A Man of His Word

by The Complete Series 01-04 (epub)

  “I suppose so.”

  “Gods!” Inos muttered. “That’s disgusting!”

  “Yes, dear,” Kade said quietly.

  3

  The air was cool and clammy, color still undefined. Even the skylarks must still be snoozing in their nests.

  In the pearly light of predawn, Inos sat and shivered on Sesame in a stable yard. At her side, Kar was still as a statue on his favorite gray, watching his brother inspect the honor guard of family men.

  Inos had expected a confidential chat during a ride in a coach, not a state procession.

  She had burned her mouth on her coffee and six coarse Zarkian biscuits lay like lead in her belly, but now she was ready for whatever surprise the sultan was prepared to spring next. At least, she hoped she was. There were no other princes in sight, only wary grooms on the sidelines, and the twenty-five guards with their mounts. Azak was examining them like a trader planning an offer.

  “Family men are royalty from other cities?” she asked.

  Kar smile without turning his head. “Mostly.”

  “Is this what happens to unwanted princes?”

  “Some sink even lower.”

  “How much lower?”

  “They sell their skills for silver and serve commoners!” Kar said with infinite contempt.

  “But when a throne changes hands somewhere—”

  “Thrones change buttocks. In Zark, monarchy is denoted by a sash. Sashes change men.”

  “Very well. If a new sultan succeeds, might some of these guards then be summoned back to their homes?”

  Kar started to nod, then suddenly frowned. It was gone in an instant, but that was the first frown she had ever seen on him. One of the family men had been dismissed and was leading his horse away. Friend Kar had missed something, perhaps?

  “Explain, please,” Inos said meanly.

  He beamed. “A poorly fitted shoe. I thought it would pass, but the Big Man’s standards are higher than mine.”

  “The man will be punished? How?”

  Kar turned his smile full on her for the first time. “One of his sons will be beaten.”

  “That’s wicked!”

  “They all knew what their oath meant when they swore.”

  “How much of a beating?” she asked queasily.

  “Probably just one lash for each year of his age.”

  “I suppose the man himself has to choose which son?” She was beginning to understand the sadistic thinking.

  “Yes.”

  “And he must watch, I suppose?”

  “He must do it.”

  That ended the conversation.

  Azak completed his inspection. He swung up into the saddle of one of his black stallions, which put up a small show of resistance and then calmed. He had at least a dozen of those beauties, and Inos recognized this one as Dread, one of the least cantankerous and therefore something of a disappointment to him. He walked it over to her as Kar rode off to line up the guard.

  The last time Inos had seen the sultan he had been summoned to an old crone’s bed like a gigolo, and yet his gaze was steady and unashamed as their eyes met. It was Inos who blushed. She felt her face grow hot—where was her Kinvale poise when she needed it?

  The jeweled belt he always wore was missing. Instead he bore a gleaming baldric across his chest, a narrower strip of the same silver mesh studded with emeralds. Then she realized that it was the identical piece, that normally he must keep it wrapped four or five times around his waist, out of the way. This was probably how it was supposed to be worn, the symbol of kingship. His clothes were the finest she had ever seen on him, so embroidered and emblazoned with precious stones that they might hold half the wealth of the kingdom.

  The mutual scrutiny ended. Inos had brought a riding crop expressly so she could salute him with it, and she now did so, wondering if the curse would interpret that as an admission of his status. All that happened was that Azak arched one shapely auburn brow almost into his turban—an annoying trick she had seen him use before.

  “You will have to cover your face in public.”

  “Of course. I am sorry you find my appearance distasteful!”

  She should have known she would never embarrass him. As she moved to adjust her headcloth, he said, “Not just at the moment, but later. We princes have heard of Imperial ways and enjoy admiring feminine beauty as much as imps do.”

  Princes also enjoyed seeing how much blush they could provoke.

  “But the common folk would be shocked,” he added imperturbably.

