Chapter 5 The Way Things are Done #4
“Through a wise guide’s assistance,” Faraj said.
“But my tutor was very skilled; I’m certain Sahar is quite properly made!
Really, Irfan, I can swear by my foresight that she will not begin, er, decomposing, or whatever else you might imagine.
She eats and drinks and naps and purrs, and all the rest of it. ”
“And who had the audacity to snare the God-Emperor’s own brother into such soul-binding?”
“You can’t honestly expect me to name my gentle tutor when your distrust is already so clear,” Faraj told him.
Glaring between Najra and Hikmat’s tense shoulders, the Chamberlain declared, “I have heard horrible things of the accursed books in the forbidden collection, Archivist Najra, and I had defended you. I had thought surely you respected his Highness’s integrity of soul.
You must not have been his tutor, or you could have taught him before this — but star-charts?
Did you send him to the sorcerer who bound his soul? ”
“I’m not sure yet,” Najra asked. “Did you find the right pot in the window, your Highness?”
He knew what she was really asking, of course.
She hadn’t let him give up on his dreams for years now…
or the man he’d dreamed of for years. She’d made the unfortunately good point that middle-aged princes were still princes, but middle-aged women were effectively invisible.
She’d crafted a thoroughly forbidden spell to deceive the gaze of the world by exchanging their appearances for each other until he saw the jasmine blooming in the window of his dreams and stepped through that door.
She’d all but pushed him out of the Archives’ freight entrance last night, while he’d still been fretting over the difficulties he foresaw.
Still, he was grateful that the room was lit only by charmlights, so that his blushes might be less noticed. “Yes,” he admitted softly. “Yes, it was …quite a beautiful pot, in the window that I had dreamed of.”
Najra folded her hands together quite decorously and said, “I’m very happy for you, your Highness.” But she was all but quivering, and Faraj suspected that the instant they had a bit of privacy, she was going to hug him until he squeaked.
“This is your fault, then,” the Chamberlain said wearily. “I had thought better of you, Archivist Najra. I will petition the magistrate to have you removed from your position and returned to your father’s qalat.”
“No!” Faraj cried, shocked. His foresights were always more difficult to discern in dimly lit places where the layers of shadows melded together, but he truly hadn’t foreseen the threat of his oldest friend losing her position for his sake.
“None of this is Najra’s fault — not even the books!
I dreamed the visions, I left the haveli, I summoned Sahar—”
He realized why a moment later, when the Chamberlain gave him his most sympathetic and understanding smile. Because the threat wasn’t truly meant for Najra. It was meant for him.
“Of course, it is not your Highness’s fault if you have been led astray by unsound advisors and enchanters’ soul-binding charms,” the Chamberlain said. “I know you. You have always been a good and gentle and dutiful man.”
It was kind and supportive and it reminded him of the confines of his role in his brother’s Empire. It reminded him of all the times he had been kept in line with suggestions that his servants would pay for any hint of his misbehavior that escaped their supervision.
It had almost always worked, when the matter at hand involved Faraj submitting himself and his own wishes to the demands of politics and propriety. And in turn his servants had almost always listened when he spoke on behalf of another.
The thought of what his unexpected selfishness might do to damage his relationship with his devoted servants was almost as painful to consider as the thought of what the Chamberlain wished to do to his sweet little Sahar.
But even if Master Asharan had the talent to call them back, Faraj couldn’t imagine Sahar would forgive him so readily for failing to protect her kittens. He certainly wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for that.
“Your Highness, if your heart has not been altered,” the Chamberlain mused, “if you remain the God-Emperor’s devoted prophet and priest? Then you will not object when I end this ensorcellment, which you believe has not bound you to a sorcerer’s will.”
“You’re not going to kill his cat,” Najra said fiercely. “I’ll put all the cursed spellbooks in your pantry. Unwarded. All the cream in the kitchen will curdle and the linens will be imp-gnawed overnight—”
“Do not set yourself against me in my own domain unless you truly do wish to learn whether I can have you banished from yours.” The Chamberlain turned to Faraj and said, “Please, your Highness, be reasonable. Set aside this flirtation with soul-binding, and we will all rest more easily knowing your mind and your heart are entirely yours.”
