This Woven Kingdom (18 page)

NIGHT HAD COME TOO QUICKLY.

Kamran lay sprawled across his bed in nothing but a scowl, crimson sheets tangling around his limbs. His eyes were open, staring into the middle distance, his body slack as if submerged in a bath of blood.

He cut a dramatic figure.

The sea of dark red silk that enveloped him served to compliment the bronze tones of his skin. The golden glow of the artfully arranged lamps further sculpted the contours of his body, depicting him more as statue than sentient being. But then Kamran would not have noticed such things even had he cared to try.

He had not chosen these sheets. Nor the lamps.

He'd not chosen the clothes in his wardrobe, or the furnishings in his room. All he owned that were truly his were his swords, which he'd forged himself, and which he carried with him always.

All else in his life was an inheritance.

Every cup, every jewel, every buckle and boot came with a price, an expectation. A legacy. Kamran hadn't been asked to choose; instead, he'd been ordered to obey, which had never before struck him as particularly cruel, for his was not such a difficult life. He had struggles, certainly, but Kamran
owned no proclivity for fairy tales. He wasn't so deluded as to imagine he might be happier as a peasant, nor did he dream of living a humble life with a woman of common stock and weak intelligence.

His was a life he'd never before questioned, for it had never before constrained him. He'd wanted for nothing, and as a result deigned not to lower himself to the experience of desire, for desire was the pastime of poorer men, men whose only weapons against the world's cruelty were their imaginations.

Kamran desired nothing.

He cared little for food, for it had always been abundant. He looked upon material objects with contempt, for nothing was rare or uncommon. Gold, jewels, the most singular objects on earth—had he cared even a little he'd need only tell Hazan, and all that he wanted would be procured. But what were such trifles worth? Who did he hope to impress with baubles and trinkets?

No one.

He detested conversation, for there was always an abundance of callers, endless invitations, doubtless hundreds of thousands—if not millions—across the empire who wished to speak with him.

Women—

Women, he desired least of all. For what appeal was there in an arrangement with no uncertainty? Every eligible woman he'd ever met would happily have him even had they found him eminently unworthy.

Women were perhaps his greatest plague.

They hounded him, haranguing him en masse whenever he was forced, by order of the king, to give them cause. He shuddered even at the memories of his rare appearances at court, social events at which his presence was required. He was suffocated by imitations of beauty, of poorly disguised ambition. Kamran did not possess the necessary stupidity to desire anyone who sought only to claim his money, his power, his title.

The very idea filled him with revulsion.

There was once a time when he'd thought to look beyond his own society for companionship, but it was quickly revealed to him that he'd never get on with an uneducated woman, and as a result, could never look beyond his peers. Kamran could not countenance dullards of any vintage; not even the most extraordinary beauty could recompense, in his mind, for brainlessness. He'd learned this lesson thoroughly in the first flush of youth, when he'd been foolish enough to be taken in by a pretty face alone.

Since then, Kamran had been disappointed over and over by the young women foisted upon him by their sycophantic guardians. As he did not, and would never, possess the infinite time required to comb through hordes of women on his own, he'd promptly extinguished any expectations he might've once had with regard to marriage. Dismissing the possibility of his own happiness had made it easy to accept his fate: that the king—and his mother—would choose him the most suitable bride. Even in a partner, he had learned to want and hope for nothing, resigning himself instead to what seemed inevitable.

Duty.

It was too bad, then, that the sole object of the young man's first and only desire was now—he glanced up at the clock—yes, almost certainly dead.

Kamran dragged himself out of bed, tied on a dressing robe, and walked over to the tea tray set down earlier by his minister. The simple service had been abandoned there hours ago: silver teapot, two short tea glasses, a copper bowl filled with jagged, freshly cut sugar cubes. There was even a small painted plate laden with thick dates.

Kamran lifted his cup from the tray, weighed it in his hand. The glassware was no bigger than his palm and shaped a bit like an hourglass; it was without a handle, meant to be held by the rim alone. He cradled the cup now in a loose fist, curling his fingers around its small body. He wondered whether he should exert a bit more pressure, whether he should crush the delicate drinkware in his hand, whether the glass might then shatter and lacerate his skin. The pain, he thought, might do him good.

He sighed.

Carefully, he replaced the glass on the tray.

The prince poured himself a cold cup of tea, tucked a sugar cube between his teeth, and threw the drink back in a single shot, the bracing, bitter liquid cut only by the grit of the sugar cube dissolving slowly on his tongue. He licked a drop of tea from his lips, refilled the short cup, and began a slow walk around his room.

Kamran paused at the window, staring for a long while at the moon. He shot back the second cold cup of tea.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, but Kamran did not hope for sleep. He dared not close his eyes. He feared what he might see if he slept; what nightmares might plague him in the night.

It was his own fault, really.

He hadn't asked to know the details. He hadn't wanted to know how they'd come for her; he hadn't wanted to be alerted when the deed was done.