  “Then you should educate them, Cousin.”

  “But in what ways? Imperial ladies uncover their faces, but merwomen expose their breasts, and Arakkaran is much closer to the Kerith Islands than to Hub.”

  Following the vanguard of family men, Azak rode out from his palace. Sesame paced smoothly on his right, and Kar’s gray on the left. The route ran southward, through olive groves and shady hollows, still shiny with dew.

  “I am glad to be spared another day in the desert, your Majesty,” Inos said, able to give him his title beyond the palace grounds.

  Azak glanced down—he was very high above her. “You haven’t seen true desert yet. It is hard and cruel, but it brings out the strength of a man. It does not tolerate weaklings. Farmland feels soft and decadent to me. Please call me by my name, Inosolan.”

  His ability to take her by surprise was infuriating. “Of course, Azak.”

  “No one else in the kingdom may.”

  Again taken by surprise, she looked up, and he was regarding her with amusement.

  “I want to talk about Rasha.”

  He scowled and shook his head. “Not now. You wanted to see my kingdom. This is a good chance. I thought you might also care for a brief lesson in kingship. You may find it useful when you come into your inheritance.”

  Before she could find a reply to express her annoyance, he laughed. “Our ways seem strange to you.”

  “They seem unnecessarily cruel.”

  “Anyone who tried to change them would be regarded as a weakling. Not that I want to change them, of course.”

  He was baiting her, and she was not going to be browbeaten like one of his princelings. “You killed your grandfather?”

  “Kar did, on my orders. The old rogue knew his time was coming. He’d tried to kill me several times.”

  “Rasha said he was an adept.”

  “Then he was a mighty ineffective one.”

  Or else Azak had been aided by another adept.

  “This shocks you, Inos.”

  “It is not the custom of my people.”

  “It is old here. You think like an imp. Many imperors have died by violence.”

  “But never a king of Krasnegar.”

  “Truly?” Azak said skeptically. “You cannot be certain. Kar can slide a bodkin under a sleeping man’s eyelid. That leaves no mark.”

  Inos felt sick. “How many men have you killed?”

  “Personally, you mean? In fights or in execution? Fair fights or cheats? Or do you also count those I sent Kar after—Kar or others? I suppose a couple of dozen. I don’t keep count.”

  “I’m sorry! I should not have asked. It is none of my business, and I should not judge Arakkarn by the standards of other lands.” She turned her attention to the arid and dusty countryside—the goats roaming the dry hills, the greener valleys falling seaward. Now the haphazard little road ran between dry stone walls and thorn hedges, landscape new to her.

  But Azak had not done. “I had no choice.”

  “What?”

  “Even as a child,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the clatter of hooves, “I was obviously superior. I had to try for the top or be killed myself. The first attempt on my life was made when I was six years old. There have been two attempts on Quarazak already and he is rubbish, barely above average. His brother Krandaraz has survived three tries so far, and even he does not compare to what I was at his age.”

  She was
horrified. “Kill children? What good would that do?”

  “It would belittle me, of course.”

  “It is a barbarous custom!”

  “It is very efficient. We measure a man by many things, but his virility and the number of his sons count high. So … always many princes. Princes cannot work in the fields. It costs money to support the royal family. This is one way we reduce the burden on the country, and we make sure that the ruler is a strong man.”

  “Strong?” she said with her heaviest scorn.

  “Strong. He must be able to win loyalty, and that requires excellence. He must have iron nerves. He must be cunning and treacherous and totally ruthless. I am all these things. I may kill or banish Krandaraz eventually, if I think one of my younger sons is better. It is an efficient system, good for the land.”

  Before Inos could find an answer to this outrageous rationalization, they rounded a bend and there was a village ahead.

  “Cover your face,” Azak said, “and do not speak.”

  The mud-brick houses had low doors and no windows. Possibly the massive walls kept them cool in this blistering climate, but Inos had seen pigsties with more grandeur. The hamlet merged in all directions into olive trees, and there was a scent of oil in the air, barely detectable under the other stenches. The drone of insects was a constant low undertone.

