2
"How much money did your husband steal from you?" he asked quietly. After she'd named the sum, he beckoned Navid, a court clerk, to the throne.
"Give her the lost funds from my accounts. I want her husband investigated, and the marriage contract reviewed, and necessary actions taken, with a report on how matters are proceeding given to me in two weeks’ time and a month's time."
"Yes, Your Highness," Navid replied.
"How is your brother doing?"
"Recovered, Your Highness, thank you. He needs to rest another week or so, let the leg strengthen up again, but he should be back to work in not more than two weeks."
"Good, I am happy to hear it."
Navid smiled and bowed, then headed back down the stairs and escorted the woman away to sort details and make arrangements, and onward Bakhtiar's day went.
He sorted seven more gambling problems, three marriage problems, and sent guards out to arrest five different people, most of them abusive husbands.
By the time the day finally ended, he was exhausted, but feeling a little less useless. Back in the antechamber, he stretched and yawned, rolling his neck and shoulders.
"I don't suppose there's time to rest a bit before…whatever is next." Dinner wasn't for a few hours yet, and that was plenty of time for more work.
"I made certain you would have time to rest, Bakhti," Farrokh replied, offering up wine, pressed up against his side, warm and inviting, smelling faintly of mint and sugar.
"Drink."
He accepted the wine happily, and the kiss that followed, rubbing his thumb along the back of Farrokh's neck, enjoying the predictable shivers that touch elicited.
When Farrokh drew back, Kurosh replaced him, sliding into Bakhtiar's arms like he belonged there.
Which he most definitely did, and for a moment all of Bakhtiar's fears that his harem had grown as tired of him as everyone else vanished.
He loved these two so much.
Farrokh who was a scholar through and through, but had the build of a fighter because he detested being sedentary and used a form of martial arts to keep himself fit.
Softly sculpted features and long, soft, dark brown hair he most often wore loose now, though when he'd still been Bakhtiar's tutor he'd always kept it braided.
Kurosh who was as cold and sharp as his blades, as fit as Farrokh but in a different way, built for stealth and speed.
They'd met when he'd pinned a knife to Bakhtiar's throat.
Instead of pleading for his life like a sensible person, Bakhtiar had simply said You're so beautiful.
Somehow, they'd both agreed to be his, two of the happiest moments in his life.
Drawing back, he smirked and asked, "What kind of rest did we have in mind?"
"Not that kind," Kurosh said firmly, slipping back out of his arms.
"You need rest, Bakhti. You can have us all you like later tonight."
That's what they always said lately. Yes, he was sleep deprived, but they didn't know that, and what he needed more than sleep was to feel wanted. Needed. Like a priority. Any sort of priority at all.
"You're no fun at all," was all he said, though, and let them lead him through the secret passages back to his room, where he went without protest as they ushered him into his bed.
He almost asked them to stay again, even just to rest with him, but what was the point? There was always work to do and he wouldn't create more problems, be more of a spoiled brat and burden, by taking them from it.
Still, his brief nap wasn't nearly as restful as it might have been with willing company at his side.
When he woke a couple of hours later, it was to find Jahanara in his room looking angry.
"Is something wrong?"
"Is something wrong?" she asked, bristling.
"Where are my earrings? I let you borrow them, you promised to return them, and now they're nowhere to be found."
"What are you talking about? I gave them to Kashi two days ago to return to you. I put them in the box, then in his hands, and sent him off with them."
"I spoke with Kashi and he said the only box you gave him was one of bracelets for the treasury."
"That isn't true! I did give him the bracelets, yes, but right on top of them was your earrings. He was to return the earrings and then deliver the bracelets to the treasury."
Jahanara huffed.
"If you'd done that, I'd have the earrings, Bakhti. Why are you always doing things like this? I never should have lent them to you."
"Fine, whatever. I guess I lost them," Bakhtiar said bitterly, even though he hadn't. Just like he hadn't lost the contracts, or his mother's precious scarf, or his ring, or anything else.
