6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

Earlier that day

Kamir opened his eyes so early the slaves hadn’t even come into his rooms to tend the fires. He walked to the windows that overlooked the courtyard and the fields beyond. The palace had been fitted with glass over a hundred summers ago, even if it was still ridiculously expensive. The poor used animal hide or shutters if they could afford them.

He’d spent hours looking through the glass walls of his prison. Not that he thought even with recent events that he had any power to change his life. He was as trapped as the slaves that lived here. Better food, safety, and clothes, to be sure. But he had as little choice in anything as the hearth boy that laid his fires. But pity-parties weren’t attractive. He’d never been hungry. Never cold. He had a thousand different reasons he was better off, and he bowed his head in shame that he’d thought to make that comparison.

Chilled, he pulled a heavy robe around him, began to tie the cord, then froze. He heard the tiny squeak, and last night’s promises from Draul came flooding back. He slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out a tiny mouse. Startled, he nearly dropped it and quickly lowered it to the floor, watching in amazement as it disappeared through a small space between the hearth bricks.

His door flew open so suddenly Kamir jumped, but in a flurry of excitement Veda rushed into the room. “Brother?”

He grinned, knowing she’d found the same. She took a breath then steadied herself, turned to close the door on the startled guard, then crossed the room.

“Now what?”

“Now we have somewhere to go,” Veda said, her determination both scary and awe-inspiring.

Kamir’s breath caught. “To—”

But Veda’s hand flew and covered his mouth, and he understood. Spies were everywhere, and the last thing they needed was for word to reach his uncle before they’d even left the palace. The only place spies couldn’t penetrate was his private prayer room, and they both should have been more careful yesterday.

He knew what they’d agreed last night, and their escape would come down to his ability to play a role he’d despised and often shied from. They couldn’t simply dress and leave without a reason. His uncle would claim he was detaining Kamir for his own safety. That the palace was locked up.

They were to follow the same plan that should have happened yesterday.

The only way he could get out of the fortress was to open the front gates. Traditionally in Rajpur, the dead were always returned to their houses. Usually after battle, the returning commander would visit the common prayer house and say blessings for the dead. The common prayer house was in the center of the town square. It was entirely fitting for Kamir to visit, especially as he had added blessings to ask the goddess to help identify the unnamed.

And he needed to announce his intention in a public way, so his uncle dared not refuse. Unfortunately, this custom meant the relatives of the dead would return the blessing with food. Which meant to pull off this ruse off Kamir would be forced to take from people that already had barely enough to feed themselves, and often not even that. But to make it believable, he invited every elder, the head of his army, the head of his diplomatic core, the head of his house, and finally his uncle and his nephews to accompany him to attend a prayer gathering outside the common prayer house one hour before midday bell.

It would catch everyone out, but especially his uncle. More importantly, it meant the security detail would have to be so large, it left the palace half-empty so the boy could be freed. He didn’t know how Veda and Draul were going to make it happen, but Draul had promised if he played the part of an entitled arse—sorry, a prince—Draul could handle the rest.

Kamir didn’t even know the boy’s name, because his slave name and his name given at birth might not be the same. Some masters stripped their slaves of their birth name simply for laziness. His father had six bathing slaves in succession throughout his sixty-one summers because he liked them young, and every one of them was called Gisla. His father was too arrogant to even learn a slave’s name.

Kamil was dressed in his penitent—the equivalent of his mourning robes when his uncle practically stormed into his dressing room. Mansala made a final adjustment on his purple sash of office, bowed, and left the room.

“Nephew, I cannot allow this blatant disregard for your safety. We have no idea when Cadmeera will strike next, and you are too valuable to our people to risk—”

“My lord uncle,” Kamir interrupted. “The household heads and the military commanders of all three branches, plus yourself and my cousins will be present. I am aware my cousins have great skills in both personal combat and warfare, as do you. I fail to see how I could be any safer.”

Because flattery . Not that he liked Iskar or Damatrious, but they were necessary for this ruse to be effective. “There has been much unrest since yesterday, and I have heard rumors that certain factions are raising questions over the leadership of our family.”

His uncle pounced on that sentence like he would have expected one of the kitchen cats to dispatch his little visitor that morning. “What questions, Highness?”

“I have been told that rumors abound over the attack. That the gods are displeased with our blood line, and this was their demonstration. If we do not want to inspire a revolution in our own backyard, then we must be visible.”

His uncle pressed his lips together so hard his skin whitened. “Caliph, I urge you to reconsider.”

Kamir struggled to keep his face passive. He knew the revered title had been another attempt to stroke his ego. He deliberately threw himself dramatically into a chair and tried to appear like his world wasn’t ending. “It’s not that I want to go. I…” He let the word drag out. “Uncle,” he said, pitifully. “I’m aware the people don’t see me as a strong leader—”

“Nephew,” his uncle soothed. And Kamir nearly laughed. “You know my dear brother would have wanted nothing more than for me to guide you to become the emir he always knew you capable of.”

