Prologue #3
“Relief,” Ashar said, rueful. “The relief that you find my hands worthy of your trust, without a hidden price to fear. And the relief of not knowing what cares crease your brow when you leave this place. This is respite’s place, a place to lay aside burdens, and I dare suppose that you carry enough of those to stagger me.
Leave me a small shining gem of innocence, leave no name spoken between us but Rahat, and I will delight in your company for its own sake.
And you will know that for truth freely given, unbought and unpaid. ”
Shuddering with a sigh, Rahat said, “Ya majid, ya akram, ya aziz. Ya hasan.”
Ashar cupped warm water in his palm and tipped it over the curve of Rahat’s cheek, following it with a caress.
“I haven’t the knowledge to speak poet-names in your court’s tongue, but my lips can sing of your sweetness in other ways,” he murmured.
“Lie back, let yourself float; let my hands cradle you and my voice soothe your heart. You need only be, ya rahati. You need only drift, a blossom amid the rose-petals.”
Rahat was so willing, so sweetly suggestible, that it gave Ashar a moment’s pause to think of what he might have been able to do with a word of suggestion spoken in the ear of one of the greatest powers in the city.
But then, this was precisely why he’d brought him in: Ashar knew himself well enough to recognize which forms of temptation he found as irresistible as catnip, and which tempted him not in the least. He trusted his own hands more than most in the Catsprowl, to resist the temptation to seek power or influence from the brother of the God-Emperor.
Honestly, the court was an unhealthy place for any who wished their cups unpoisoned and their backs unstabbed; if anything, the greatest temptation was to invite Rahat to stay longer than the one night, for his safety.
But then, the House of Jasmines wouldn’t be able to preserve its own safety for long, not if it became known that the God-Emperor’s third brother patronized Ashar’s services.
Still—the thought of offering shelter was much more tempting to Ashar than the thought of courtly power.
He sank deeper into the water, nestled Rahat’s head against the crook of his shoulder, and let years of experience with the arts of massage guide his hands through seeking out lingering tensions to release as they floated in the pool.
Ashar took it as one of the highest compliments of his life when he realized a prince of the realm had drifted off to sleep in his arms.
One of Ashar’s favorite charms drew warmth from the neighborhood buildings’ sun-baked stone into the baths, to keep the water warm and comfortable as long as he wished.
But when both their fingers were water-shriveled, Ashar shifted just enough to kiss Rahat’s cheek again, to coax him back to waking.
Rahat’s instinct upon waking in an unfamiliar place was to freeze rather than struggle; it helped, even as it worried Ashar to wonder why he’d learned that instinct.
Another soft kiss had Rahat blinking in sleepy pleasure, splashing a little as he found his footing again.
Bundling up in soft towels and bathrobes, more chai to sip, and more rose-scented rahat al-hulqum to nibble helped revive him. Ashar snuggled against him blissfully, because Rahat’s soft, round, human warmth was an indulgence worth savoring, too.
“Stay the night with me?” Ashar asked, with every human charm he could apply.
He couldn’t let himself put the force of true power behind those words, but he could offer a brilliant smile and a teasing glance through lowered lashes, his silk robe slipping free of his shoulder as he held out an inviting hand.
Rahat bit his lip and looked down, then looked away. “I would love to, but — your time is valuable, and have I not taken more than my share?”
“My time is my own, to spend as I wish, and I have scarcely touched the surface of the treasures I find in you,” Ashar said.
“Kindness is a treasure in this world. Tenderness. Comfort, and a need to share it.” Daring perhaps more than he ought, he added, “A vulnerability that I would protect in whatever way I may. This is the Catsprowl, after all, and cats are charming, but cats are predators with excellent night vision for hunting tender morsels. Stay here in the lamplight and the warmth, and seek your home upon the sunlit morrow, when the night-hunters have settled into their own rest.”
“And are you not my wild leopard pouncing upon any tender morsel left unprotected by a chai pot?”
Smiling, Ashar said, “Precisely. You are my tender morsel to devour, and I can be selfish with such treats. But distract me with tales of your distant travels, like the princess Shahrizad, and perhaps you may survive the night unmolested.”
Rahat turned a deep shade of rose under the mahogany-bronze of his skin.