"Pick out a new pair and I'll pay for them, of course. I'm sorry." He stood and went to wash up for dinner, even though he was now far too upset to eat and would probably just throw it all up later.
Wouldn't be the first time, and he couldn't simply excuse himself, he'd just be called spoiled and lazy and accused of fobbing things off on everyone else.
So he washed and dressed, arranged a jeweler to see his sister in the morning, reviewed his notes on the goals he was expected to accomplish at dinner, and finally headed off.
At his side, Kurosh seemed more pensive than usual, and Farrokh quieter than usual.
"Are you two all right? You've seemed quiet lately."
"Perfectly fine, my prince," Farrokh said with a smile, reaching up to squeeze his arm.
"I was lost in thought, that's all."
"Something is poking and prodding at me," Kurosh said in that carefully idle way of his, like the auditory version of the ease with which he played with his precious knives, as though they were mere toys. But forgetting he was playing with weapons was a fool's game, and misunderstanding that tone of voice was just as dangerous.
"I'll speak more when I have something substantial; for now it's only suspicions."
"As you wish. I'd like to stop by the office if you don't mind, I left my favorite shawl there and I want it for dinner since that hall is always so chilly."
"Of course, my prince," Kurosh said.
At his office, standing alone now the offices were closed for the day, Reza seemed to stand ever so slightly straighter as they approached.
"Good evening, Your Highness."
"Good evening, Reza. Does my terrible handwriting remain secret and safe."
That delightful eye crinkle again.
"Secret and safe, my—Your Highness, as always. Only disturbance on the hall was a young girl who looks freshly hired and seems to be under Jula's care, poor girl. I got her pointed in the right direction, and all has been quiet since."
"I admire you can stand here alone and still all night, Reza. We all know I wouldn't last five minutes before I started climbing the walls."
That got him a soft chuckle. An actual, real laugh, if only barely. Bakhtiar wanted to cheer.
"Some of us are meant for holding still, Your Highness. Others are meant to move and captivate. Off to dinner, then?"
"Yes, I just wanted my shawl."
"I'll get it," Farrokh said.
When he returned, Bakhtiar took it, then gave Reza a playful salute.
"Carry on, faithful guard. I hope your night is dreadfully boring."
"You and me both, Your Highness. Enjoy dinner."
They'd only just barely turned the corner when Kurosh gave him a look.
"Your flirting is getting more obvious, my prince."
"Flirting?" Bakhtiar blinked.
"With who? Reza? I'm not flirting, that would be inappropriate, he works for me."
"So did I," Farrokh said dryly.
"Which reminds me, Bakhti, about earlier in the garden—"
A raised, angry voice snatched his attention, and he only barely noted Farrokh's frustrated huff before they were upon the source. Lord Hesh and his youngest daughter, and he was currently lecturing her on behaving like some sort of strumpet or criminal.
When he grabbed her arm, forcing it straight out, it was obvious why.
She had a tattoo.
A beautiful, colorful tattoo of plum blossoms with a sparrow perched in their midst.
It was actually rather charming how many women and girls in court were flouting convention to get tattoos because Relanya had them.
If he were a young girl in court and a beautiful princess from far away showed up with big, bold, colorful tattoos and enchanted everyone around her, including the brother she wasn't engaged to, he'd want tattoos as well.
He'd always wanted tattoos, he just wasn't allowed them as crown prince.
Maybe he should be more like a young girl.
"Beautiful work, Miss Gohar." They both jumped, and then immediately bowed low.
"Y-Your Highness," she said, still looking at the floor, cheeks flushed.
"Work?"
"Your tattoos. Plum blossoms for the family that raised you, a sparrow for the family you'll be marrying in a couple more years, yes? Clever and elegant. Much like Princess Relanya herself, choosing marks connected to those we love."
