Chai and Charmcraft (The Charmcraft Chronicles #1)
Prologue
RAHAT AL-HULQUM: ASHAR
The first time Asharan bir Chameli of the House of Jasmines in the Catsprowl met the prince whom he named after rose-sweets, he had quite a bit of careful talking to do.
Ashar had recognized him immediately, of course, despite the wrapped scarf that concealed everything but the man’s lovely dark eyes.
The very powerful often misunderstood what stood out to common folk.
To him it must have been just another pin, but to Ashar, the ruby etched with the God-Emperor’s sigil set in the golden clasp that fastened his silken scarf was just as distinctive as the sigil-ring on his finger and the saffron dyeing his gorgeously embroidered silken jama.
But Ashar couldn’t possibly let on that he’d recognized him, or the poor man might well have tried to leap out a window, and likely gotten stuck halfway.
Ashar hadn’t seen him arrive; he’d been tending the jasmine plant in the western window, gathering a handful of blossoms to float in the baths, and the jingle of the bells strung in the entrance had caught his ear.
He’d looked over, realized who was standing in his waiting room, and had nearly dropped the flowers.
But that would be a terribly inhospitable welcome; and if there was anything Asharan bir Chameli had always prided himself upon, it was his hospitality. So he summoned up his brightest smile.
“Welcome to the House of Jasmines,” he said, and fortunately, his voice didn’t break. “I take it that you must have traveled some distance to my door, for such lovely silks are an exquisite rarity around here.”
“Oh, no,” the God-Emperor’s brother said, dismayed. “I mean, er, yes! Yes, of course, it’s been some distance, just— um.”
“Then if you have traveled some distance, please come and take your leisure,” Ashar said, scattering his handful of blossoms in the nearest bowl. “Surely a leisurely soak and a massage would be a respite from the long and dusty road. And it would be my delight to serve your pleasure.”
He hadn’t expected the third brother of the God-Emperor to be shy. But the prince twisted the cuffs of his sleeves between fretful fingers, and those glorious gazelle-soft eyes glanced away in what looked like shame.
“Really?” the shahzada asked. “I’ve heard tales of the master of the House of Jasmines in the Catsprowl, and I’m just a plump old bureaucrat. I’m nothing to write home about.”
Not a single part of that was true. The God-Emperor’s brother was middle aged at the utmost, near as round as the moon, and unquestionably the most powerful man in the city, though of course the three women who held the greatest powers found him a charming cat-toy.
And if the rumors were to be believed, he was also one of the most powerful foreseers ever found outside the High Temple.
That was absolutely someone to write home about, but what startled Ashar beyond careful discretion was—
“You’ve heard tales of me?” Ashar said, bemused; and at a nearly despairing glance of fear from those soft dark eyes, he said, “Well, now I must insist. I hadn’t thought my name would carry beyond the Catsprowl, let alone across the realm!
” (He’d barely kept himself from saying to the God-Emperor’s palace there.) “Please, let me indulge you in any pleasure you wish, if you’ll indulge my curiosity in return.
Here in the Catsprowl, many trades are made upon the strength of scratching curiosity-itches. ”
“I can’t,” the shahzada said miserably.
“I won’t ask your name,” Ashar said, and didn’t mention that he didn’t need to. “But you are travel-weary and you sought me out in this place for a purpose, and it would be a stain upon my honor if a guest were to leave my hands un-comforted and distressed. Please?”
The shahzada said in absolute despair, “I can’t. Everyone told me how kind you were, but no one told me how handsome you were!”
After a moment’s startlement, Ashar burst out laughing. “And you expect I could possibly leave you unrewarded for a compliment like that? Come. I insist. On the house.”
Curled up in the window by the lush pot of night-blooming jasmine, a small, velvet-sleek black cat gave Ashar one of the most disdainful looks he’d ever seen on a feline face.
Somehow, Ashar thought ruefully, spirit-summoned familiars had even more concentrated sass per ounce than a natural-born cat.
“Nehal, how do you have opinions on my business-sense?” Ashar said to the cat. “You don’t need coin. You don’t pay rent!”
With a little huff, the cat leapt down from the window and padded over to sniff at the shahzada’s shoes.
“Nehal!” Ashar protested, unsure whether it would be a greater breach of protocol to lunge across the room and grab his impertinent familiar, or to let Nehal continue to inspect this man like a fishmonger dubious about a questionably aged mackerel.
