This Woven Kingdom (32 page)

“Perhaps it only seems different,” said Hazan quietly, “because you've lately been rendered an idiot, and stupidity has clouded your better judgment.”

Kamran shot his minister a dark look and promptly pulled his sweater over his head, tugging its hem down over his torso. He looked around for the seamstress.

“You need not worry,” Hazan said. “She's gone.”

“Gone?” The prince frowned. “But— Were not
we
the ones who were meant to leave the dressing room? Was she not meant to stay here to finish the work she'd started?”

“Indeed. The woman is a bit batty.”

Kamran shook his head, collapsed into a nearby chair. “How much time do we have?”

“Before the ball? Two hours.”

Kamran shot him a look. “You know very well to what I am referring.”

“To whom you are referring, you mean?” Hazan almost smiled. “The Tulanian king is with the ambassador now. He should be arriving at the palace within the hour.”

“Lord, but I hate him,” Kamran said, pushing a hand through his hair. “He has the kind of face that should be kicked in, repeatedly.”

“That seems a bit unfair. It's not the fault of the Tulanian ambassador that he's charged with an empire so widely detested. The gentleman himself is nice enough.”

Kamran turned sharply to face his minister. “Obviously I'm speaking of the king.”

Hazan frowned. “The king? Cyrus, you mean? I'd not realized you'd met him before.”

“No. I've not yet had the pleasure. I'm merely assuming he has the kind of face that should be kicked in, repeatedly.”

Hazan's frown cleared at that; he fought back another smile. “You do not underestimate him, I hope?”

“Underestimate him? The child killed his own father. He stole a bloody crown from the rightful king for all the world to bear witness, and now he shows his shameless face here? No, I do not underestimate him. I think him mad. Though I must say I fear our own officials misprize him, and to their detriment. They underestimate him for the same inane reasons they underestimate me.”

“Your lack of experience, you mean?”

Kamran turned away. “My age, you miserable rotter.”

“So easily provoked.” Hazan stifled a laugh. “You are in
quite a state, today, Your Highness.”

“You might do us all a favor, Hazan, and begin to manage your expectations of my
state
. This is where I live, minister. Here, between angry and irritable, lies my charming personality. It does not change. You may be grateful that I am consistent, at least, in being boorish.”

Hazan's smile grew only wider. “I say, these are strange declarations from Setar's melancholy prince.”

Kamran stiffened. Very slowly, he turned to face Hazan. “I beg your pardon?”

His minister retrieved from the inside of his jacket a folded copy of Setar's most popular evening journal, the
Quill & Crown
. The nightly post was widely known to be trash, a sloppy rehashing of the morning's news, cut with unsolicited opinions from its self-important editor. Indeed, there was little newsworthy about it; it was a spectacle in printed form, useless drivel. It contained rambling letters from breathless readers, and was stuffed with articles like—

Suggestions for the King, Ten Items Long

—and devoted an entire page to baseless gossip of goings-on in the royal city.

“It says right here,” Hazan said, scanning the paper, “that you are a sentimental idiot, that your bleeding heart has been laid bare twice now, once for a street child and now for a snoda—”

“Give that to me,” Kamran said, jumping to his feet to snatch the paper out of Hazan's hands, which he promptly tossed in the fire.

“I've got another copy, Your Highness.”

“You disloyal wretch. How can you even read such garbage?”

“I may have exaggerated a bit,” Hazan admitted. “The article was actually quite complimentary. Your random acts of kindness toward the lower classes seem to have won the hearts of common folk, who seem only too eager to praise your actions.”

Kamran was only slightly mollified. “Even so.”

“Even so.” Hazan cleared his throat. “You were kind to a snoda, then?”

“It's not worth discussing.”

“Is it not? When you spent a great part of the morning in the company of your aunt at Baz House, where we both know resides a young woman of interest? A young woman in a snoda?”

“Oh, shove off, Hazan.” Kamran collapsed once again in his chair. “The king is well aware of both my actions and my reasons, which should be more than enough for you. Why are you trailing me, anyway? It's not as if the Tulanian king will murder me in my own home.”

“He might.”

“What good would it do him? If you're so concerned, you should be protecting the king. I'm perfectly capable of defending myself.”