Her pink cheeks darkened, and she looked up enough to give him a real smile.
"Yes, Your Highness, that was my thinking exactly. Thank you, your praise means much to me."
He smiled briefly, then shifted his attention to Lord Hesh.
"Are you always like this, Lord Hesh? Making a public spectacle of humiliating and abusing people? What are you like in private, if this is your public behavior?"
"I beg pardon, Your Highness, I lost my temper and will have more care," Lord Hesh said, staring at the floor like he thought it might save him.
"I know a bit about tempers," Bakhtiar replied, because that was true, but also he'd never grabbed someone in anger, though he had once thrown a book at Aradishir when they were kids.
"I advise you to better watch yours. Goodnight."
He walked off without waiting for their replies and further bowing.
"Tonight is going to be a long night, I can feel it."
"They wouldn't be so long if you slept properly," Kurosh grumbled.
"I sleep plenty."
Thankfully, they reached the banquet hall then, stalling Kurosh's reply, though his heart was racing anyway that maybe his late night jaunts to the office had been noticed after all.
Not that it mattered, since they never offered to go with him, or invited him to stay and work there in his room, or anything at all.
Just remained asleep, or 'asleep' apparently.
He took his usual spot at the table, smiling and bowing his head in greeting to his parents.
Aradishir nodded, and Relanya smiled warmly as she always did.
Jahanara, of course, barely looked at him.
Even if he had lost her damned earrings, she had five hundred pairs of them, was it really worth being that angry?
He hadn't even borrowed important ones, just a pair that was yet another gift from a grateful general or merchant or visitor, even she couldn't remember who exactly.
She never wore them, but he remembered them because blue topaz was so pretty, his favorite color, and not a gemstone typically gifted because it was considered common.
He'd wanted them for a garden party he had to attend, had loved them so much.
Nobody gifted him the delicate, pretty color.
He got rubies, emeralds, dark sapphires.
Never the softer blues and pinks and purples.
Buying them himself was obviously the easiest thing in the world, but it wasn't the same.
Everyone gifted his siblings pretty things, but he only got austere things.
Sometimes really obnoxious, opulent stuff that he tried to make certain got buried, if not outright lost, in the treasury.
So he settled for borrowing a pretty pair of earrings from his sister, and had the best time wearing them with a matching tunic.
Now she wouldn't even talk to him, even though he had returned them.
Where did all his stuff keep going? It was so frustrating.
Pushing the question from his mind, he focused on what he was meant to accomplish that night.
Their guests included a couple of Aradishir's merchant friends, there just for fun, a couple of foreign dignitaries his sister was hosting because they'd be doing military maneuvers together next year, and a few members of the council who were throwing fits about the latest tariff squabble.
Necessary imports, anything related to clothes, food, basic household goods, and such, the tariffs were capped and always a flat amount.
Luxury goods, anything beyond the basics and certain exempted nicer goods like finer soaps, were wildly more complicated, and were a mix of flat charge and percentage charge.
Wine alone could start a civil war in the council room, nevermind all the other imports.
The latest bickering was over changes to tariffs on stone.
Marble, granite, and more, used in everything from construction to art.
Tavamara exported a significant amount of basalt and sandstone—more basalt than anyone else in the world.
Unfortunately, they imported practically everything else.
The problem was those imports were generally so cheap, people went with fancy foreign stone instead of local stuff infinitely more suited to the environment.
Raised tariffs would mitigate a lot of that, and help local industries besides.
So of course the merchants had to cry about it, and thus the council members tied to those merchants had to cry as well.
"Your Highness, we missed you at the council meeting today," said Lord Messar.
That was a bald-faced lie. Messar had stakes in two casinos, including the Red Lark, so he had a deeply vested interest in everyone leaving Bakhtiar and his plans to rot. It would not surprise him in the least if he engineered, instigated, and otherwise created all the squabbling that kept the council overly occupied with tariffs and other matters, perpetually shelving Bakhtiar.
