This Woven Kingdom (17 page)

“Yes, Minister?”

Hazan's voice all but shook with fury as he spoke. “It has only just occurred to me, sire, that I require your immediate guidance on a matter of great importance. Might I convince you to meet me outside so that we might discuss this crucial business at once?”

At that, the fight left Kamran's body.

It was no fun to fight a horde of idiots when Hazan suffered an apoplectic fit as a result. He tilted his head at his old friend. “As you wish, Minister.”

The remaining officials exploded with outrage in their wake.

Hazan said nothing until he'd all but bullied the prince up to his chambers, where, only once the rooms had been cleared of servants, did he close the door.

Were Kamran in a different frame of mind, he might've
laughed at the demented look in Hazan's eyes.

The young man had gone nearly purple.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Hazan said with dangerous calm. “You ordered these men to leave their posts—for some, dozens of miles away—on a
whim
for what you deemed an essential meeting—and then you all but rip their throats out? Are you mad? You will lose their respect before you've even claimed the throne, which y—”

“You don't mind if I ring for tea, do you? I'm quite parched.” Kamran pulled the bell without waiting for a response, and his minister sputtered at the impertinence.

“You ring for tea? Now?” Hazan had gone rigid with anger. “I'm of a mind to snap your neck, sire.”

“You lack the heart to snap my neck, Hazan. Do not pretend otherwise.”

“You underestimate me, then.”

“No, Minister. I only know that, deep down, you thoroughly enjoy your position, and I daresay you can't imagine your life without me.”

“You are deluded, Your Highness. I imagine my life without you all the time.”

Kamran raised his eyebrows. “But you do not deny that you enjoy your position.”

There was a brief, taut silence before Hazan sighed, reluctantly. The sound severed the tension between them, but was chased quickly by an epithet.

“Come now, Hazan,” the prince was saying. “Surely you can see the logic in my arguments. Those men are idiots. Tulan will come for all our throats soon enough, and then
they will see, too late, how blind they've been.”

Hazan shook his head. “These
idiots
, as you call them, make up the necessary framework of your empire. They've been loyal to Ardunia since before you were born. They know more about your own history than you do, and they deserve your basic respect—”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Hazan halted his speech to answer it, intercepting the tea tray before the servant could enter the room. He kicked the door shut, placed the tray down on a nearby table, poured them both a cup, and said—

“Go on, then. I believe I was in the middle of making an excellent point, and you were just about to interrupt me.”

Kamran laughed, took a quick sip of tea, and promptly swore out loud. “Why is this tea so hot?”

“Apologies, sire. I'd always hoped that one day your tongue might be irreparably damaged. I see now that my prayers were answered.”

“Good God, Hazan, you should be shot.” The prince shook his head as he placed the teacup on a low table. “Pray tell me,” he said, turning to face his minister. “Tell me why
—why
am I considered the fool when I am in fact the sole voice of reason?”

“You are a fool, sire, because you act like a fool,” Hazan said impassively. “You know better than to insult your peers and subordinates in the pursuit of progress. Even if you make a good point, this is not how it's done. Nor is this the time to court enemies in your own house.”

“Yes, but is there ever a time for that? Later, perhaps?
Tomorrow? Would you make the appointment?”

Hazan threw back the last of his tea. “You are acting the part of a ridiculous, spoiled prince. I cannot countenance your recklessness.”

“Oh, leave me be.”

“How can I? I expect more from you, sire.”

“No doubt that was your first mistake.”

“You think I don't know why you pick fights today? I do. You sulk because the king intends to host a ball in your honor, because he has bade you choose a wife from a bevy of beautiful, accomplished, intelligent women—and you would much rather take up with the one destined to kill him.” Hazan shook his head. “Oh, how you suffer.”

Kamran had reached for the teapot and froze now mid-movement. “Minister, do you mock me?”

“I'm only making the evident observation.”

Kamran straightened, the tea forgotten. “And yet the observation that is so evident to you renders me, in the same breath, an insensate human being. Tell me: do you think me incapable of suffering? Am I so unworthy of the experience?”

“With all due respect, sire, I don't believe you know what it is to suffer.”

“Indeed?” Kamran sat back. “What sage wisdom from my minister. You've been inside my mind, have you? You've taken a tour of my soul?”

“Enough of this,” Hazan said quietly. He would no longer look at the prince. “You are being absurd.”

“Absurd?” Kamran said, picking up his glass. “You think me absurd? A girl is going to die tonight, Hazan, and her
death was provoked by my own arrogance.”

“Spoken like a vainglorious fool.”