Most of the time, when the Chamberlain advised him on what was right and proper for a man of his position to do and say, Faraj had dutifully listened. The Chamberlain had studied propriety and courtly powers with the same devotion that Faraj had studied the tax laws.
By every rule and every custom, the Chamberlain was unfortunately correct.
By everything he had ever known in his brother’s court, Faraj understood why Irfan was so concerned about an unknown sorcerer’s bonds to the soul of the God-Emperor’s prophet, an unknown set of eyes set to watch and ears to listen to the private and powerful workings of his life.
If the Chamberlain had returned to the haveli enraptured by a cat-familiar in his arms, Faraj would likely have feared for Irfan’s ensorcellment as well; Irfan had always been too orderly to delight in galloping mischief and shattered antiques and clawed-up tapestries.
But after years of listening to the Chamberlain’s advice, Faraj had also learned the Chamberlain’s own weaknesses. Both of them had danced the same word-games with the five realms’ priests and ambassadors for decades.
Faraj knew exactly how to make himself vulnerable in ways that the Chamberlain would refuse outright… and the leverage that refusal would give him.
The Chamberlain’s uncle had taught both of them the patterns of it when they had still been children. Faraj had simply never needed to use it against Irfan himself.
“I am, as you say, my brother’s prophet and priest,” Faraj said, clasping his hands behind his back to hide how they trembled.
“No other priest of our own faith in this city has the standing to judge me, even if we both know half a dozen who would be pleased to thunder their wrath given half a chance. If you, my own sworn servant, refuse to accept my judgment in this matter, then I will appeal my judgment to the Greater Convocation in two weeks.”
“Absolutely not,” the Chamberlain said, tight-lipped. “To make ourselves the mockery of every petty god in the Empire? To submit your brother’s divine power and authority to judgment by chaos-worshippers and cat-priestesses— no.”
“One priest, then,” Faraj said, “under an oath of silence. One of the Council whose integrity is utterly beyond reproach. One who was born to the Empire, and knows our scripture.”
“Shai Vishal?” the Chamberlain said, because he knew Faraj as well as Faraj knew him.
“He worships a God who was once human, and knows both our Imperial scripture and the ways of mages and catfolk. If Shai Vishal says to me that bonding a cat-spirit into my heart imperils my allegiance to my brother’s priesthood and our Empire, I will accept his judgment as a man of both divine faith and educated political wisdom. ”
And I pray Shai Vishal will forgive me for dragging him into a theological and political catfight without having the courtesy to ask him first.
…Not to mention the children’s patting and the wheedling for sweets.
And especially not to mention my impersonation of a mendicant of his faith while lounging outside a bath-house, being proudly claimed as a courtesan’s lover in front of all the gossiping aunties in the neighborhood.
Very much not to mention any of that.
Especially if he ever noticed that I used to be… that I once had …interests which he did not share.
…May the moon’s gentle illumination have mercy on my soul, because I doubt Shai Vishal will.
“I will take it under advisement, your Highness,” the Chamberlain said tightly. Which meant that he was already composing the personal appeal he was going to make to Shai Vishal.
That was fine; Faraj was thinking much the same.
Honestly, he’d given the Chamberlain an advantage; Shai Vishal was not the sort of man who would appreciate being used as a pawn in an Imperial court-squabble any more than he would appreciate being wheedled for sweets.
But Faraj believed that Shai Vishal would still be scrupulously fair to them both.
Some of the other gods’ priests wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to shame the God-Emperor’s prophet, and by extension question the rightness of the guidance of the God-Emperor’s Empire itself.
The Chamberlain knew their names as well as he did. At the moment, the shadow-plays at the corners of his vision suggested the Chamberlain was not yet desperate enough to seek out one of the more vindictive gods’ priests instead. Faraj would have to be very, very careful and gentle with him.
“Great, glad that’s settled,” Najra said, dusting her hands together. Faraj winced, because for as dearly as he had always loved his treasured friend’s fearlessness, Najra was not what anyone would call careful and gentle with propriety. “Let’s go catproof his Highness’ chambers.”
“His Highness’ chambers are no place for sorcerous spycraft—”