Nothing he could prove, though, not easily, and even if he could no one would believe him anyway.
"Gracious of you, my lord." He sipped the wine Kurosh offered him, a light, crisp wine to precede the actual meal, one of his favorites.
"How did the meeting go? Did you accomplish what you wanted?" he looked from Messar to the other two council members in attendance, Lady Varesh and Lord Cemar.
When his family invited people simply for the pleasure of their company, it was being invited to dinner. When something more was afoot, and they were a mere step away from being in royal disfavor, it was called being called to the table. It was the kind of talk the royal family wasn't supposed to hear, but Bakhtiar was good at learning such things. Servants talked, and many of them were explicitly willing to talk to him, though he didn't really know why.
Lady Varesh sniffed delicately.
"There was some progress made. I think it's all nonsense by Abbas and his cronies."
"Abbas stands to neither gain nor lose by the altered stone tariffs. He might wind up paying a little bit more for the stone he wants for his new winery, but the increase won't be significant enough to even affect his budget. Three percent, give or take," Bakhtiar replied.
"What new winery?" Messar asked.
Even Shahjahan looked at him curiously.
"I had not heard of a new winery, and I was just speaking with him this morning before the meeting."
Bakhtiar huffed, because honestly, it was obvious. Were they just testing him? Like the stupid taaki game they all thought he couldn't play?
"He's met with ten different wine masters this year, six wood merchants, and seven stone merchants. Last month he threw a small fit when a shipment of his was severely damaged by a surprise sandstorm on route from Valta, obvious by the blue livery of the driver who reported the damage. Given the starting location and the time of year and that same livery, he'd obviously ordered seedlings and probably a large quantity of adolescent plants, all for grape and flower varieties that thrive in sea air.
Four weeks ago he went on a trip out of town and didn't return for five days, about the time it would take to visit a plot of land in Kenira, inspect it, purchase it, and return.
"Abbas is superstitious and likes to keep things close, so he will probably privately announce the new winery in six days, when the land purchase finishes processing, and publicly in twenty days, give or take, when all his purchased supplies reach Kenira and ground is broken. That's his usual pattern, anyway."
Farrokh was the one to offer him wine, then, smiling with deep, gentle fondness before taking the remaining sip for himself.
"Always the patterns with you, my prince."
"Like a spider that can chase down even the barest touch on its web," Kurosh said.
"Indeed," Lady Varesh said.
"Astute, Your Highness."
Bakhtiar acknowledged the words with a bare nod, more interested in the first course that was being laid out, as he could not remember the last time he'd eaten. Breakfast, probably, since he had gotten to eat before that stupid taaki game.
He let the conversation wash over him for a little while, though always keeping track as he had a job to do and did not want to be told he was a disappointment one more damned time. He still was getting occasionally jabbed at by Aradishir for not buying gifts for Relanya or scheduling things to do. Which yes, he should have, but his mother had never actually told him, only apparently written a list that she sent off. A list he'd never seen, and with all the other things he'd had to do, buying gifts for a woman he had no interest in had slipped his mind.
It didn't even matter since everything had worked out so perfectly for everyone, especially Shir and Relanya.
His leg was starting to hurt, after spending so much time sitting with it bent, with little chance to straighten it out during the day, but he kept still anyway and focused on other things. Like how Farrokh and Kurosh had seemed so approving of his stupid rambling about the winery.
He wasn't certain why they were so impressed he could recognize patterns, like it was some difficult thing, but he'd take whatever positivity he could get.
Eventually, though, the conversation turned back to the stupid tariffs and he had to leave off his beautifully roasted goat to focus.
"—charging so much more. It's excessive."
"What's excessive? Stone has a modest percentage tariff, and that rate is increasing barely at all, from 1.5 to .1, the only increase in stone tariffs in Tavamaran history, which was why it was marked out as a good place for rate increases." Bakhtiar replied.