“Your Highness,” Hazan said, looking suddenly concerned. “If you harbor any uncertainty about the life hurtling toward you, allow me to assure you now: the inevitable is coming. You must prepare yourself.”

Kamran turned away, exhaling toward the ceiling. “You
mean my grandfather will die.”

“I mean you will soon be crowned king of the largest empire in the known world.”

“Yes,” said the prince. “I'm quite aware.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

When Hazan finally spoke, the heat was gone from his voice. “It was a formality,” he said.

Kamran looked up.

“Your question,” said the minister. “You asked why the Tulanian king was invited. It is a long-standing tradition, during peacetime, to invite neighboring royalty to the most elite affairs. It's meant as a gesture of goodwill. Many similar invitations have been made these last seven years, but never before has the Tulanian king accepted.”

“Excellent,” Kamran said drily. “He's come now to enjoy a bit of cake, no doubt.”

“It's certainly good to be cautious, fo—”

Just then there was a sharp knock, immediately after which the door to the dressing room opened. The elderly palace butler entered, then bowed.

“What now, Jamsheed?” The prince turned in his seat to face the man. “Tell my mother I've no idea where the seamstress went, nor what she did with my robes. Better yet, tell my mother to come find me herself if she wishes to speak with me, and to stop pitching you about the palace as if you haven't far better things to do on such an evening.”

“No, sire.” Jamsheed, to his credit, did not smile. “It's not your mother. I've come because you have a young visitor.”

Kamran frowned. “A young visitor?”

“Yes, sire. He professes the king himself granted him permission to visit you, and I come to you now to ask—only out of the greatest respect for His Majesty—whether there exists even a grain of truth to the child's claim.”

Hazan stood straighter at that, looking suddenly perturbed. “Surely you cannot mean the street child?”

“He does not look like a street child,” said the butler. “But neither does he appear to be trustworthy.”

“Yet he's arrived here, at this hour, demanding an audience with the prince? This is outrageous—”

“Don't tell me he has a shock of red hair?” Kamran ran a hand over his eyes. “Too tall for his age?”

The butler started. “Yes, sire.”

“His name is Omid?”

“Why— Yes, sire,” Jamsheed said, no longer able to hide his astonishment. “He says his name is Omid Shekarzadeh.”

“Where is he?”

“He awaits you now in the main hall.”

“Did he say why he's come?” Hazan demanded. “Did he give a reason for his impertinence?”

“No, Minister, though his manner is a bit febrile. He seems deeply agitated.”

With great reluctance, Kamran got to his feet; this day felt suddenly interminable. “Tell the boy I'll be down in a moment.”

The butler stared, stupefied, at the prince. “Then— Then what the child says is true, sire? That he has permission from the king to speak with you?”

Kamran hadn't even the chance to respond before Hazan
moved in front of him, blocking his path.

“Your Highness, this is absurd,” the minister said in a forceful whisper. “Why would the boy request an audience at this hour? I don't trust it.”

The prince studied Hazan a moment: the flash of panic in his eyes, the tense form of his body, the hand he held aloft to stop him. Kamran had known Hazan too many years to misunderstand him now, and a sharp, disorienting unease moved suddenly through the prince's body.

Something was wrong.

“I don't know,” Kamran said. “Though I intend to find out.”

“Then you intend to make a mistake. This could be a trap—”

To the butler, the prince said, “I'll meet the boy in the receiving room.”

“Yes, sire.” Jamsheed glanced from the prince to his minister. “As you wish.”

“Your Highness—”

“That is all,” the prince said sharply.

The butler bowed at once, then disappeared, the door closing behind him.

When they were alone, Hazan turned to face the prince. “Are you mad? I don't understand why you'd consent t—”

In a single, swift movement Kamran grabbed Hazan by the collar and slammed his back against the wall.

Hazan gasped.

“You are hiding something,” Kamran said darkly. “What is your game?”

Hazan went rigid with surprise, his eyes widening with a touch of fear. “No, sire. Forgive me, I meant not to overstep—”

Kamran tightened his grip. “You are lying to me, Hazan. What is your preoccupation with the b—”

The prince cut himself off, suddenly, for he was startled by a soft, buzzing sound in his left ear.

Kamran turned, blinking in surprise. A slight, glowing insect hovered inches from his face, bumping incessantly against his cheek.

