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Now, five years later, Sardovia had a future. Investors. Businesses. Schools and hospitals. Kaz hoped that he had, in some small way, made up for the immorality of the man who had fathered him.
A month ago, his grandfather had sent for him. Kaz had considered saying thanks, but no thanks.
“Don’t be a fool,” he’d told himself, and he’d accepted the invitation.
Their meeting was stiff. It was not private. It was not about family, or about a grandfather and his grandson. It took place in the royal dining hall, at a table that could easily have accommodated fifty. Instead, they were twenty-two. Ten ministers. Ten ministerial assistants. The old man.
And Kaz.
Tea was poured from an exquisite brass samovar that was probably as old as the kingdom itself. There was grape brandy, a Sardovian specialty that tasted like raw alcohol. Kaz had drunk worse and he tossed back a shot of the stuff.
After ten minutes of silence, Kaz had looked across the table at his grandfather.
“You wanted to see me.”
The ministers’ heads had swiveled from Kaz to their king.
“You have served me well,” the old man had answered.
“I have served Sardovia,” Kaz had said, “and her people. Not you.”
Heads swiveled again.
The old man had narrowed his rheumy eyes. “You are not like your father.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
A smile as thin as the blade of a scimitar had curved the king’s mouth.
“Therefore, I have decided to forgive you for your illegitimacy.”
Kaz had laughed. His grandfather had not.
“You find this amusing, Kazimir?”
Kaz had risen to his feet.
“I find it ridiculous,” he’d said. Then he’d turned on his heel and walked out.
Kaz had felt as if he were being measured for something. Now, weeks later, he still had no idea what that something might have been.
Not that it mattered.
He’d made his lack of interest in being absolved of blame for his own illegitimacy clear. He knew that he would never hear from his grandfather again, and that was fine. Sardovia would continue to flourish; the investment fund would continue to grow, and that was what mattered.
Except, he had heard from him. Just yesterday. Not from him directly, but from his minister of state.
His grandfather wished to see him on an urgent matter.
Kaz was to return home for Christmas. It was an order.
Yeah, well, Kaz didn’t deal well with orders, especially from an old man who had little interest in him.
He’d stay in New York for Christmas; the city was more his home than Sardovia. Whatever the “urgent” matter was, the old man could call him and discuss it over the phone.
Kaz took the stairs to the lower level of his penthouse, thought about getting a quick cup of coffee, checked his watch, and decided against it.
Two minutes later, he stepped from the elevator, nodded at the concierge’s pleasant “Good morning, Mr. Savitch,” returned the doorman’s similar greeting and climbed into the rear of the staid Mercedes Benz he used during the week for the drive uptown from his condo on Gramercy Park.