What Kamran hadn't realized, of course, was how much worse it would be to leave such details to his imagination.

He drew in a deep breath.

And startled, suddenly, at the sound of furious pounding at his door.

THE ROARING FIRE CRACKLED MERRILY
in its cove, so merrily, in fact, that Alizeh was struck by the oddest notion to envy the burning logs. Even after three hours—she glanced at the clock, it was just after midnight—of standing in a toasty room, she'd not been able to draw the frost from her body. She watched hungrily now as the flames licked the charred wood and, exhausted, closed her eyes.

The sound of burning kindling was comforting—and strange, too, for its pops and crackles were so similar to that of moving water. If she hadn't known it was fire beside her, Alizeh thought she might be convinced she was listening instead to the pitter-patter of a gentle rain; a staccato beat against the roof of her attic room.

How bizarre, she found herself thinking, that elements so essentially different could ever sound the same.

Alizeh had been waiting several minutes while Miss Huda tried on yet another dress, but she did not entirely mind the wait, for the fire was good company, and the evening had been pleasant enough.

Miss Huda had certainly been a surprise.

Alizeh heard the groan of a door and her eyes flew open; she quickly straightened. The young woman in question now entered the room, wearing what Alizeh could only hope was
the last gown of the evening. Miss Huda had insisted on trying on every article in her wardrobe, all in the pursuit of proving a point that had already been made hours ago.

Goodness, but
this
gown really was hideous.

“There,” Miss Huda said, pointing at Alizeh. “You see? I can tell merely from the set of your jaw that you hate it, and how right you are to disdain such a monstrosity. Do you see what they do to me? How I am forced to suffer?”

Alizeh walked over to Miss Huda and did a slow revolution around her, carefully examining the gown from every possible angle.

It had not taken long for Alizeh to comprehend why Miss Huda had granted an unproven nobody such an opportunity with her attire. Within minutes of meeting the young woman, in fact, Alizeh had understood nearly all there was to understand.

Indeed, it had been a relief to understand.

“Am I not the very picture of a trussed walrus?” Miss Huda was saying. “I look a fool in every gown, you see? I'm either bulging out or pinched in; a powdered pig in silk slippers. I could run away to the circus and I daresay they'd have me.” She laughed. “I swear sometimes I think Mother does it on purpose, merely to vex me—”

“Forgive me,” Alizeh said sharply.

Miss Huda ceased speaking, though her mouth remained open in astonishment. Alizeh could not blame her. A snoda was a mere tier above the lowest scum of society; Alizeh could scarce believe her own audacity.

She felt her cheeks flush.

“Forgive me, truly,” Alizeh said again, this time quietly. “It is not my intention to be discourteous. It's only that I've listened silently all evening while you've disparaged yourself and your looks, and I begin to worry that you will mistake my silence as an endorsement of your claims. Please allow me to make myself unambiguously plain: your criticisms strike me not only as unfair, but fabricated entirely from fantasy. I would implore you never again to make unflattering comparisons of yourself to circus animals.”

Miss Huda stared at her, unblinking, her astonishment building to its zenith. To Alizeh's great consternation, the young woman said nothing.

Alizeh felt a flutter of nerves.

“I fear I have shocked you,” she said softly. “But as far as I can tell, your figure is divine. That you've been so thoroughly convinced otherwise says only to me that you've been injured by the work of indifferent dressmakers who've not taken the time to study your form before recommending its fit. And I daresay the solution to your troubles is quite simple.”

At that, the young woman finally released an exaggerated sigh, collapsed onto a chaise longue, and closed her eyes against the glittering chandelier overhead. She threw an arm over her face as a single sob escaped her.

“If it is indeed as simple as you say then you must save me,” she cried. “Mother orders identical gowns for me and all my sisters—merely in different colors—even though she
knows
my figure is markedly different from the others. She puts me in these horrid colors and all these horrendous ruffles,
and I can't afford a traditional seamstress on my own, not with only my pin money to spend, and I'm afraid to breathe a word of it to Father, for if Mother finds out it'll only make things worse for me at home.” She heaved another sob. “And now I've got nothing at all to wear to the ball tomorrow and I'll be the laughingstock of Setar, as usual. Oh, you cannot imagine how they torment me.”

“Come now,” Alizeh said gently. “There's no need to be overwrought when I am here to help. Come and I will show you how easily the situation can be mended.”

With dramatic reluctance, Miss Huda dragged herself over to the circular dais built into the dressing room, nearly tripping over her abundant skirts in the process.

Alizeh attempted a smile at Miss Huda—she suspected they were nearly the same age—as the young woman stepped onto the low platform. Miss Huda returned the smile with an anemic one of her own.