Thop.

Thop.

“What on earth—” The prince grimaced and stepped back, relinquishing the minister to swat the fly from his face; Hazan slumped against the wall, breathing hard.

Go
, Kamran thought he heard him whisper.

Or was it merely an exhale?

Kamran watched, stunned, as the fly darted straight toward the door and through the keyhole, disappearing into the world beyond.

Had the insect obeyed a command? Or had Kamran lost his mind? He spared his minister a single, strange glance before he quit the room, pulling open the door with forced calm and striding down the hall with unusual speed, his skin prickling with unease.

Where had the blasted creature gone?

“Your Highness—” Hazan called, catching up, then keeping pace. “Your Highness, forgive me— I only worried the child might prove a distraction on such an important evening— I spoke thoughtlessly. I meant no disrespect.”

Kamran ignored this as he barreled down the marble staircase, his boots connecting over and over with stone, the sharp sounds filling the silence between them.

“Your Highness—”

“Leave me, Hazan.” Kamran made it to the main floor and kept moving, marching toward the great room with unconcealed determination. “I find your shadow cumbersome.”

“I cannot leave you now, sire, not with such a threat looming—”

Kamran came to an abrupt, disorienting halt.

Omid.

The Fesht boy was not in the receiving room where he was meant to be. Omid was instead pacing the main hall when they approached and did not wait for permission before he rushed toward the prince, darting out of reach of the footmen who sought to restrain him.

“Sire,” the boy said breathlessly, before speaking in rapid-fire Feshtoon. “You've got to help, sire— I've been telling everyone but no one believes me— I went to the magistrates and they called me a liar and of course I tried to inform the king, but n—

Kamran jerked suddenly back.

Omid had made the mistake of touching the prince, reaching out a trembling hand in a thoughtless, desperate motion.

“
Guards
,” Hazan called. “Restrain this child.”

“No—” Omid spun around as guards came rushing from all sides, easily pinning the child's arms behind his back. Omid's eyes were wild with panic. “No— Please, sire, you've
got to come now, we've got to do someth—”

Omid cried out as they twisted his limbs, resisting even as they dragged him away. “Get off me,” he shouted, “I need to speak with the prince— I have to— Please, I beg you, it's important—”

“You dare lay your hands on the crown prince of Ardunia?” Hazan rounded on him. “You will hang for this.”

“I didn't mean no harm,” the boy cried, thrashing against the guards. “Please, I just—”

“That's quite enough,” the prince said quietly.

“But, Your Highness—”

“I said,
enough
.”

The room went suddenly, frighteningly still. The guards froze where they were; Omid went limp in their grip. All the palace seemed to stop breathing.

In the silence, Kamran studied the Fesht boy, his tear-streaked face, his shaking limbs.

“Release him,” he said.

The guards dropped the child unceremoniously to the floor, where Omid fell hard on his knees and curled inward, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. When the child finally looked up again, his eyes had filled with tears. “Please, sire,” he said. “I didn't mean no harm.”

Kamran was eerily calm when he said, “Tell me what has happened.”

A single tear tracked down the boy's cheek. “It's the Diviners,” he said. “They're all dead.”

ALIZEH STARED BLANKLY AT THE
young woman.

“I really can't believe it,” Miss Huda was saying, her eyes wide with astonishment. “It's you. How on earth?”

“Forgive me, but I don't understa—”

“
This
,” Miss Huda said, rushing toward a chest of drawers. She tugged open one of the compartments and rifled through her things, and not a beat later held aloft a cream-colored envelope. “This.
This.
”

Alizeh stared. “A letter?”

“I received it earlier today. Go on.” She pressed it into Alizeh's hands. “Read it.”

Unbidden, Alizeh's heart began its familiar pounding, nerves crawling slowly across her skin. With great trepidation she tugged free the note from its sleeve, unfolded the paper, and went still at the sight of the familiar script. It was written with the same firm hand as the note she'd received earlier today; the one currently tucked into her pocket.

You will meet today with a young woman with silver eyes. Kindly deliver the enclosed package into her hands.

As if she were an hourglass, Alizeh felt herself fill incrementally with grains of awareness; she grew suddenly heavy
with unease, with a feeling of fear. Whosoever had delivered her the gown had also written this note—but if that were true, she should have no reason to worry.

