by Barb Hendee
Families from as far as the eastern coastal provinces were in attendance this day. They crowded the floor all the way to walls, leaving poorer citizens to walk a narrow path to the dais. And all in attendance had brought a daughter, a niece, or a sister of proper age . . . for marriage.
Some of this could be attributed to celebration of the emperor’s birthday in three days, not that anyone expected Kanal’am to be in attendance. But the celebration had to take place, and it proved convenient for nobles seeking an imperial alliance by marriage . . . and later by blood through a firstborn child.
The prince counted no fewer than nine such women—such offerings, such bait—kneeling virtuously beside a well-dressed father and/or mother. What a lovely image they made to uninformed eyes in displaying their interest in the day of “the people’s court.” And kneeling closest, no more than ten paces away, was the most striking young woman.
Durrah was considered by most to be Ounyal’am’s likely choice.
Her family was one of the wealthiest in the empire. Her bloodlines could be traced back almost as far as the imperial line. Tall and well figured, with a mass of dark wavy hair, she was a simulacrum of her mother in spirit and body. Her mind was more like her vicious father.
Durrah’s gaze shifted slightly to meet Ounyal’am’s, as if she knew whenever he looked her way. The barest smile spread across her dark, full lips before she shyly looked away, but he saw the hard triumph in her eyes at his notice.
Cold, ambitious, and cruel, Durrah was most suited to this imperial court.
He swept his gaze over the other young women who knelt among their families like willing sacrificial offerings. He hoped not to see one face . . . but he did.
A’ish’ah knelt beside her father, the emir, with her head down and her eyes fixed on the mosaic floor beyond the edge of her mat. Her straight hair hung long enough to touch the floor as she knelt so low. Lovely as she was in her long pale yellow tunic over a white silk skirt and matching slippers, Ounyal’am quickly looked away.
The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to her, for the other families would always be watching. They were capable of anything should they fear their own candidate’s success was threatened. He knew full well that when he finally had no choice but to pick a wife—first and last—he should pick Durrah. He would not subject anyone he cared for to such a life.
No, not A’ish’ah.
At his nod, two imperial guards pulled upon the sweeping, golden handles of the far doors made of the purest ivory slats. As the entrance widened, petitioners entered under the guards’ careful scrutiny. And as always, Counselor a’Yamin led the way with an armload of scrolls.
It had long been the counselor’s duty to oversee the petitioners. In truth, Ounyal’am thought a’Yamin had little interest in common citizens and their needs. The counselor merely insisted on being at the center of anything that happened within the imperial audience chamber. He liked to display his position and authority, more so in the absence of the emperor.
“My prince, I present the people’s requests,” a’Yamin announced, bowing dramatically and holding out the first scroll.
Ounyal’am took it and the proceedings began.
Most issues were typical, such as complaints of overpriced livestock or goods, with the injured party requesting repayment from the seller. In these matters, the prince listened fairly and attentively to all sides.
One man, who had recently suffered from illness, requested a reprieve for taxes on his candle shop. Ounyal’am granted this instantly. And the afternoon crawled on.
One after another, citizens came before him, bowed low—too low for his conscience—presented their situation, and then awaited an imperial pronouncement. There were a few more interesting cases toward the end.
A young man in attendance had become engaged to be married, and the bride’s father had paid her dowry in coin seven days before the wedding, as was customary. The would-be groom spent a good deal of the money on improving his home, to ready it for an impending family. The day before the wedding, the bride’s father broke the engagement and demanded the dowry be returned. The young man learned that the father had arranged for the daughter to marry a more affluent tea merchant. The would-be bride had agreed, assumingly of her own choice.
“I cannot return the dowry,” the young man explained. “I spent much of it in good faith to make a suitable home.”
“Yes, but the marriage will not take place,” the bride’s father insisted. “The dowry must be returned!”
Ounyal’am considered this for a few moments. True, the wedding would not take place, but that was hardly the fault of the would-be groom.
“How much of the dowry remains?” Ounyal’am asked the young man.
“Nearly a third, my prince.”
“As you did not sever the engagement and spent the coin to improve your impending bride’s new home, you will return a third of the original coin and keep whatever small amount remains.”
The young man bowed his head in relief. “Yes, my prince.”
However, the bride’s father, Counselor a’Yamin, and Emir Mansoor appeared stunned and disapproving. In such a case, it was customary for the entire dowry to be returned. This practice allowed any father to keep his options open without risk.
A’Yamin took a step toward the dais. “My prince—”
Ounyal’am cut him off with a cold stare. He waited until the counselor dropped his less than respectful eyes before all in the chamber. Humiliating the imperial counselor was not wise, but Ounyal’am’s bitterness overwhelmed him.
“I see there is one last petition,” and he held out his hand.
The counselor shuddered in his stooped fury, but he presented the last rolled paper.
Ounyal’am took it, peeled it open, and scanned it. The last case was more difficult.
Two sisters had recently lost their father, who had owned one of the largest goat farms adjacent to the city. He had been a steady supplier of milk and cheese. Instead of following custom and leaving everything to his eldest child, he had divided it. Half of the livestock had been left to his younger daughter.