“I really don't see how the situation can be salvaged,” she said. “I thought I'd have time to get a new gown made in time for the ball, for I assumed the event would be weeks away—but now that it's nearly upon us Mother is insisting I wear
this
”—she faux-gagged, glancing down at the dress—“tomorrow night. She says she's already paid for it, and that if I don't wear it it's only because I'm an ungrateful wretch, and she's begun threatening to cut my pin money if I don't stop whining.”

Alizeh studied her client a moment.

She'd been studying the young woman all night, really, but Alizeh had said very little in the three hours she'd been here.

As the night wore on it had become abundantly clear, however, through a series of offhand comments and anecdotes, that Miss Huda suffered a great deal of cruelty and unkindness throughout her life; not only due to her improper birth, but for all else about her that was judged uncommon or irregular. Her pain she unsuccessfully cloaked in a veneer of sarcasm and poorly feigned indifference.

Alizeh snapped open her carpet bag.

She carefully buttoned her pincushion around her wrist, buckled her embroidered toolbelt around her waist, and unspooled the measuring tape in her bandaged hands.

Miss Huda, Alizeh knew, was not only uncomfortable in her gowns, but in her own body—and Alizeh understood that she would accomplish nothing at all if she did not first manage to activate the girl's confidence.

“Let us, for the moment, forget about your mother and your sisters, shall we?” Alizeh smiled wider at the young woman. “First, I'd like to point out that you have beautiful skin, whi—”

“I most certainly do not,” said Miss Huda automatically. “Mother tells me I've grown too brown and that I should wash my face more often. She also tells me my nose is too big for my face, and my eyes too small.”

It was some kind of miracle that Alizeh's smile did not waver, not even as her body tensed with anger. “Goodness,” she said, struggling to keep the disdain from her voice. “What strange things your mother has said to you. I must say I think your features fine, and your complexion quite beautif—”

“Are you blind, then?” Miss Huda snapped, her scowl
deepening. “I would ask you not to insult me by lying to my face. You need not feed me falsehoods to earn your coppers.”

Alizeh flinched at that.

The insinuation that she might be willing to swindle the girl for her coin cut a shade too close to Alizeh's pride, but she knew better than to allow such blows to land. No, Alizeh understood well what it was like to feel scared—so scared you feared even to hope, feared the pitfall of disappointment. Pain made people prickly sometimes. It was par for the course; a symptom of the condition.

Alizeh knew this, and she would try again.

“I mentioned your glowing complexion,” she said carefully, “only because I wanted, first, to assure you that we are in possession of a bit of good luck tonight. The rich, jewel tones of this dress do you a great service.”

Miss Huda frowned; she studied the green gown.

The dress was a shot silk taffeta, which gave the fabric an iridescent sheen, and which in certain light made it look more emerald than forest green. It was not at all the textile Alizeh would've chosen for the girl—next time, she would choose something more fluid, maybe a heavy velvet—but for the moment, she'd have to make do with the taffeta, which she believed could be repurposed beautifully. Miss Huda, on the other hand, remained visibly unconvinced, though not aggressively so.

It was a step forward.

“Now, then.” Gently, Alizeh turned the girl to face the mirror. “I would ask you, secondly, to stand up straight.”

Miss Huda stared at her. “I am standing up straight.”

Alizeh forced a smile.

She stepped onto the dais, praying she'd come far enough into the girl's confidence tonight to be able to take certain liberties. Then, with a bit of force, she pressed the flat of her hand against Miss Huda's lower back.

The girl gasped.

Her shoulders drew back, her chest lifted, her spine straightened. Miss Huda raised her chin reflexively, staring at herself in the mirror with some surprise.

“Already,” Alizeh said to her, “you are transformed. But this dress, as you see, is overwrought. You are statuesque, miss. You have prominent shoulders, a full bust, a strong waist. Your natural beauty is suffocated by all the fuss and restriction of the modern fashion. All these embellishments and flounces”—Alizeh made a sweeping gesture at the gown—“are meant to enhance the assets of a woman with a more modest figure. As your figure is in no need of enhancement, the exaggerated shoulders and bustle only overwhelm you. I would recommend, going forward, that we not mind what's currently en vogue; let us focus instead on what best complements your natural form.”

Without waiting to be countermanded, Alizeh tore open the high neck, sending buttons flying across the room, one pelting the mirror with a dull
plink
.

Alizeh had learned by now that words had done too much damage to Miss Huda to be of any use. Three hours she'd listened quietly as the girl vented her frustrations, and now it was time to offer a prescription.

Alizeh procured a pair of scissors from her toolbelt, and,
after asking the startled girl to stand very, very still, she sliced open the inseams of the massive, puffed sleeves. She cut loose the remaining collar of the gown, splitting it open from shoulder to shoulder. She used a seam ripper to carefully strip the ruffles laid overtop the bodice, and opened the central darts compressing the girl's chest. Another few snips and she wrenched apart the pleated bustle, allowing the skirt to relax around the young woman's hips. As carefully as she could with her bandaged fingers, Alizeh then proceeded to drape and fold and pin an entirely new silhouette for the girl.