Why, then, did she worry?

“This says there's an enclosed package,” Alizeh said, looking up. “Is there a package?”

“Yes,” said Miss Huda, who made no effort to move. She only stared, as if Alizeh had grown a third leg.

“Will you not bring it to me?”

“Will you not first tell me who you are?”

“Me?” Alizeh recoiled. “I am no one of consequence.”

Miss Huda's jaw clenched. “If you are no one of consequence then I am the queen of Ardunia. Whatever you think of me, I daresay I've never given the impression of being an idiot.”

“No.” Alizeh sighed. “That you have not.”

“Until just now, I'd thought the note was some kind of joke,” Miss Huda said, crossing her arms. “People have long loved to torture me with their insipid pranks. This one seemed more peculiar than the others, but still I ignored it, much as I do the frog legs I find in my bed on occasion.” She paused. “Do you take part now in some elaborate caper intended to make me appear foolish?”

“Of course not,” said Alizeh sharply. “I'd never participate in such a hateful act.”

Miss Huda frowned.

It was a moment before she said, “Do you know, I've thought from the first that you speak uncommonly well for a snoda. Still, I thought it snobbish to look down on you for
your attempt to educate yourself. And yet—all that time you were measuring me with your pins and needles, I never quite had the measure of
you
, did I?”

Alizeh exhaled, the action loosening something in her bones, some essential tension responsible for securing in place her deferential facade. She didn't see the point in being compliant any longer.

Indeed, she was tired of it.

“Don't be too hard on yourself,” she said to Miss Huda. “If you were unable to take the measure of me, it was because I'd not wanted you to.”

“And why, pray, is that?”

“I cannot say.”

“You cannot?” Miss Huda narrowed her eyes. “Or you will not?”

“I cannot.”

“Whyever not?” She laughed. “Why would you not want anyone to know who you are? Don't say you're on the run from assassins?”

When Alizeh said nothing, Miss Huda quickly sobered. “You can't be serious,” she said. “Are you in fact acquainted with assassins?”

“In my experience, one does not make the acquaintance of assassins.”

“But it's true, then? Your life is in danger?”

Alizeh lowered her eyes. “Miss, will you not please bring me the package?”

“Oh,” she said, waving a hand. “There's little point in the package. The parcel was empty.”

Alizeh's eyes widened. “You opened it?”

“Of course I opened it. You think I believed a girl with silver eyes would come looking for a mysterious package? Naturally I assumed the box would contain bloody goat brains, or even a small family of dead birds. Instead, it was empty.”

“But that can't be right.” Alizeh frowned. “Will you not bring it to me anyway, so that I might inspect it?”

Miss Huda didn't appear to hear her.

“Tell me,” she was saying, “why would you bother taking work as a seamstress if your life is in danger? Would it not be difficult to meet the demands of your customers if you needed, for example, to flee with little notice?”

Suddenly, Miss Huda gasped.

“Is
that
why you weren't able to finish my gown?” she asked. “Are you running for your life this very moment?”

“Yes.”

Miss Huda gasped again, this time lifting a hand to her cheek. “Oh, how terribly thrilling.”

“It's nothing of the sort.”

“Perhaps not for you. I think I wouldn't mind running for my life. Or running away, generally.”

Alizeh felt the nosta glow warm against her skin and stilled, surprised to discover the young woman did not exaggerate.

“I do nothing but avoid Mother most days,” Miss Huda was saying. “The rest of my time I spend hiding from the governess. Or a series of grotesque suitors interested only in my dowry.”

“Surely you have other interests,” said Alizeh, who was growing vaguely concerned for the girl. “You must have friends—social obligations—”

Miss Huda dismissed this with a flick of her hand. “I often feel as if I live in a corridor; I'm neither genteel enough for nobility, nor common enough to mix with the baseborn. I'm a well fed, poorly dressed leper. My own sisters resist being seen with me in public.”

“That's awful,” Alizeh said with feeling. “I'm truly sorry to hear it.”

“Are you really?” Miss Huda looked up. She studied Alizeh's face a moment before she smiled. It was a real smile, something earnest. “How strange you are. How very glad I am for your strangeness.”

