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The man shook his head. "I would not take that job."
"What about the Vizier?"
"He is an old man. Old men are prone to clumsiness. If old age does not carry him off, perhaps he might stumble down some stairs, or trip and hit his head."
The stories Maram had heard about this man were true. He was clever enough to make cold-blooded murder appear like an accident.
"And what about the Vizier's son?"
"He is young and strong, but death lurks in the most unlikely places. One of his servants might slip poison into his wine, for it is well known that he is a hard master."
"What if someone asked you to kill a princess?"
"You toy with me, Your Highness. I could kill you now where you stand, for you carry no weapon. By the time your servants came to your assistance, you would be dead." He bowed his head. "But an assassin with my skills has the freedom to choose which jobs he takes. And I would not wish to rob the world of your beauty, so you are safe from me. I do not kill women."
She had heard this, too.
"What poison would Hasan's servants choose, I wonder?" she said.
The assassin produced a small pouch. "A little will send him to sleep, but enough will make sure he does not wake up."
Maram nodded, satisfied. "Then I will pay you for it now, and on the night before my wedding, I ask you to meet me here once more, to complete the job." She held out a jingling purse.
He exchanged his pouch for the purse, then paused to count his coins. "This is more than my usual fee."
"You will receive the same again when your job is complete."
He bowed deeply. "As Your Highness commands." He melted into the shadows once more.
When she was certain he'd gone, Maram peeped into the pouch. She almost laughed. He'd given her opium, a drug she'd used more often than any other. A waste of good coin, but never mind. She had no doubt Hasan used the stuff, too, so it would be no surprise if anyone found the pouch in his house. Or in hers.
She left the bathhouse deep in thought, only to find her guards on the steps outside, holding back a crowd.
"What's going on?" Maram asked, craning her neck to see past her men.
"There's some sort of procession in the street. Everyone's lined up to see some prince come to visit your father."
She wasn't sure which of her men had spoken, for they were too intent on the street below to turn when they spoke to her. Gross disrespect she could have the man killed for, she knew, but Maram understood men better than most. Curiosity was a powerful thing, and she had no desire to inspire enmity in her father's guards. If she killed Hasan, she would need them to be sympathetic to her, or they might suspect.
"A gold coin to the first man to tell me the prince's name, and where he comes from!" she cried, pulling the coin from her purse.
A shout came from the crowd: "The Prince of Tasnim!"
More shouts followed the first, but none seemed to know more than the name of his principality. It was enough. She handed the coin to one of her guards, who saw it went to its rightful owner.
She need not have bothered. The prince's entourage appeared then, gaudily dressed men who threw fistfuls of coins into the crowd. Maram did not recognise the livery, for that was what it was – these richly dressed men were the prince's servants.
After them came dancers, whirling in unison, so that their veils and skirts spun like tops. Finally, there were ranks of what she thought were porters, if a lowly porter could afford the silks these men wore. On their heads, they carried dishes piled high with gems much like those she'd seen on the jewelled shrub her father had shown her.
Behind the porters rode a man on a horse so pale it appeared white – something no horse could in the desert, for the sands coloured everything they touched. But they could not touch this animal, as fine as any in her father's stable.
The man...no, the prince, for he wore a crown nestled in the folds of his turban, threw coins into the crowd, too, earning a rousing cheer from everyone as he passed. Maram tried to get a glimpse of his face, to see if he was one of the princes she knew, but the cheering, waving townspeople made that impossible.
The prince passed, followed by another company of coin-throwing servants, and the crowd closed ranks behind him to join the parade to the palace.
Maram cursed inwardly and waited a long time until the road cleared before she commanded her men to clear a path for her to go home. Whoever this prince was, he'd intended to make a spectacle of himself, and she would soon know far more about him than she cared to.
TWENTY-TWO
