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"Will you take a woman for your pleasures, master?"
Amshazar paused and turned toward the voice, ready to dismiss the woman who had called to him from the shadows. She stood with one arm outreached, holding her robe open so that he could observe her figure, outlined as it was in a dancer's costume, embroidered with worn gemstones, faded and heavily soiled from her hours on the street. He stepped closer, his attention captured by something in the woman's expression.
This woman was no whore. Even those who were not gifted with the sight would notice that much. Unlike the women of the Souk, who happily reveled in their wanton debauchery, this woman took no pleasure from her work. Her chin had lifted when he had responded to her words and he examined her eyes closely.
"Take me with you for the night, master, and you will not be disappointed.” The woman stared at him with hope, but her eyes were dull and unhappy.
Amshazar looked deeper, far deeper, and within moments, he saw into her very soul. There was little life within her. All that existed there were fleeting, wistful memories of days gone by, a lost lover, and the image of a pitifully thin child whom she longed to be beside. He glanced around. He had to avoid drawing attention to himself, but ... the boy needed his mother. There was no one in sight. Besides, he found people often did not see what was in front of their very eyes. He was gifted, yes, but the ability to summon the power of the magi was within the reach of every man. The ability to see, understand and tap the source was what eluded the majority.
He lowered his head to hide his face and breathed in, deeply. He invoked the power from deep within, chanting the call of the magi low beneath his breath. He opened his hands when the power began to pulse in his veins. His palms glowed faintly in the gloomy shadows. The woman began to back away, her eyes wide with fear, a strangled cry captured in her throat.
He passed his hand across her brow, instilling her with purpose, and erasing the nature of their encounter from her mind. The woman blinked and started, as if she had not seen him standing in front of her at all.
"Forgive me, for I must go,” she said, turning away from him. “My child is ill."
"Wait,” he said. “Go to the house of Luma Jerez tomorrow, for he has need of a serving woman in his kitchens, and you will do the job well. That will feed you and your child until he is strong enough to work.” With that, he turned away, leaving the woman standing, silently staring after him as he went.
Amshazar shook his head. The province of Karseedia was filled with hunger and despair, whilst the palace itself was filled with every indulgence the inhabitants could desire. He'd heard better things of Aleem. It was a province where the rulers cared for their people and held worthy ideals. But how long would it be before Mehmet sank her claws into those ideals, and crushed them? If he did not step in, and things did not develop as he hoped they might, it would not take long at all. As the thought occurred to him, the gentle laughter of his magus spirit guide, Santor, echoed through his mind, and he smiled to himself. He was here for a reason, and its significance was beyond that of even Mehmet's understanding.
He looked up at the spires that marked the palace out at the very pinnacle of the city. It stood at Lhastari's heart and every narrow street seemed to twine inexorably around it. The guards at the palace gates eyed him with mistrust as they always did, but stepped aside without a word when he drew nearer, swiftly closing ranks again i
n his wake. He paused a moment in the marbled walls of the entrance passage to the palace, while his eyes grew accustomed to the change in light, then moved on and closed himself into the interior world of the palace.
The intense heat of the afternoon subdued slowly into the dark shadows of the majestic entrance portals. He detested this place, with its rancid aura of Mehmet's power. The woman had pure venom running in her veins. A wry smile escaped him. There was a certain odd fascination in observing it at such close quarters, however, and it was his duty to watch, and to influence. His own powers were implicit and subtle, compared to the blatant harridan of a woman whose land he currently abided within.
There was a hushed atmosphere in the corridors. It was always like this when trouble was afoot. He stopped outside Mehmet's chambers and nodded at the sentry to indicate that he should announce his presence.
His entry into her inner sanctum was met by Mehmet's harsh voice, it rankled yet provoked his spirit—she made him at once wary and cynically amused. She was standing over her son, who sat with his head hanging down, subdued, before her. Her closest acolyte and advisor, Sibias, sat nearby with arms folded, observing her with blatant admiration. The sentry coughed lightly, unable to muster the courage to announce their presence in any other way. Mehmet turned toward the door and the sentry made a hasty exit, leaving Amshazar to find his own way in.