Kamran smiled, but it was a tortured expression. “And yet? Is it not true? That I was so determined to doubt a poor servant girl? That I thought her so incapable of such basic decency as to show mercy to a hungry child that I had her hunted, her blood dissected?”

“Don't be stupid,” Hazan said, but Kamran could tell his heart wasn't in it. “You know it is more than that. You know it is about far more than you.”

Kamran shook his head.

“I have sentenced her to death, Hazan, and you know that is true. It's why you were loath to tell me who she was that night. You knew even then what I had wrought.”

“Yes. That.” Hazan dragged a hand down his face. He looked tired suddenly. “And then I saw you with her, in the street that night. You miserable liar.”

Kamran lifted his head slowly. He felt his pulse pick up.

“Oh yes,” Hazan said quietly. “Or did you think me so incapable of finding you in a rainstorm? I am not blind, am I? Neither am I deaf, unfortunately.”

“How very accomplished you are,” Kamran said softly. “I admit I had no idea my minister aspired to the stage. I suspect you'll be changing careers imminently.”

“I'm quite satisfied where I am, thank you.” Hazan shot a sharp look at the prince. “Though I think it is I who should be congratulating you, sire, on your fine performance that evening.”

“All right. Enough,” said Kamran, exhausted. “I've let you
berate me at your leisure. No doubt we've both had our fill of this unpleasantness.”

“Nevertheless,” Hazan said. “You cannot convince me that your concern for the girl is all about the goodness of her heart—or yours, for that matter. You are perhaps in part moved by her innocence; yes, I might be persuaded to believe that; but you are also at war within yourself, reduced to this state by an illusion. You know nothing of this girl, meanwhile it has been foretold by our esteemed Diviners that she is to usher in the fall of your grandfather. With all due respect, sire, your feelings on the subject should be uncomplicated.”

At that, Kamran fell silent, and a quiet minute stretched out between them.

Finally, Hazan sighed. “I admit I could not see her face that night. Not the way you did. But I gather the girl is beautiful?”

“No,” said the prince.

Hazan made a strange sound, something like a laugh. “No? Are you quite certain?”

“There's little point in discussing it. Though if you saw her, I think you would understand.”

“I think I understand enough. I must remind you, sire, that as your home minister, my job is to keep you safe. My chief occupation is ensuring the security of the throne. Everything I do is to keep you alive, to protect your interests—”

Kamran laughed out loud. Even to himself he sounded a bit mad. “Don't fool yourself, Hazan. You have not protected my interests.”

“Removing a threat to the throne is a protection of your
interests. It does not matter how beautiful the girl is, or how kind. I will remind you once more that you do not know her. You've never spoken more than a few words to the girl—you could not know her history, her intentions, or of what she might be capable. You must put her out of your mind.”

Kamran nodded, his eyes searching the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. “You do realize, Minister, that by having the girl murdered my grandfather is ensuring that she remains embedded in my mind forever?”

Hazan released a breath, exhaling an obvious frustration. “Do you not see what power she already holds over you? This young woman is your direct enemy. Her very existence is a threat to your life, to your livelihood. And yet—look at yourself. Reduced to these infantile behaviors. I fear, sire, you will be disappointed to discover that your mind at the moment is as common and predictable as the infinite others who came before you. You are neither the first nor the last man on earth to lose his sensibilities over a pretty face.

“Does it not frighten you, sire? Are you not terrified to imagine what you might do for her—what you might do to yourself—if she became suddenly real? If she were to become flesh and blood under your hands? Does this not strike you as a terrible weakness?”

Kamran felt his heart move at the thought, at the mere imagining of her in his arms. She was everything he'd never realized he wanted in his future queen: not just beauty, but grace; not just grace, but strength; not just strength, but compassion. He'd heard her speak enough to know she was not only educated but intelligent, proud but not arrogant.

Why should he not admire her?

And yet, Kamran did not hope to save her for himself. Hazan might not believe it, but the prince didn't care: saving the girl's life was about so much more than himself.

For to kill her—

To kill her now, innocent as she was, seemed to him as senseless as shooting arrows at the moon. That kind of light was not so easily extinguished, and what was there to celebrate in a success that would only leave the earth dimmer as a result?

But did it frighten him, the power she wielded over his emotions in so brief a time? Did it frighten him what he might be driven to do for such a girl if she became real? What he might be inspired to give up?

He drew a sudden breath.

No, it was not merely frightening. It felt more like terror; a feverish intoxication. Of all the young women to want, it was madness to want her. It shook him to admit this truth even in the privacy of his mind, but his feelings could no longer be denied.

Did it frighten him?

Quietly, he said, “Yes.”

“Then it is my job,” Hazan said softly, “to make certain she disappears. With all possible haste.”

MRS. AMINA WAS A STRANGE
woman.