He could feel his parents looking at him, the reprimands to be subtle and diplomatic and choose your words carefully and use them sparingly but they'd left the issue closest to his heart dead in the water, his harem was probably going to leave him, and apparently everyone thought him so stupid they were impressed he recognized patterns. So who cared if they yelled at him for being too blunt for the thousandth time?
So he kept doing things his way.
"Your company imports a mere 0,000 ters of Tritacian marble per year, more than enough for all the tiles, countertops, and other decorative bits the wealthy want for their museum-like homes.
Market value for Tritacian marble is sixty beshar per universal square, so roughly one eighty per slab, two slabs to a ters, seventy point two million beshar a year, with a tariff of a mere one hundred fifty thousand, up from one hundred and eight.
A total cost of seven point three five a year.
"You sell the marble for three hundred twenty a slab, a one hundred percent increase, and after running costs are left with a profit of sixty beshar per slab. So even with the increase, you're still making more than a million beshar a year. Nevermind that you'll use the tariff, trivial though it is, to increase your asking price and make more money than ever. You have nothing whatsoever to complain about, yet here you are complaining all the same. Explain to me again why this tariff is a problem for you. Especially when this is only a small part of your income, in fact the smallest part, and the vast majority comes from your stakes in Red Lark and Falling Star." He looked at the other two.
"Do you need to be reminded of your numbers as well?"
"No, Your Highness," they replied quietly, in unison, staring at their plates.
Messar, meanwhile, was still red in the face, hands beneath the table, probably balled into tight fists, and he was probably all the angrier because there was nothing he could say or do with the king and queen right there. Especially because Bakhtiar was right.
And he'd solved the problem in minutes, instead of dragging everything out incessantly all night.
Not that anybody would thank him for it.
"If only you were as good at returning my earrings as you are with numbers," Jahanara said into the silence.
Bakhtiar swore he could feel something literally, physically break inside him. She'd meant it as a joke, he could tell that, but was that really all anyone could say? So math and patterns weren't remarkable or useful skills for a crown prince. He didn't know that 'patterns' was a skill at all, per se. But he'd still solved the problem. They'd stop bickering now and agree to the damn tariff. Public shaming worked wonders on greedy, conceited assholes.
Aradishir would have gotten a soft smile from their mother, a proud look from their father. His sister would have gotten deep nods, shares of their private wine.
All he got for his efforts was a lousy joke about how stupid and careless he was.
He couldn't fucking take it anymore.
"If you'll forgive me, Mother, Father, I'm no longer feeling well and need to go lie down." He gave them a hasty bow and left as though chased by fire, not even waiting for his harem to catch up.
Taking the secret passage, he made his way to the semi-public gardens that were reserved exclusively for use of palace residents and special guests. Regular visitors and guests weren't permitted here unless accompanying those with permission.
He walked until he reached a corner that wasn't visited much because like his own private gardens there were no flowers here, simply plants, though those plants were lovely. Only showy flowers mattered to the court, and everything else was boring.
As he reached the pond, though, he could hear a voice. A familiar voice. The book reader.
He stepped around a wide tree, following the voice, and found the winsome man sitting on a stone bench next a young woman, reading the same book he'd been reading that morning. His voice was still so beautiful, truly enchanting, animated as he read the story to his avid audience.
Captive audience, in Bakhtiar's case. Who was this man? What did he do with his days? If Bakhtiar asked him for readings would he be happy to do it? Or simply happy for the money and boon to his reputation? He supposed the semantics shouldn't matter, he would get the lovely voice either way, but…
Not that it mattered, because he wouldn't be asking. He could already hear the jokes about how lazy he was, carting around people just to read books to him instead of reading them properly, because when other people did it in groups that was fine, but if he did it alone he was somehow failing.
The hypocrisy of people gave him a headache.