When she saw Amshazar enter the room, Mehmet threw the goblet in her hand onto the table, where it crashed and spilled a dark pool of blood-red wine across the white marble. A servant darted out from the shadows at the room's edge, to silently remove the debris.
"Ah, Hanrah, your friend the interloper has arrived.” She cast a disdainful look over the man who had entered the room. Her hands went to her hips, her hair flying out in a heavy surge of rich umber, touched only occasionally with fine lines of white. Her features belied her age; she was a handsome woman with amber eyes, kept beautiful and decadent by her indulgences, yet tainted—in Amshazar's eyes—by her vindictive nature and her lust for power, both of which were so hideously apparent in her expression.
"I suppose as his intimate,” she spat the word in Amshazar's direction, “you must speak on behalf of my son, who seems quite unable to speak for himself.” She glanced with distaste at the hunched figure before her. “Tell us if you will, Amshazar, why my son sees fit to lower and debauch himself with the celibate nubiles we prepare to service his future Empress?"
Her harsh, accusing laughter echoed around the elaborate outer meeting room of her extensive chambers, a room decorated with exquisite painted screens imported from the far-east, and ornaments studded with precious gems and painted with gold-leaf.
There was a sense of perverse enjoyment about her mood, Amshazar noted. He sensed she was secretly gratified to have the opportunity to vent herself on her progeny. Her overriding emotion toward her own son was annoyance. Once Hanrah had come of age, she no longer had her deceased husband's kingdom under her direct jurisdiction, although nothing had really changed—she manipulated Hanrah as easily as if he were the lowest of the province's subjects.
Hanrah shifted his feet, but did not raise his eyes. Amshazar noticed then that Mehmet's robes were stained at the hem. She wore the finest clothing, fabrics that had been crafted over for many months by many slaves, and yet she held no value or pride in what she already had, only what else she wanted. This greedy trait was the root cause of her lack of fulfillment and bitterness.
Amshazar smiled. “Perhaps Hanrah wanted to examine the young man who has been promised to the chambers of his future wife,” he replied, in an ironic tone. “As preparation for their mutual intimacy with the Empress Elishiba."
Mehmet blinked, her lips tightening.
Amshazar gave her another subtle—if sardonic—smile, as he observed her expression altering. “The use of slaves for pleasures of the flesh might be part of their future lives together, surely?"
Her mouth opened then clamped shut again, her eyes glistening with annoyance. Hanrah glanced round at her. His ruffle of unruly curls, mischievous face and slight body, made him look more like a street urchin than a leader of men. Amshazar noted the fading red imprint of her hand on his face. It was not the first time she had hit him.
Amshazar was his friend and mentor; Hanrah had no other because it took confidence and downright audacity to bypass his malevolent and over-bearing mother. It was the place he had sought out to best influence things, but he had grown fond of the young Hanrah. Ever since Amshazar had crossed the path of the young emperor's hunting party on the borders of Zadria, he had been in residence. He had directed the young emperor's bow and arrow with some choice words of guidance that day. The two had fast become friends. Hanrah had invited him to become part of the court circle against the wishes of his mother, perhaps the only true rebellion he had ever made—so far.
Dallying with slaves resulted in a small harangue, compared to the outright battle of wills that had ensued over Amshazar's presence. However, Amshazar had managed to exist in relative ease since his arrival at court, much to Mehmet's annoyance. She would prefer to have him do wrong, in order to have him expelled.
During the uneasy silence, Sibias had taken the opportunity to stand up, as if eager to end the interrogation. He had, no doubt, been sitting there witnessing Mehmet's tirade for far too long already.
"Amshazar has a point, albeit somewhat tenuous,” he said, stroking his lengthy beard. He offered a gracious smile to Mehmet, to sweeten her in the way only he could.
"Dallying with slave boys is no pastime for an Emperor,” she responded, angrily, her amber eyes flashing. “He has tutored concubines whom he ignores, in favor of such diversions."
