Chapter 5: Chapter 4: Frivolities of a Young Prince

Chapter 4: Frivolities of a Young Prince

They were in one of the many lounges within the palace. This one had a view of the Ancient City and the sea below.

Out on the water ships sailed to and from the ports by the dozens.

Arash picked up a grape from the silver plate on the table and popped it into his mouth. The sweat and sour flavor exploded inside his mouth. Then he washed it down with a sip of his red wine, shipped in from the Kōaito Islands.

His friends were there with him among the breeze in the shaded room. “Married,” said Bahktiar with some amount of astonishment. “Arash—say that things will not be different between us once you have a wife.”

She ignored his friend’s question and went out onto the veranda. The sun was hot, but the warmth on his skin felt good as the cool breeze brushed past the gossamer curtains.

“Surely not,” said Maraz, the other boy who was there. He was seventeen, a year older the Arash and his friend Bahktiar.

They were both the sons of nobles, Bahktiar’s father being a satrap of the northern provinces, though he stayed in the palace as a companion for the prince.

“But,” Maraz continued as he stepped out onto the balcony with a goblet of wine in his hand, “she is very beautiful.”

“Why the Urutai Wind Steppe?” asked Bahktiar from his position on the cough. He had his feet up on the cushioned arm. Had his uncle been there with them, he would have told Bahktiar to remove his feet.

Sahar was like that, responsible to a fault.

Arash was a prince—his friends were high nobles, and the servants needed things to do, including cleaning the furniture when it got dirty—or replacing it when it could not be cleaned.

Arash narrowed his eyes, thinking on that question. Normally he was a spy youth that laughed and even played jests on others, including nobles inside the palace.

But today…

The princess was here and the occasion was one that his estimable father had arranged. Arash could not refuse Cyrusar Al Hamiroon his request that Arash marry into a powerful alliance that could save the empire.

That the empire even needed saving he did not know why. His father was the most powerful man in the world. Ahahnai domains stretched from one side of the continent to the other and their armies were vast and unimaginable in size and strength.

The Ashahnai Imperial Army contained mercenaries from every satrapy and territory of the lands, sorcerers from afar and wise men who were unequaled in intellect and experience.

Bahktiar laughed from the couch, a sound that contained some level of scorn, Arash thought, and he turned to regard his friend as he leaned back against bannister preventing him from falling form this high balcony.

Bahktiar rose his chalice, splashing out some of its contents onto the tiles at the foot of the couch. “Perhaps once you are married, my friend—I can finally go home to my father.”

“Is that what you want?” asked Arash. “To leave me?”

The thought of losing his friends simply because he would be taking on a wife seemed preposterous to him. But then, his other friends who had taken on wives did just that, rarely coming to see him anymore.

He looked at the floor tiles sulked.

“Or,” said Bahktiar, “if you do not marry,” he said, his grin wild and malicious as his words came out not right.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Maraz with a subtle laugh.

“Maybe,” Bahktiar said with a smile. “It is a day of days for our Prince, is it not? Did you see the princess?” He made an inappropriate noise. “Beautiful. I would not be able to resist her either.”

“I did not see her well,” said Maraz, “I was not positioned as well as you. I only saw the side of her face.”

“You will see her better at the banquet,” said Bahktiar. “Anyway,” he continued. “If you do not leave me by marrying her, I could always be rid of you another way.”

Arash frowned. “What? Explain, you fool.”

Maraz glanced between then, hearing the jest of Bahktiar’s lips, and yet, his own smile had faltered.

“I am your slave,” said Bahktiar. “I am imprisoned here,” he gestured all around, “within this fine palace with little freedom but to amuse me friend… the Prince!” He bowed extravagantly. “My friend—the Prince—ever am I your humble servant, I have not a life of mine own, but I live for your sake, oh venerable one.”

“You are a fool,” laughed Arash. “Why are you being so stupid?”

“I could,” said Bahktiar, “hire assassins to kill you.”

“Ha! And I would cut them all to pieces, and then find you out!”

“Truly,” said Bahktiar with a nod, “you would, my friend, for your intelligence is far beyond that of mine. But to be free—I could do it another way.”

“What way?” asked Arash.

“I do not like this turn of conversation,” Maraz said. “Even in jest, if anyone—“ he glanced about warily.

“I could,” continued Bahktiar as he put a hand on Arash’s chest, “push you—here, and now. Over this banister.”

Arash laughed in delight. “And then what? You become the prince?”

Bahktiar smiled toothily, “And then I would jump after you.”

“Fool,” said Arash. “If I were you—“

And then Bahktiar pushed him and Arash’s arms gave way and he slipped over the banister and screamed, but before he could fall his friend grabbed him by the hem of his clothes and pulled him back.