Most of the farming equipment was left under the control of the elder daughter, but she was to allow the workers a choice of which sister they would serve. Nearly all had chosen the younger, and neither sister was turning a profit. The elder wanted to assert her legal—traditional—right to full inheritance.
“Can you not hire new workers?” Ounyal’am asked the elder, and then to the younger, “Can you not purchase the necessary equipment?”
“I tried,” the elder answered, “but the workers have been with our family all our lives. They know our ways and the goats. With new workers, the goats’ milk ran dry. This is harming not only me but other merchants in the city who have relied on my family for many years.”
“And I have no spare coin to purchase equipment,” the younger said. “Not nearly enough buckets or urns and no wagons to carry such to market. I am failing, Highness . . . failing in the eyes of my father’s spirit.”
Ounyal’am was struck by an idea he should have put aside. Once it took hold, he could not resist as he gazed around at the nobles, some sitting with their daughters.
“A difficult case,” he announced, “and with so many young observers here today, I should use it to assist with your education.”
Counselor a’Yamin paled slightly. The emperor had always made every pronouncement alone and without question.
“Lady Durrah,” Ounyal’am said. “How would you resolve this dispute?”
Kneeling with her back straight, she bowed her head deeply—properly—to him.
“By our laws, my prince, the eldest sister should have inherited all for lack of a son. The father did not follow his duty by tradition. Because of this, his entire farm is in danger of failing. I would grant the elder sister her proper due.”
As Ounyal’am turned his eyes from Durrah, he saw Counselor a’Yamin relax visibly and almost smile
. Durrah’s ruling was the same as would have been rendered by Emperor Kanal’am. Ounyal’am scanned the chamber as if at random. He hesitated again, and again could not stop himself.
“Lady A’ish’ah . . . how would you resolve this dispute?”
Her eyes had been on the floor, but they flew upward in near horror at having been singled out. He knew he should not have done it, but a part of him longed to hear what she might say.
Everyone waited as her lower lip trembled.
“If the father kept a successful business for so long,” she finally began, almost too quietly to hear, “then he could not have been a fool. There must have been a reason for his decision. Perhaps he knew the workers would go with the younger sister, and both sisters would initially fail. Perhaps he thought the farm needed them both . . . rather than just one. Equal ownership is not a tradition, but it is the way that both would thrive.”
Ounyal’am grew sorrowful and felt more alone than ever. This was the same answer he would have given, and he turned his attention back to the two sisters.
“You will join the goats, equipment, and workers together and share the farm as equals . . . equal inheritors in both ownership and responsibility.”
Both young women blinked. Neither said a word at first. They glanced at each other, and perhaps neither wanted to see their father’s last gift be lost. But by tradition, neither had seen this obvious answer.
“Yes, my prince,” they both murmured at once.
This time Counselor a’Yamin’s face reddened amid quick breaths.
With the petitions now done, Ounyal’am rose out of his chair—or rather his father’s—always placed on the edge of the dais for this day. Everyone bowed low and, as imperial prince, he needed to say no polite good-byes. So he simply swept through the vast room toward the open doors with the two members of his private guard close behind.
As Ounyal’am passed A’ish’ah, he fought not to look at her, though the wisdom of her judgment kept ringing in his head. No one else in the imperial chamber would have given the same answer.
The entire ordeal had worn him out a little. Leaving the domed chambers behind, he headed for his private apartments, hoping to rest for a short while.
But as he turned a corner, he caught Fareed watching him intently, and he stopped.
“What is wrong?” he demanded.
“Nothing, my prince.”
Fareed had been with him for . . . how long? Perhaps eleven years? The initial decision to appoint him had taken some thought. He was loyal, courageous, and skilled in close-quarters combat, but his face was more expressive than it should be. He also had far more opinions than was wise for someone in his position.
“There is something wrong,” Ounyal’am insisted.
Young Isa looked startled, and then uncomfortable, at this sudden exchange.
Fareed’s jaw twitched in near anger. “My prince, I . . . I do not understand why you continue to antagonize Counselor a’Yamin . . . over the petty disputes of farmers. Did you see the counselor’s face? Captain Nazhif hardly sleeps, for he worries. He is on the verge of dismissing your official taster and tasting your food himself.”
Ounyal’am stood frozen. He could not remember anyone ever speaking to him in such a fashion, much less a member of his private guard. Nazhif had certainly never been so bold. But something else struck him more.
“Nazhif is not sleeping?”
Fareed glanced away. “No, my prince . . . please forgive me. I spoke out of place.”
Ounyal’am said nothing at first. He considered himself fair-minded and observant, but it had not occurred to him—though it should have—that his spite for the counselor would affect others so directly.
“I will speak to Nazhif,” he said and turned down the passage.
As he strode along the passages, the doors to his rooms were just coming into view when his chest began to grow warm. Nazhif stood at attention outside the doors and opened them with a flourish as Ounyal’am approached. Normally, at this time of day Nazhif would go inside with him.
“Remain out here,” Ounyal’am ordered and paused to find some excuse before adding, “I wish you to rest, as I may have need of you later.”