It was a thought Alizeh could not shake as she pushed through the dark, ducking her head against the blustery wind of yet another brutally cold night. She was on her way to Follad Place—the grand home of the Lojjan ambassador—for what was doubtless one of the most important appointments of her short career. As she walked she could not help but reflect not only on the day's many strange events, but on the mercurial housekeeper without whose permission they might not have occurred.

Alizeh had timed her exit from Baz House that evening so she'd not be noticed by Mrs. Amina; for though Alizeh was not breaking any rules by leaving the house after the day's work was done, she remained wary of having to explain to anyone what she was doing in her spare time, least of all Mrs. Amina. The woman had so often threatened Alizeh for putting on airs that Alizeh worried she'd be seen as reaching above her station by pursuing extra work as a seamstress.

Which indeed she was.

Alizeh had been struck dumb, then, when Mrs. Amina had come upon her just as Alizeh made to leave, one hand reaching for the door, the other clutching the handle of her modest carpet bag, which she'd fashioned herself. Alizeh had
been but a sturdy three-year-old the day she climbed up onto the bench of a loom, settling her small bottom between the warm bodies of her parents. She'd watched their deft hands work magic even without a pattern, and had demanded right then to be taught.

When her mother died, and Alizeh sank into a resolute stoicism, she'd forced her trembling fingers to work. It was during this dark time that she'd fashioned the carpet bag she carried with her always—that which housed her sewing supplies and few precious belongings—and which she disassembled whenever she found a place to rest. Most days it remained on the ground next to her cot, transformed into a small rug she used for much appreciated warmth in the room.

She'd been carrying it the day she arrived at Baz House.

Tonight the housekeeper had appraised Alizeh upon her exit, examining the girl from crown to boot, her keen eyes settling just a bit too long on the bag.

“Not running away, are we?” Mrs. Amina had said.

“No, ma'am,” Alizeh said quickly.

The housekeeper almost smiled. “Not before the ball tomorrow night, anyway.”

Alizeh dared not breathe at that; dared not speak. She held still for so long her body began to shake, and Mrs. Amina laughed. Shook her head.

“What a strange girl you are,” she said quietly. “To behold a rose and perceive only its thorns, never the bloom.”

Alizeh's heart thudded painfully in her chest.

The housekeeper studied Alizeh a moment longer before
her expression changed; moods shifting as reliably as the phases of the moon. Sharply, she said, “And don't you dare forget to bank the fire before you go to bed.”

“No, ma'am,” said Alizeh. “I would never.”

Mrs. Amina had turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen after that, leaving Alizeh to step into the cold night, her mind spinning.

She walked along the road now with caution, taking care to remain as near as possible to the glow of the hanging gaslights as she went, for the bulk of her carpet bag was not only a bit difficult to handle, but would certainly attract unwanted attention.

Alizeh was seldom spared when she was out alone, though nighttime was always worse. A young woman of her station was reduced to such circumstances more often than not because she had no one upon whom to rely for her safety or well-being. As a result, she was more frequently accosted than others; considered an easy target by thieves and scoundrels alike.

Alizeh had learned to cope with this over time—had found ways to protect herself with small measures—but she was well aware that it was her many physical strengths that'd saved her from worse fates over the years. It was easy, then, for her to imagine how many young women in her position had suffered greater blows than she ever would, though the understanding offered her cold comfort.

The sharp trill of a nightjar suddenly pierced the silence, the sound promptly followed by the hoot of an eagle owl. Alizeh shivered.

What had she been thinking about?

Ah, yes, Mrs. Amina.

Alizeh had been working at Baz House for nearly five months now, and in that time the housekeeper had shown her both unexpected kindness and stunning cruelty. She'd strike the girl across the face for minor infractions, but never once fail to remember Alizeh's promised allotment of water. She'd threaten the girl constantly, finding fault in faultless work, and demand Alizeh do it again, and again. And then, for no apparent reason at all, she'd permit the lowest ranked servant in the house a fifteen-minute audience with a questionable guest.

Alizeh did not know what to make of the woman.

She realized her musings were strange—strange to be pondering the strangeness of a housekeeper who was doubtless strange even to herself—but this evening was quieter than she liked, causing her hands to twitch from more than mere cold. Alizeh's reliable, creeping fear of the dark had evolved from uncomfortable to unsettling in the last several minutes, and with so much less to distract the senses tonight than the evening prior, she needed to keep her thoughts loud, and her wits about her.

This last bit was harder to achieve than she'd have hoped. Alizeh felt sluggish as she moved, her eyes begging to close even with the incessant snap of winter against her cheeks. Mrs. Amina had worked the girl to within an inch of her life in the wake of Omid's visit, tempering a single act of generosity with swift punishment. It was almost as if the housekeeper had sensed Alizeh's happiness and had made
it her business to disabuse the girl of such fanciful notions.

