden glint of devilry in his eye, he added, “Three, so far, your Majesty.”

  Inos hoped she did not blush. She was almost at her quarters. She might get one more question in before they came within sight of the sentries and her informant became tongue-tied again.

  “And how does one become a family man?”

  The question puzzled him, and he frowned for several paces before he worked out what she wanted to know. “Royal birth, ma’am.”

  “A prince?”

  He went redder still. “Not always. I wasn’t quite. Palace born, but too distant. Great-grandnephew of the Sultan of Shuggaran, your Majesty.”

  So that was what happened to all the excess princes—palaces exported swordsmen.

  “Thank you,” Inos said sweetly once again and let him drop back a pace as they rounded the corner and the apartment doors and its guards came in sight. Ex-prince Petkish, she assumed, might well be practicing chakram-throwing in Shuggaran right now. That would teach him to propose marriage to an Imperial spy.

  Just a few minutes’ friendly chat with an anonymous guard has been enough to put Inos in a much better temper. By the time she had stormed up a long staircase and thrown down her hat and veil and gloves and cloak and slammed a couple of doors, her fury was back again. And she knew why, too! She was going to have to confess to Kade that she had failed utterly. In two weeks of bone-grinding effort, she had obtained not even two minutes’ private talk with the sultan. Perhaps such a discussion would have done her no good anyway—that was not the point! The point was that she was feeling like a complete fool. It was not a totally unfamiliar sensation, but it was not a common one, either, and it was certainly not welcome.

  Wondering where everyone was, she threw open another door, heading for Kade’s favorite balcony. And there everyone was.

  The little salon seemed to be crammed with all the residents of the habitation, fro
m wizened old crones down to dampish babies. Everyone turned toward the door and fell into an excited, expectant hush when they saw who had just entered—back early, of course. Kade was there, in the middle of the excitement, and Zana was overseeing everyone with her wrinkles wrapped in a grandmotherly smile.

  Swiftly women and youngsters cleared out of the way, so Inos could see the strikingly beautiful woman quietly blushing in the center of it all. For a moment Inos just gaped, causing a couple of small girls to start giggling. It was Vinisha.

  But her gown was an Imperial-style ballgown. Thralia was putting the final touches to her high and elaborate coiffure, and Vinisha’s hair was revealed as a stunning auburn. She had not yet put on any jewelry. Perhaps she had none. But the gown! Enormous masses of shining samite were gathered around her, cascading out from a very low waist, and above the waist … remarkably little, just a low-cut bodice. Very low-cut! Vinisha had a striking figure; there was no doubt about that. It had been months since Inos had seen a décolletage anywhere near that daring, and then the dowager duchess had ordered its wearer from the hall. For a moment Inos thought of strolling into a gathering of Arakkaranian princes in that outfit, and her mind reeled.

  The gown was a miracle. It set off a djinnish complexion perfectly, but it was also the exact same shade of green as Inos’s eyes, and the gold thread in the samite would match her hair, near enough. Vinisha was the same size as Inos—near enough. The bodice was too tight on her … but certainly near enough.

  The tragedy of a figure like that buried in a sack all day!

  Uneasily aware that she was filthy and dusty and stinking of horse, Inos tore her eyes from the gown and looked at Kade, who beamed opaquely.

  “Where did you get that wonder?”

  “You like it, my dear? Sultana Rasha showed us some functions in progress in the Imperial palace. She adjusted the color of the material for us. Then Mistress Thralia, and Mistress Kasha, and …”

  Of course the design would have to be from Hub, or at least one of the major cities of the Impire. A provincial backwater like Kinvale would be shocked speechless by that neckline, and the fabric alone would buy a coach and four.