Sliding quietly down to sit at the base of the tree, he fidgeted with his silly gear as he listened to that beautiful story tell a story of a stubborn knight on a quest to rescue his beloved from the grip of an evil tyrant.
Sadly, the moment didn't last long, as guards came striding through the garden bearing lanterns and clearly searching for him. Bakhtiar sighed, stood up and brushed himself off, turning to the man and young woman—sister? Friend? Promised?—and smiling.
"You have a beautiful voice, thank you for letting me enjoy your storytelling for a time. I apologize for disturbing your space. Goodnight." Then he walked over to the guards.
"I'm here. Where do my parents expect me?"
"Expect you? They said only we were to be certain you were all right and reached your room in peace to get some rest."
Wow, they were so fed up with him they didn't even care to yell at him. He hadn't thought he had any lows left to reach, but here was a new achievement.
"Thank you, I'll return to my room now, please."
"Yes, Your Highness."
When he reached his room, it was empty, another twist to the heart. Where were Farrokh and Kurosh? Speaking with his parents, likely. Seeking permission to leave? Handing over information about him so he could better be dealt with?
Heart aching more than ever, he stripped off his clothes and jewelry, washed away his eye makeup, loosely bound his hair, and then finally limped over to the bed and crawled into it, telling himself he'd fall asleep long before he did something as stupid as cry.
***
When he woke some time later, everything was dark, cool, and quiet. A glance out the window showed it was still dark, so it must be some early hour of the morning.
His heart sped up to see that Kurosh and Farrokh were asleep on either side of him. Not leaving him after all? Or was there some waiting period his father had required so they were going through the motions until then?
Suppressing a sigh so he wouldn't accidentally disturb them, especially Kurosh and his notoriously light sleep, he crawled out of bed and drank the cold tea still sitting on the table.
He was awake, he wouldn't be going back to sleep, and who knew what would happen to him when his parents woke up.
He may as well get some work done in the meantime.
Not in the mood for the faintly oppressive nature of the secret passages he pulled on comfortable pants, a loose, sleeveless shirt, and wrapped up in a warm shawl.
Unbecoming to walk around so casual, but when you were already as low as you could go, what did one more broken rule matter?
When he reached his office, he paused outside it to greet Reza like usual.
"Good evening, faithful protector. Any visitors while I was away?"
"Only Kashi and another servant with him to fetch some papers. There was a brief disturbance in the hall, a group of stupid drunks who wandered this way somehow…"
Reza rolled his eyes, which would get him in so much trouble should Captain Queria hear of it, "…but that was all, Your Highness. We're still sorting out how they were able to get this far. I'll keep you informed. I hope you're feeling better?"
Huh, he hadn't thought there was anything in his office anyone would need. But what did he really know anymore.
"Much improved, thank you. I don't suppose you could find a servant willing to bring me fresh tea?"
"Of course, Your Highness."
"I appreciate it." He stepped inside, slid the door shut, and moved through the dark room with familiar ease to light the lamp on the corner of his desk—
And was grabbed from behind, a hand slammed over his mouth. He tried to scream anyway, throwing his weight backward—and only getting thrown into a wall for his trouble, his head slammed back down when he tried to lift it.
"Guar—"
He went down, eyes stinging with pain, curling in on himself where he'd been punched in the gut. There was a crashing sound, like his bookcase had been knocked over or something, but then he was being kicked and hit and thrown around again, cut and scraped as he struck things around the room.
Out in the hall, he could hear Reza screaming his name. Not Your Highness or even Prince, but his actual name. Along with banging and breaking and tearing. Reza was fighting to get to him past whatever barrier was in the way.
Despite his efforts to stay aware, get away, soon all he knew was pain and the taste of his own blood.
Then everything stopped, and he heard the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. The door opened, light spilling inside at last, and he could just make out Reza and Kurosh's worried faces as he knelt beside him.
"Bakhti, stay with me, you'll be all right."