“Yes,” Kamir said, almost jumping on the words. “Exactly. I believe the people will only accept me if they see a strong, experienced leader at my side.” Kamir’s initial humor at his uncle’s reaction had now fled, and he felt disgust at the pure avarice in Gabar’s gaze. “But it’s more than that,” he admitted in a pitiful voice. “This whole day, days, shows me how out of my depth I am.”

He fell silent. Any more and not even his uncle’s ego would have allowed him to be convinced of Kamir’s sincerity.

Gabar bowed. “You can trust me, nephew, in my brother’s stead.”

Kamir forced a smile, reminding himself that this was exactly what he wanted. He needed his uncle away from the palace or all this would be for naught. “I am grateful.”

His uncle begged a few minutes to ready himself and even suggested a full company to go with them. It was always better, he said, to give the people what they expected.

How Kamir managed to restrain an inappropriate answer he never knew.

Barely a bell later, they left the palace gates in an obnoxiously loud procession. As Kamir had expected, there was also a large crowd. The only way Draul and his men would be able to access the palace and dungeons were because the temporary lack of guards at the palace meant an unguarded back gate. His uncle believed the pleasure slave to be behind lock and key, and no threat.

Kamir played the part of a useless, vain, vapid ruler with no real talent for making decisions. The trouble was, though, he had never been vain, simply to be trotted out for appearances, despite all attempts to make him so.

So, he sat in the common prayer house, picking at a hurried yet humble feast that the poor had put together from their own meager stores because it was expected, and despised every second of this farce. Despised himself for taking part in it simply to save his own neck.

Except it wasn’t.

It was to save someone else. The beautiful man that had given him the power to turn into something magical. It had to be all the slave’s doing. Kamir wasn’t worthy of such a beast. He didn’t know how it happened, except that every cell in his body craved contact with the man.

And he desperately wished he knew his name.

“Highness,” Mansala murmured, and Kamir listened. It was entirely appropriate for his life sentinel to speak with him privately. In fact, Mansala took a couple of steps away from the table to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.

“The slave has been collected unharmed and is on his way.”

Kamir almost sagged in relief.

“There is a disturbance arranged. The large one that was originally intended for the palace. We will get you out because of it.”

“And no villagers will die.” He made it a demand rather than a question. His safety should never be put above others. Mansala bowed, but then a small voice interrupted.

“Why do you eat so much?”

Kamir looked down at the little girl, and raised his hand as four guards drew their swords. She was maybe eight summers, and it was clear by her skinny body and rags that she was poor.

And he had no answer. Nothing he could spout to justify such gluttony when others starved.

“My lord has little appetite,” Mansala answered for him, but Kamir knew that wouldn’t help.

“Has your family contributed to the feast?” He felt rather than saw his uncle approach. “How many brothers or sisters have you?” She held up one finger but didn’t differentiate.

And Kamir smiled as an idea entered his head. He could do this and no matter what his uncle said now or after, he couldn’t gainsay it. “Are you hungry?”

She eyed him solemnly. He walked nearer the tables then stood still until each noble eating noticed he stayed on his feet and they paused. When Kamir didn’t sit, they all rose to their feet in confusion.

“Lords,” he said incredibly loudly, ensuring everyone could hear him. “In honor of the great wrong that has been done today to our country and for the lives lost, I am bequeathing this feast to the families that suffered today and to the nation that lost so many loved ones.”

He knew that few understood his words, but it was part of the ruse. “Nobles, step away, return to your carriages.” They all took a hesitant step back and Kamir knew he had a split second to ensure that no recrimination in the form delivered by weapons would happen to the poor because the rich were among them, and heaven help the soldiers if they struck out at the people that paid their coin.

“People of Rajpur. Eat your fill.”

It was chaos for a few seconds as the poor surged forward and the nobles retreated in fear and confusion, and he reveled in the fact that the poor thought to make sure the needy were pushed ahead. The elderly. The children.

And shame licked at his skin. He sent a promise to Rajpur that he would return with food for everyone, before a hand Kamir knew almost better than his own jerked him back, and despite the shouts of the guards, the crowd surged forward, and he was bundled into a carriage.

He gazed at Mansala. “What did we just do?”

“You just took your crown, Highness” he said. But Kamir remembered the starving girl and doubted if the day had ended in a victory for her.

“And the slave?” he croaked. Kamir knew Mansala knew who he meant.

“We are on our way. Her highness has him. Above all, you two must be together. I ”

Kamir scoffed. “And look what happened last time we were.”

Mansala chuckled. Actually chuckled. “Maybe don’t touch? At least while you are in a carriage?”

He was glad at least someone found humor.