“What are you doing?!” Maraz yelped.

“You could have killed me, you idiot!” Arash snapped. “Do not do that again!”

Bending over with laughter, Bahktiar only laughed, the last of the contents of his wine coming out of his cup. “You fell for it.” He pointed to Arash. “O venerable prince, you hath fallen for my jest.”

He is drunk.

Bahktiar lifted the goblet to his mouth and then looked into the cup. “Where did—where did my wine go?”

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He flipped the goblet upside down.

“All over the floor, you foolish man,” said Maraz. “Perhaps if you had not been so caught up in your own stupid jest about murdering our beloved prince, you would know where your wine has gone!”

Arash sighed and stepped back into the lounge where he took a lazy position upon the cough while Bahktiar refilled his goblet with the carafe.

“Have you not had enough wine?” asked Arash, feeling annoyed and morose. He would surely lose his friends, but the jest Bahktiar had made… Had his father seen that, he would have had Bahktiar thrown in the dungeon—perhaps worse.

What a fool.

“One can never drink too much, Prince,” said Bahktiar with a stupid smile.

Just then the doors opened admitting some servants and guards and the high vizier, Sahar, stepped into the room. “I see, young prince, that you are amusing yourself—as you ever are—and with these two.”

Bahktiar and Maraz saluted Sahar, for even though he was the high vizier of the sultan, he was also the brother of the great king—a prince of the nation. Despite that they had saluted him, Bahktiar’s gesture still contained some small semblance of contempt.

Arash sighed.

The old man can’t even see it.

With a barely hidden smirk, Bahktiar led Maraz out of the chamber, leaving his “friend” Arash to be along with the high vizier. He would have liked nothing more than for the prince to slip and fall off of that balcony to his death, for he so hated the House of Al Hamiroon.

The door was shut, and though he had been aware of the Bahktiar’s disrespect, he pretended not to see it. Sahar was the high vizier, and a high vizier could ever weather such treatment from the nobles of the sultan’s court.

“Is Bahktiar not your father’s ward?” he asked.

“He is,” said Arash with a nod. “Why do you ask, Uncle?”

“Perhaps you should spend less time with him.”

With a frown, Arash wondering why his uncle was suggesting such a thing. “Why?”

Glancing back to the door, he turned to his nephew and said, “I do not believe he can be a good influence upon you, young prince.”

“What concern of it of yours what company I keep, sir?”

He smiled then. “Never you mind, Prince. I have come on another matter.”

“You spoke of it earlier,” Arash said, circling the cough.

“Indeed,” said Sahar as he came around the furniture, his eyes scanning the mess of sweet fruits, cheeses and wines upon the table. He glanced about, appreciating the cool breeze. “It is quite wonderful up here.”

“What have you come to tell me, Uncle?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, scratching his white beard. His robes were black and trimmed in blue silver. “Of course.” He took out a scroll and handed it to Arash. “Read this, please.”

“What is it?” he asked, taking the scroll and opening it. The script was nothing more than a list of items, including travel, history, art and music and philosophy. “What is this?”

“This,” said Sahar, “was penned by the beautiful princess come to visit you. It is intended for your eyes.”

“Truly?” asked Arash with some level of interest. “But for what purpose?”

“Written within the scroll are the subjects of which Princess Tamu finds most agreeable to speak on with you.”

Arash then made a face.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

“I am certain some good wine and a few distractions later and she will be at my heels like so many princesses throughout the land.”

Sahar laughed. Then his face took on a stern aspect. “Do you expect to be wed to this woman?”

“My father wills it,” said Arash.

“Is she not beautiful?”

He nodded. “I cannot deny it, Uncle.”

“You will not marry her.”

“What?” he asked, almost affronted.

“The Wind Steppe Khanates are an estimable and most venerable peoples.” Arash was about to speak, but Sahar cut him off with a finger. “And… they are powerful. Making an alliance with any of them, much less the most powerful of the khanates is a prospect most worthy to elicit jealously, young prince—even by your father.”

“Nonsense, Uncle,” he protested and got up off the sofa. “My father is the most powerful man in the world and our empire is absolute!”

Sahar sniffed, then, both out of bemusement, but also with some small amount of mild contempt for the prince’s arrogance.

“What?” he demanded.

“This ‘absolute empire’ as you so call it, Prince, is far more fragile than you think. However—you seem to know best, and I will not belittle you as if you were a child. I have delivered the scroll. There. I have done my duty. You may choose to do with it what you wish, Prince Arash.”

He scoffed with annoyance. “Then begone, Uncle.”

“I shall,” he said, and left Arash alone.

Once the door was closed he grasped one of the small red cushions and tossed it at the door. “You will see,” he muttered.

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