Bakhti laughed, half-hysterical, half-bitter resignation, his head aching, the room spinning.
"At least I won't be an annoying burden anymore."
He passed out as Kurosh and Reza screamed his name.
***
When he woke up, it was in his own bed, in pain and dying of thirst.
"Fuck."
"Bakhti!"
He froze, dread filling his chest, desperately wishing he was still unconscious. Unfortunately, he was awake, and too sore and thirsty to go back to sleep quite yet, so he turned his head to face his father sitting by his bedside.
"Father."
Shahjahan reached out to cover his hand with both of his his.
"You're finally awake, thank the gods. W-we were starting to fear the worst."
Bakhtiar had once found so much comfort in his father's touch—a hand on his shoulder, resting on his forehead when he was sick in bed, on his back in encouragement or pride.
But the touches had faded, as had the encouragement and pride and comfort, replaced by sighs and reprimands and lectures.
"Water?"
"Of course." Shahjahan motioned to someone he couldn't see, and then his main chamber servant, Seyed, came forward to help prop him up on pillows.
Everything hurt but sitting up was much better than laying down. Returning with the water, Shahjahan resumed his seat by his bed and handed the water over.
Bakhtiar's left hand was bandaged, but though it hurt, mostly it was stiff and itchy, so he took the water and sipped it slowly.
His right arm was bandaged from the wrist to past the elbow, and hurt a lot, like he'd cut it open or something.
"What happened?"
"Kashi happened," Shahjahan replied.
"Kashi?" That made no sense, he was a well-established presence amongst the staff that exclusively served the royal family.
"I don't understand."
"He was paid to get the man who assaulted you into your office to ambush you. He used some drunks to distract your guards, smuggled in a man to wait for you in your office to ambush you. It was by the gods alone that Kurosh took the secret passages to find you and arrived in time to keep the bastard from finishing the job,"
Shahjahan spat out, his voice not quite breaking on the last words.
"We almost lost you, my son, and I never would have forgiven myself."
"For what? You weren't the one who nearly beat me to death. Or paid a man to beat me to death. I still don't understand why Kashi is involved at all."
Kashi had been part of his staff for years, hardworking and trustworthy, reliable except for all the missing stuff the past couple of years, but Bakhtiar had never pursued the matter because what was the point? His family had made up their minds about him.
"Drink this next," Shahjahan said quietly.
"You need to rest and heal. The tale of that backstabbing cretin can wait."
"What are you doing here?" Bakhtiar asked, taking the cup of tea that no doubt had a measure of dream powder in it that would help with pain but also put him right back to sleep. Which was the best way to let his body heal, but he hated it anyway.
"Surely you have more important things to be doing."
"There is nothing more important than you, Bakhti, and the fact you think otherwise shows an egregious failing on my part for which I will never forgive myself. You are my son, infinitely precious to me, and I nearly lost you. Of course I am here."
Bakhtiar drank the drugged tea and set the cup aside.
"Dare I ask where Mother is?"
"Sleeping, she was watching you until an hour ago. Jahanara, Aradishir, and the others are managing our duties and yours. Your assassin over there has killed four people so far, and I do not believe he is finished. He's lucky he knows his business and the guards ask no questions about disposing of bodies," Shahjahan added dryly.
Turning to follow his gaze, Bakhtiar saw Farrokh and Kurosh curled up together in Farrokh's bed. No doubt giving him space while he was healing.
"Are they all right?"
"Worried about you in the extreme. As I said, Kurosh is rooting out every single rat tied to Kashi and those merchants who arranged the ambush, and he has no mercy to spare. The only reason Kashi himself lives is that he can still provide information, but Kurosh made certain he would never move on his own again."
Bakhtiar might have smiled a bit if he hadn't been in so much pain. Everyone thought him stupid or mad for taking the man paid to kill him as his concubine, but all that deadly talent had been turned toward his protection, for no real reason at all.
You're so beautiful.
Are you insane?