Ashar chuckled. “Not further molested, then?”
“No, I, um. I…” Rubbing his fingertips together, Rahat said in a tiny voice, “I don’t mind. At all. More the opposite.”
“Well, then. Tell me your tales, O wandering talespinner, and if you tell them beautifully, perhaps I’ll molest you further.”
Ashar had thought a wealthy prince might tell him tales spun from a rich man’s hobbies, or that a clever one would tell him Shahrizad’s tales to keep his own more hidden.
Or even that Rahat might fill his ears with the inner workings of the Ministry of Finance—after all, a shahzada with a gift for true foresight was the best person in the realm to audit all the records in search of false accounts.
Ashar had certainly spent enough evenings imitating an avid interest in camel racing or the jewel trade or whatever else a powerful man expected to impress an evening’s hired companion with.
But Rahat was, it seemed, much too self-aware to bore him with paperwork, and too sincere in his desire to offer Ashar a gift of some worthy value.
He spoke in poetic language of the inner workings of the haveli, and of the preparations made and the festivals and formalities planned for the gathering priests who would bring pomp and power to the Greater Convocation.
Rahat had disguised the nobles and the priests well enough with false names, but it took little enough cleverness to recognize them by the roles they played and the gods and powers they served.
As far as Ashar could tell, Rahat had told him as much as he could of the truth, and beautifully so.
And so, in turn, Ashar told the prince tales that he’d never realized a prince wouldn’t know.
Tales of why the God-Emperor’s distant throne was paid lip service in the Catsprowl, but the three uncrowned queens of the temple, the market, and the mage-tower held the reins of the local powers among them.
Tales of a particular shahzada, even, because when else would a commoner have the ability to say such things to the man himself, without a dozen officials in the way?
“In the great palaces and the haveli, of course, I am certain they tell it differently, because everyone there is much concerned with pride and with appearances,” Ashar said.
“But here in the Catsprowl, we pray for the prince’s fabled visions to guide him as deftly as a cat’s eye at midnight, because the cats hear tales that suggest many of those who hold great power are not as pure of soul as his Highness.
From all accounts, his Highness is kind, thoughtful, compassionate; he forewarns us all, rich or poor, whenever he may.
Yet the highborn and the wealthy who hear his Highness’ prophecies of floods and flame do not hesitate to seize his power for themselves, waging a market-war of coin gambled upon forewarnings, buying up what would not be destroyed to enrich themselves.
The God-Emperor is radiant and glorious and very far away, and the Greater Convocation is coming here.
The mages feel the looming of danger in such a gathering of the gods.
Especially the Archmage, who sharpens blades and claws with every insinuation; she is as proud of her power as the priests are of their gods, and none of us know what she may be planning.
Or so the cats whisper among themselves, licking over a shoulder blade to glance around for predators. ”
Rahat shivered against his side, and Ashar snuggled closer, drawing a brightly woven blanket around them both.
“The prince needs a clowder, I think.”
“A what now?”
“A clowder. Maybe a pounce? Certainly an intrigue. A group of cats of his own, vigilant and curious and chatty little gossips with noses everywhere in the city.”
“I’ve seen how easily a cat can be bribed with a bit of food, ya majid.”
“Any one cat, certainly. But there are hundreds in the Catsprowl, and herding them all onto the same path is legendarily impossible. With a hundred ears at his service, and a hundred tales to hear, the shape formed in the gossip-fog may come closer to the truth—”
Ashar stopped short, clutching at Rahat’s hands more tightly than he meant, because a tiny voice yowled its protest in the alleyway and then was silenced.
Something had just ended Nehal’s latest incarnation.
“We should move closer to the heart of the building,” Ashar said, still breathless with the pain-shock. The alleys were hardly safe. Nehal had lost his bodily form before, sometimes to stray dogs, and he often sulked about it before he would agree to Ashar’s invitation to take shape again.
But for something to kill Ashar’s familiar while the God-Emperor’s brother took shelter under his roof—
“Ya majid, what’s wounded you?”
“No time,” Ashar said, “not if it’s that close—please, sweet one, let’s join the others.”
Another cat yowled imperiously outside the window, and Rahat looked up. “I know that voice,” he said, sounding amused of all things.
“Please. Come away. There’s safety in numbers—”