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Mehmet lifted a hand in acknowledgment and then directed her attention to the cowering youth. Perhaps this was not the right time. It would be a shame to destroy this novel air of defiance her offspring suddenly had about him. She would deal with the slave later, privately, and take great pleasure in doing so.
"Go to your quarters,” Mehmet hissed at the shivering boy on the floor, “or I will order your execution, right here and right now."
Unsure, the slave slowly drew himself up to his feet, his hands covering his genitals while he cowered behind Hanrah, clearly terrified to make the wrong move.
"Kazeen ... run!"Hanrahwhisperedurgentlyoverhi
sshoulder, his expression fear filled. “Go, Kazeen, go,” he added, and nodded quickly, indicating the slave should indeed take his leave.
The slave paused and looked longingly at Hanrah, as if afraid to leave him.
Mehmet growled at him.
He needed no more encouragement to make his escape, not even pausing to gather his clothing before he headed for the door at great speed, one hand still covering his genitals, the other lifted as if to shield himself from the watching guards. When the door clattered closed behind him, Mehmet dismissed the guard with a flutter of her hand and no further instruction.
The door closed again, this time with quiet respect rather than a panicked bang. Mehmet stepped closer to Hanrah and tugged on a stray lock of his tousled hair, drawing him around to face her.
Relief flooded his expression.
Mehmet suppressed a smile. “My darling son, the pride of my life.” She kept her voice low, and stroked her hand gently over his cheek. Hope flickered across his eyes. Oh, how that grated on her nerves. He should know, instinctively, what she wanted from him: loyalty, bravery, and an heir to secure their position.
She snapped her hand away only to came crashing back down, delivering a viscious slap to his face.
"Yow,” he cried, his hand nursing his cheek, his mouth pursed into a pout—decidedly childish for a man in his twentieth year.
A sense of pleasure flared inside her. Inflicting pain did that for her. “Wretched boy,” she snarled. “Do I have to remind you that your four younger brothers snarl at your heels like hungry dogs, eager to take your place as emperor?"
He shook his head, his gaze on the floor. The robe she had thrown at him still lay at his feet.
"How is it that your father was one of the most powerful men ever to ride across a battlefield, a man who set fear into everyone he met, and yet you are not fit to be his offspring and carry his line forward?” She glanced down at his flaccid manhood, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. Power was certainly not coming via that route, no.
Hanrah hung his head in shame at her words and their inplication.
Her son could not be relied upon. Instead, she would have to play a much more duplicitous game to get what should rightfully be theirs. Her hand went to the pendant at her neck, the treasured vial that held her ultimate means to obtain power. If all else failed, she would unleash the contents. Then the people of Aleem would be sorry they had not been more forthcoming. Meanwhile, however, she needed Hanrah to be the powerful emperor his father would have been proud of. A leader who was about to bed his bride, plant his seed in her womb, and take her land and chattels as his own.
"It seems I must instruct you how to behave like an emperor, yet again.” She kept her voice low and threatening, then growled at him, letting him feel the extreme nature of her dissatisfaction. He looked miserable enough. His father's disappointment in him was what hurt Hanrah most of all, she knew that, for he had loved his father, no matter how different they were. “Bathe and dress, then report to my chambers."
She turned away, leaving him standing in the middle of the room, still rubbing his face, his expression petulant. Cursing Hanrah's weaknesses, she strode across the room and out the chamber door. In the corridor, she grabbed, unceremoniously, the first guard she saw and instructed. “You, fetch Sibias."
She paused, while she reconsidered who should be present. “And bring Amshazar too.” Her son's favored friend and advisor should be there to witness this humiliation as well, she decided. Perhaps it would break the nomad's attachment to her son. She was eager to rid them all of Amshazar's annoying influence over Hanrah. “Tell them both to report to my apartments, immediately."
The guard nodded and bowed low, his hand touching back and forth over his lips and forehead while he chanted a stream of loyal vows and backed away from her. Every member of the household knew that look of hers; she made sure of it. Mehmet was renowned and feared amongst her subjects.
* * * *
Amshazar sat quietly meditating in a concealed tavern amidst the streets of Lhastari. It was a dark and dingy place. The air was humid, for it was small enough to contain every breath emitted by its occupants, every scent lingering on the air and recirculated by the textile swag being wafted overhead. Even the dishes of burning musk ashes set upon the worn wooden tables could not refresh the stale atmosphere, but it was a quiet, secluded place and few inhabitants of the royal palace went to hovels such as this. They had no need to venture out, for all the comforts they might require were provided within the palace walls.
Amshazar had gone there for a moment's peace before responding to the order he had received to attend the Empress Mehmet's chambers. He nursed his dish of wine in one hand and focused on the dim light given out by the flame of a brass lamp that hung low over his table on a dusty chain.
What now? he wondered.
Three hundred and eighty moons had passed since he had been sent to the exotic lands, and the threat of war still simmered all around them. He had insinuated himself into a pivotal player's stronghold, and gained notable influence there whilst at the same time concealing his true identity.
The tensions in the Lhastari palace were increasing rapidly in the days before the greeting party's departure for Aleem, minor arguments and feuds erupting frequently. It was tiresome but necessary to be aware of the feuds. He was eager to be on his way to the city of Suzin. He had convinced Hanrah to send him as part of the greeting party, in order to get to know the Empress Elishiba as soon as possible. She was clearly a key player, and he needed to know and understand her motives soon. The waiting and the atmosphere were, meanwhile, making him restless. There were greater issues at stake than this latest squabble, whatever it was, he had been summoned to attend to. But this preparatory ground must be ridden over, as sure as the trek to a battleground must be covered before the battle may commence.
Drinking down the sour wine, he stood up. He dropped a coin on the table and another at the feet of the small boy who sat in a corner, stripped to the waist, lazily pulling the rope that moved the swag of material overhead, in an attempt to stir the air. The boy grinned at the mysterious and beneficent visitor, waving at him as he left, calling a blessing of the gods after him, while hiding the coin in his belt in case his master, the tavern owner, should see the gift.
Amshazar nodded at the boy, then stepped outside and drew the hood of his robes over his head, concealing his face. The sky was heavy with restless, ochre-streaked clouds. It was quickly growing dark in the passageway outside. The heat of the day hung heavy in the air but the sun was sinking, causing great shadows to encompass the narrow, high-walled streets. Amshazar passed swiftly along them, imposing and solitary.