  The royal visit had been expected. The single street was blocked by people, obviously the whole population—every man, woman, and child crouching with face in the dirt as the sultan arrived. He reined in Dread, and Inos halted Sesame a few paces back on his right. Prince Kar’s gray drew level on Azak’s left, and the family men spread out on either hand. Then there was a pregnant pause, while everyone listened to the flies and the muffled coughing of the sick.

  “Azak ak’Azakar ak’Zorazak!” Kar proclaimed in an astonishing roar, “Sultan of Arakkaran, Increaser of the Good, Beloved of the Gods, Protector of the Poor. You may greet your lord.”

  The village surged to its feet and cheered until it was hoarse.

  Kar raised a hand for silence. An ancient headman came limping forward and held out a tray to offer Kar a selection of fruits, pastries, and insects. The prince selected a fig, bit half of it, chewed for a moment, and then passed the rest to Azak, who raised it to his lips. Inos thought he palmed it.

  “His Majesty has graciously accepted your hospitality,” Kar announced.

  The headman scrambled out of the way as Dread moved forward, Kar’s gray following. Uncertain what to do, Inos stayed where she was, sweating behind her veil but very grateful for its concealment. Apparently she had made the right choice, for the family men did not move either. Azak and his brother rode slowly around—Azak inspecting the village, Kar guarding Azak. The sultan took his time, scrutinizing everything out as far as the trees on either side of the road, although he did not dismount and enter buildings. The inhabitants shuffled their feet in apprehensive silence.

  Insects buzzed. In the distance a donkey brayed.

  A sudden eruption of barking from inside one of hovels cut off in terrified yelps. Inos realized that there were no dogs in sight.

  At last the royal inspectors came back to the same place as before, and the headman returned warily to Kar’s stirrup.

  “His Majesty congratulates you on the condition of the trees.”

  “His Magnificence is most gracious.”

  “His Majesty inquires when the pits were dug?”

  “Pray inform his Beneficence … about three months ago.”

  Kar’s riding crop slashed across the old man’s face. He did not flinch or raise his hands. He bowed. “I was in error.”

  “They will be filled before sundown, and new pits dug. Twice as many of them, with the male and female areas farther apart.”

  “As his Majesty commands, so it is.”

  Azak was staring straight ahead, over the crowd’s heads. He had not spoken, or moved a muscle. The old man’s tongue sneaked out to lick a trickle of blood.

  Again Kar produced his astonishing roar. “His Majesty will now receive petitions, on any subject except taxes. All may speak freely, without fear. None but his Majesty will hear the words that are spoken.”

  With trembling hands, the headman pulled a dirty scrap of paper from his gown and held it up. The baby-faced prince took it. After a glance he let it fall, and a second slash turned the scarlet stripe into a cross. “I said no taxes!”

  He old man bowed again and backed away.

  “Any may speak!” Kar repeated, looking at the crowd.

  A younger man took one step and then halted, losing his nerve.

  “Approach!”

  Then he came—legs stiff, head held high, and fists clenched. His rags were barely decent covering. He sank down and touched his turban to the ground beside the hooves.

  “Speak,” Kar said softly.

  The petitioner raised his head to address the horses’ knees. “I am Zartha.”

  “You may speak without fear, Zartha.”

  Zartha licked his lips. “Two months ago an ox we—my brothers and me … our ox was struck by an arrow. The wound sickened and it died.”

  Kar stiffened. “Have you the arrow?”

  The man scrambled to his feet. Head still down, he held up an arrowhead. The prince bent to take it, looked it over, and glanced to the sultan. There was an exchange of nods. Kar slipped the evidence into a pocket and produced a leather bag.

  “Did you see who shot this arrow?”

  The man nodded dumbly at the shadows on the dust.

  “Would you know him?”