Surprised, Alizeh ventured a tentative smile back.

The girls were briefly silent after that, both assessing the fragile shoots of an unexpected friendship.

“Miss?” Alizeh said finally.

“Yes?”

“The package?”

“Right.” Miss Huda nodded and, without another word, retrieved from inside her wardrobe a pale yellow box. Alizeh recognized the details right away; it appeared to be a cousin of the box that housed her gown, a perfect match in color and ornamentation, but a quarter of the size.

“So—you're not really a snoda, then?”

Alizeh looked up to meet the eyes of Miss Huda, who'd yet to relinquish the parcel.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You're not really a servant,” she said. “You never were, I think. Your speech is too refined, you're on the run for your life, and now you receive mysterious packages by way of strangers? You're also rather beautiful, but in an old-fashioned way, as if from another time—”

“Old-fashioned?”

“—and your skin is too nice, yes, I see that now, and your hair too glossy. I'm quite certain you've never had scurvy, or even a touch of the plague, and by the looks of the rest of you I suspect you've never spent time in a poorhouse. And your eyes are so unusual—they keep changing color, you know—in fact, they're so unusual it almost makes one think you might've worn the snoda on purpose, to hide your—

“Oh,” Miss Huda cried, her eyes shining now with excitement. “Oh, I've figured it out, I've figured it out. You only wore the snoda to protect your identity, didn't you? Did you pretend to work at Baz House, too? Are you a spy? Are you employed by the crown?”

Alizeh opened her mouth to respond, and Miss Huda cut her off with a wave.

“Now, listen, I know you said you can't say who you are. But if I guess correctly, will you tell me? You need only nod your head yes.”

“No.”

Miss Huda frowned. “That seems terribly unfair.”

Ignoring this, Alizeh snatched the parcel from Miss Huda's hands and set the box on a nearby table. Without further delay, she lifted the lid.

Miss Huda gave a small cry of delight.

The box was neither empty nor teeming with goat brains; instead, nestled between delicate sheets of tissue-thin paper, were a pair of lavender boots the exact shade of the diaphanous gown. Elegantly crafted of silk jacquard, they had softly pointed toes and short, stacked heels, ribbon ties lacing all the way up the high vamp of the shoe. The boots were so beautiful Alizeh was afraid even to touch them.

Tucked beside one silk boot, was a card.

“Magic,” Miss Huda whispered. “That was
magic
, wasn't it? Good heavens. Who the devil are you? And
why
did you let me order you around like you were a servant?” The young woman began pacing the room, flapping her hands as if they were on fire. “Oh, I'm experiencing quite the most painful wave of retroactive embarrassment; I hardly know what to do with myself.”

Alizeh paid this small drama no attention. Instead, she picked up the enclosed card, unfolding it with care. It was more of the same script.

When the path is unclear, these shoes will lead the way.

Alizeh was only just beginning to process the enormity of her own astonishment—the enormity of what it all might mean—when the words on the note suddenly disappeared.

She drew a sharp breath.

“What is it?” Miss Huda asked eagerly. “What does it say?”

Slowly, fresh words bloomed on the blank note before her: sharp, dark strokes as substantial as if they were written in real time, by an invisible hand.

Don't be alarmed.

As if on cue, alarm shot through Alizeh with the force of an arrow, startling her backward, her mind reeling as she spun around, searching for something—for someone—

No, she went deathly still.

The words had disappeared once more without warning, displaced now by others, but more quickly now, as if the writer were in a rush—

I am not your enemy.

Miss Huda snatched the note from Alizeh's limp hands and scanned it, then made a sound of frustration.

“Why do the words disappear the moment I try to read them? I take great offense to this.
I want it known that I take great offense to this
,” she said to the room at large.

Alizeh, meanwhile, could hardly breathe. “I must get dressed,” she said. “I must get ready.”

“What? Get dressed?” Miss Huda turned, blinked at her. “Have you gone quite out of your gourd? Of all the things to be thinking at this moment—”

“Forgive me, but I must,” Alizeh said, snatching the two yellow boxes up into her arms, then darting behind a dressing screen in a far corner of the room. “I hope you will understand now why I cannot stay to fix your gown.”

“Oh, dash the gown!” Miss Huda cried. “Where will you go?”