If Nazhif found this strange, his stoic face revealed nothing. “Yes, my prince.”
Ounyal’am entered and finally was alone. Settling on a divan in the curtained sitting area, he let a few moments pass as he found his composure. Only when his mind cleared did he pull out the medallion and focus his thoughts.
I am here.
Is everything well for you, my prince?
He ignored this, for he could not answer in the face of all else. The imperial guards still hunt for the prisoners. I have done what I can to hinder them. Are you safe?
A pause followed.
Yes, my prince, but I must ask . . . has anyone unusual offered advice concerning the search?
Ounyal’am’s brow wrinkled. No. Myself, Commander Har’ith, and Counselor a’Yamin made most of the decisions in counsel. I tried to keep as many guards near the city outskirts as possible and the rest . . . otherwise occupied.
What of the high premin?
This was a strange question. I have not seen High Premin Aweli-Jama this day, but he has visited more often of late than I remember. Why do you ask?
Khalidah inhabits someone highly placed and interrogated one of the prisoners repeatedly at length.
Ounyal’am was the one to hesitate this time. He had heard nothing of this, and no one to his knowledge had been allowed to interrogate the foreign prisoners.
Do you need me to find out whom?
No, but I want you to help lure him out.
How?
Tell Commander Har’ith that one of your off-duty bodyguards heard from a friend or family member who spotted strange persons at the southern district’s main market yesterday near dawn. Send him there with a small contingent tonight, and do what you can to make certain anyone in a position of power either in the imperial guard or at court hears about it.
Ounyal’am stalled in any reply. After his last order for the commander, Har’ith might view any further order with suspicion.
My prince?
Ounyal’am shook off his worry. I will attend to it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Crouched on a rooftop in the still dark hours of predawn, Osha slid his bow off his shoulder and settled it in his left hand. Lost arrows had been replaced in his quiver with brown- and white-feathered ones supplied by the domin. Among them were the remaining black-feathered ones, though only four of those bore white metal tips.
Beside him, Brot’ân’duivé crouched with an assembled anmaglâhk short bow in hand. The greimasg’äh had not possessed such upon leaving their homeland. Osha did not ask from where the bow had come. There could be no doubt: from the dead body of an anmaglâhk.
The shadow-gripper drew a short arrow from behind his back and underneath his cloak. The arrow had a Chein’âs white metal point, like all other anmaglâhk tools.
Osha turned his attention to the southern marketplace below.
“Wynn, Shade, and il’Sänke should be in place,” Brot’ân’duivé said. “Magiere and the others will come soon. Take your position and be certain you can see both me and the house at all times.”
Osha remained silent but did not care to take orders from Brot’ân’duivé. The night had already been difficult, and he was on edge.
Before leaving the domin’s hidden sanctuary, Magiere and Chap pressed for Wayfarer to remain behind. Osha had agreed that she would be far safer that way, but Wayfarer became visibly terrified at the thought of being left alone—should no one return. Yet she was equally frightened by the prospect of a battle with an undead specter and possibly imperial guards.
Osha hated the thought of leaving her behind, but Magiere—and Chap through her—argued that Wayfarer had no way to defend herself. The others would be too engaged to protect her at all times. Osha could not argue with that logic, but he also c
ould not help dwelling upon Wayfarer alone in that shabby tenement.
For fear of revealing his turmoil, he now kept his eyes downcast.
Once more, his role would be to stand on a rooftop with a bow in his hand. He wanted to protect Wynn—and Shade and the others—but his part in their efforts began to feel cowardly.
It was not prideful to admit he was now good with the bow, as he had worked for that. But any men down below threatening those he protected stood little chance against a skilled archer up above them.
“Did you hear me?” Brot’ân’duivé asked. “Take your position.”
Osha did not look at the greimasg’äh. He turned away and rose, preparing for the leap to the next rooftop.
“One more thing,” Brot’ân’duivé said.
Osha froze without looking back.
“Putting down a guard is not enough,” Brot’ân’duivé continued. “He will still be dangerous and able to call attention from the others. One shot per target—one to finish that purpose completely.”
Osha did not flinch, but his revulsion grew for Brot’ân’duivé . . . the tainted greimasg’äh.
“I will be certain that my . . . targets . . . will not endanger anyone,” Osha answered.
He rushed the rooftop’s edge and leaped before Brot’ân’duivé could say more.
* * *
Magiere slipped quietly through the streets with Leesil and Chap. She and Leesil were both cloaked with their hoods up in preparation for the moment to reveal themselves. Her sheathed falchion was strapped on, and her Chein’âs dagger was lashed in its sheath at her lower back. Leesil wore both winged punching blades strapped to his thighs, and she knew he had at least one anmaglâhk stiletto up his left sleeve.
Chap’s weapons, as ever, were his teeth and claws, the awareness of a majay-hì, and a natural ability to sense an undead—one that matched Magiere’s own.
Crossing a city in the dark was nothing new to them. They’d done so together countless times. What was new was the heavily cloaked vampire walking a few paces ahead—and not just any undead, but one of the most bloodthirsty monsters Magiere had ever put down.