It was unfortunate, then, that Mrs. Amina had very nearly accomplished her goal.

By the end of the workday Alizeh had been so ragged with exhaustion she'd startled when she walked past a window and discovered it dark. She'd been abovestairs most of the day and hardly noticed when the sun was siphoned off into the horizon, and even now, as she stepped from one pool of gaslit cobblestone to another, she could not fathom where the day had gone, or what joys it once held.

The glow of Omid's visit had faded in the aftermath of many hours of physical toil, and her melancholy was made worse by what seemed the permanent loss of her firefly. Alizeh realized only in its absence that she'd conjured an unreasonable amount of hope at the insect's initial appearance; the sudden and complete loss of the creature made her think the firefly had found her only by mistake, and that upon realizing its error, had left to begin a fresh search.

A shame, for Alizeh had been looking forward to meeting its owner.

The walk from Baz House to Follad Place came to an abrupt and startling finish; Alizeh had been so lost in her own thoughts, she'd not realized how quickly she'd covered the distance. Her spirits lifting at the prospect of imminent warmth and lamplight, she headed eagerly to the servants' entrance.

Alizeh stamped her feet against the cold before knocking twice at the imposing wooden door. She wondered, distantly, whether she'd be able to use some of her new earnings to buy
a bolt of wool for a proper winter coat.

Maybe even a hat.

Alizeh wedged her carpet bag between her legs, crossed her arms tightly against her chest. It was far more painful to remain unmoving in this weather. True, Alizeh was unnaturally cold at all times—but it really was an uncommonly frigid night. She peered up at the staggering reach of Follad Place, its sharp silhouette pressed in relief against the night sky.

Alizeh knew it to be rare for an illegitimate child to be raised in such a noble home, but it was said that the Lojjan ambassador was an unusual man and had cared for Miss Huda alongside his other children in relative equality. Though Alizeh doubted the veracity of this rumor, she did not dwell upon it. She'd never met Miss Huda, and did not think her own uninformed opinions on the matter would make a jot of difference in the facts as they stood now:

Alizeh was lucky to be here.

Miss Huda was as close to high society as her commissions had ever come, and she'd only even been granted the commission via Miss Huda's lady's maid, a woman named Bahar, who'd once stopped Alizeh in the square to offer a compliment on the draping of her skirts. Alizeh had seen an opportunity there and had not squandered it; she quickly informed the young woman that she was a seamstress in her spare hours and offered such services at excellent prices. It was not long thereafter that she'd been engaged to fashion the woman a wedding gown, which her mistress, Miss Huda, had then admired at the ceremony.

Alizeh took a deep, steadying breath. It had been a long and circuitous path to this moment, and she would not fritter it away.

She knocked on the door once more, a bit harder this time—and this time, it opened immediately.

“Yes, girl, I heard you the first time,” Mrs. Sana said irritably. “Get inside, then.”

“Good evening, ma'am, I was j—
Oh
,” Alizeh said, and startled. Something like a pebble had struck her against the cheek. She looked up, searching the clear sky for hail.

“Well? Come on, then,” Mrs. Sana was saying, waving her forward. “It's cold as death out there and you're letting all the heat out.”

“Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, ma'am.” Alizeh quickly crossed the threshold, but instinct bade her look back at the last moment, her eyes searching the dark.

She was rewarded.

Before her eyes burned a single, disembodied prick of light. In a flash it moved, striking her again on the cheek.

Oh.

Not hail, then, but a firefly! Was it the same as before? What were the odds that she should be found by two different fireflies in such a short window of time? Very low, she considered.

And
there
—

Her eyes widened. Just there, in the tall hedge. Was that a flutter of movement?

Alizeh turned to ask the firefly a question and promptly froze, lips parted around the shape of the interrogative.

She could scarcely believe it.

The fickle creature had disappeared for the second time. Frustrated, Alizeh returned her gaze to the shadows, trying again to see through veils of darkness.

This time, she saw nothing.

“If I have to tell you to get inside one more time, girl, I'll simply push you out the door and be done with it.”

Alizeh started, then scrambled without delay across the threshold, stifling a shudder as a rush of warmth gathered around her frozen body.

“Forgive me, ma'am— I just thought I saw—”

A glowering Mrs. Sana pushed past her and slammed the door shut, nearly snapping off Alizeh's fingers in the process.

“Yes?” the housekeeper demanded. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Alizeh said quickly, pulling the carpet bag up into her arms. “Forgive me. Do let us begin.”