  Another nod.

  “He wore green?”

  A pause, then another nod.

  “You may be called to the palace to identify him. If a summons comes, do not be afraid. It is his Majesty’s wish to punish the guilty, whoever they may be, as well as to recompense the victims. None is above his Majesty’s justice, and none below. He gives you back your ox.” Kar began tossing gold pieces down in the dust, five in all. The crowd oooed apreciatively, and the peasant fell on his knees to gather them up, crying blessings on the sultan.

  “Any may speak!” Kar proclaimed again. A long pause …

  The crowd rippled. A couple emerged, with a child walking between then, wrapped in a sheet. She could be no more than ten, too young to wear a veil, but the sheet concealed her hair and shadowed her face. Nevertheless, Inos decided she was terrified. The young father obviously was. The mother’s face was invisible.

  For a moment nothing happened, while Inos wondered if she would be able to contain her fury. She feared her veil might burst into flames if she looked at Azak. Then the parents opened the blanket, holding it out to the sides so the sultan could view the girl. They made her raise her arms and turn around.

  Kar glanced inquiringly at Azak, who nodded. As the mother hastily wrapped up the girl again, Kar gestured. One of the family men slipped from his horse and came across. He made the surprised peasant bend over and then used his back as a writing desk, asking questions and making entries on a piece of parchment with a silverpoint. Then he handed the man the parchment.

  “Bring her to the palace and show that letter,” Kar commanded. “His Majesty will be munificent.” Nodding steadily, the man put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and began to pull her away, the child going with them. He was still nodding as he backed into the crowd.

  “Next?”

  Azak refused the next girl, and the next. But in all he bought four in that first village.

  A couple of bowshots along the road, where olive trees were already giving way to pasture, Azak said, “Drop your veil.”

  Inos complied. “Why?”

  He flashed white teeth in a contemptuous grimace. “Because you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  Angry? She was seething. “You bought those girls!”

  “I agreed to take them into my household.”

  “You buy them like piglets!”

  “I compensate the parents for
the loss of their services.”

  “Slavery! You sell your own people into slavery? What sort of ruler …”

  High on his giant stallion, he was smiling down at her, although there was a hint of something else on that arrogant mahogany face. Perhaps she had hurt his feelings. She hoped so.

  “Inosolan, the parents have too many mouths to feed. My gold will benefit the whole village. The girls will be cleaned, clothed, and fed better than they have ever been. Trained, educated, and looked after, for three or four years—”

  “Until they are ripe?”

  He blinked, and his voice dropped half an octave. “Until they are ripe. Then they are free to go home.”

  “I don’t—”

  “They are escorted back to their parents and given the choice. Never, ever, has one preferred to return to her village. They always choose life in the palace.”

  “Well …” Those huts had been pigpens. Inos tried to imagine being faced with that decision. “So they return to the palace and the joys of your bed?”

  A spasm like pain crossed his face. “I keep the prettiest, of course. That is what being sultan is all about. But most I give to princes I currently favor, or family men. As royal favors, they must be treated well.”

  “Concubines! Toys!”

  “Mothers of sultans!”

  “Oh.” Inos forgot what she had been about to say.

  “Did your father have no mistresses? No kept women? No loyal subjects’ wives?”

  “None.” She believed she was speaking the truth, but of course she would not have known, would she? She was glad she need not meet Azak’s eyes when she did not choose to.

  “None, never? Strange! But if he had made bastards, they would not have been eligible to inherit his throne, now would they?” Azak chuckled mockingly. “At least, that is how the Impire does things. But all my sons are equal, and all my future sons, also. Their age does not matter, nor their mother’s father—prince or peasant. That is fairer, is it not? My mother was so brought. I will show you the village. My relatives lived there until quite recently.”

  For a while there was only the thud of hooves. Inos was thinking of Vinisha and the others—witless, because they had no need for wits, but not unhappy. And she thought of that village.