But the God-Emperor’s third brother looked charmed rather than offended; he knelt on the floor to politely offer Nehal his fingertips for sniffing.
Nehal decided such an offering was acceptable.
He arched his head up into the shahzada’s hand, and the man brightened in delight, gently stroking Nehal’s fur.
Purring like a tiny, impish thunderstorm, Nehal rubbed his entire side against the shahzada’s leg as he sauntered out the door… and left a vast cloud of black fluff dusted across the poor man’s formerly pristine white silk shalwar.
“Well,” Ashar said, laughing a little helplessly because he wasn’t sure whether he ought to feel gratified or mortified. “That settles that. I certainly can’t allow a guest to leave my bath-house less well groomed than when he walked in! Have mercy upon my tarnished reputation!”
“Your reputation doesn’t do you justice,” the shahzada said, fidgeting with the sigil-ring on his finger.
“Then clearly I must redeem it,” Ashar told him. “Please.”
Ashar leaned more heavily than he ought on the charm of his smile and the shine of his eyes.
He almost never pressed true power into enticing a hesitant customer into his hands.
But when the alternative was letting the third brother of the God-Emperor wander off into the night in the Catsprowl, entirely without guardians, distracted by distress on top of his visions, then it was a benefit to the entire realm to keep him out of temptation’s path among those who hunted the twilight in the market district.
He scooped a pot of chai and a tray of rose-scented rahat al-hulqum off the sideboard, then turned the full force of every power hidden behind his smile on the poor defenseless shahzada.
The third brother of the God-Emperor of the Sun followed him into a bath-chamber like a man sleepwalking.
Once the door was safely closed, though, Ashar eased up on the pressure of the charm.
He would never in a thousand nights have used that power to lure another into danger, or into intimacy against their desire.
But when he weighed the safety of the most powerful man in the city against the array of predators who prowled by night, then yes, he would let his charms overpower a prince’s inexplicable embarrassment.
Ashar set the tray on the low sitting table, folded himself onto one of the floor pillows, and patted the next one with an entirely human smile of invitation.
The shahzada blinked those big soft eyes at him, and Ashar suspected he might still have bolted for the door if it hadn’t been for the lingering, languid warmth of the glamourie. Instead, he crumpled into a round little heap of silks and bemusement on the pillow, still blinking like a little bird.
“So: I am sworn to Bastet as one of Her own, and like any cat, I am as much a creature of curiosity as of indolent pleasure,” Ashar told him. “Tell me, where on earth did you hear my name outside the Catsprowl?”
The shahzada made a little squeak of distress, and Ashar realized everything a moment too late: he hadn’t heard Ashar’s name, not to begin with.
He’d seen him, in a way that had everything to do with fate’s guidance and, apparently, not enough to do with detailed faces.
And then he’d gone to make inquiries, in order to follow the thread of his exalted palace-vision into the side-alley shadows of the Catsprowl.
Oh, let me think—some plausible, mundane excuse he can grasp—
“Don’t tell me it was Nimat,” Ashar said, pulling a name wildly out of the air. “Of all the people to carry tales far and wide. I shudder to think what you might have been told.”
“I won’t tell you it was Nimat, then,” the God-Emperor’s brother said, proving his court instincts of word-wrangling were sound.
“Bless you, my jewel: ever a sweet comfort. I believe I’ll call you Rahat,” Ashar decided, and offered him a piece of rahat al-hulqum on a delicate pink rose petal. “Is that to your taste?”
“Oh, yes, very much,” Rahat said, clearly meaning both the rose-scented sweet and the safety of the alias.
He took the offered sweet with a smile and bit into it, and made a sound like a contented dove.
Then he blinked at the sugar-dusting on his fingers and looked up at Ashar, and his cheeks reddened again: that bewildering, unexpected shame.
“…But it’s not as though I need any more sweets.”
What?
Oh.
Oh, of all the petty things for someone at that court to have shamed him for…
No one spoke against the tastes of the great ones who made sport of their servants, or those who made war for power’s sake, or those who took whatever they wished from those without the power to deny them.
No, nothing was to be said against the tastes for power.
Just the taste for sweetness, in someone who would feel the sting of shame.
“How fortunate that our tastes overlap, then,” Ashar said, and took the shahzada’s hand and softly kissed the sugar-dusting from each fingertip. “Rahat is very much to my taste as well, you see.”