The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (10 page)

“Calm down!” Ammar said.

Arsaalan had his arm around Kiarash now, but the fifth son glowered at Basaal. “You are a fool, Brother,” Kiarash said. He touched his fingers to his nose and wiped the blood from his upper lip. “An incredible fool.”

“Kiarash—” Basaal began.

But Emir interrupted Basaal. “Perhaps it is best if you leave.”

“Gladly,” Basaal said, and he turned, throwing off Ammar’s restraints, and storming from Emir’s palace. Ammar followed closely behind, waiting wisely for Basaal’s temper to blow over.

“Am I the only one that sees dishonor in all this?” Basaal asked, turning his head back towards Ammar. “What of their covenants? Their Safeeraah?”

“They honor their Safeeraah, Basaal,” Ammar instructed. “But they have taken on fewer Safeeraah than you, and those covenants speak of fidelity to the empire and their role in it. Do not judge when another man has kept his oaths.”

Against Basaal’s wishes, Ammar guided him back to the physician’s chambers in the central palace. “At least it’s a fair match now,” Ammar said. “And, although it was a foolish exhibition, I am glad Kiarash got a challenge from you.”

Basaal only grunted in reply.

***

Eleanor did not often allow her thoughts to rest on Ainsley and what must be happening there. But she knew that they would be in deep winter soon; snowdrifts hiding the land, the people tucked inside for another two months yet, if not more. Eleanor turned away from the window and lay down. It was night, and the stillness was welcome. She could feel strength returning to her body. Tomorrow, she would ask Ammar if she might walk in the garden outside her window.

Eleanor’s mother had once said that some situations were beyond your control and not worth fretting over their occurrence, but Eleanor had not agreed. Now, as she lay, thousands of miles from her homeland, with no guarantee for the future in any direction, Eleanor finally understood what her mother had meant. She could no longer carry the weight of the unknown. Trying would wear her down to nothing. She must be calm and wait. She must trust Aemogen in the hands of Edythe and in the hands of Aedon.

Eleanor heard voices and looked towards the translucent curtains that hung across her doorway. Someone had come into the physician’s apartments, and she saw that the lights were lit.

“Sit. Let me look at your eye,” she heard Ammar say, his voice soft. “Put this on your lip until I can attend to it.”

“Oww!”

“You weren’t like this in Aemogen were you?” Ammar asked, his voice sounded thin like his patience was wearing.

“Like what?”

“Argumentative, brash, impetuous,” Ammar said.

“No, of course not.” Eleanor recognized Basaal’s voice in this defiant answer.

“I will have to corroborate your story with the queen’s. You have never
not
been argumentative.”

“That is wholly untrue,” Basaal said. “Have you been speaking with her?” Basaal sounded interested.

“Hold still,” Ammar directed. “The skin along your cheekbone has split. And, for all the seven stars, speak quieter,” he added. “Do you want her to wake?”

Eleanor could hear Ammar moving around the room.

“Are you going to answer my question?” Basaal continued.

“Yes,” Ammar said. “We have been speaking extensively.”

“What does she say?”

“That is not really my business to tell you, now, is it?” Ammar said.

Eleanor smiled in the dark. No words were exchanged for some time, the only sounds being those of Ammar’s bottles, clinking against the marble table.

“Why do I even try?” Basaal complained. “Each time I come up against their hostility, I remind myself too late to keep my mouth shut. I was so eager to be home,” he added. “And now, I just find myself filled with the same anger, the same tensions.”

“Just remember,” Ammar persisted, “you are the dissenter. It’s hard for our brothers to understand.”

“I think they delight in their assumed superiority of opinion,” Basaal snapped. “It is some maniacal game they’ve invented. No matter how close we are, an argument or a disagreement starts, and our words catch fire—”

Basaal’s voice sounded raw and exposed. Eleanor shifted, uncomfortable now at eavesdropping on such personal emotions. There were times while in Aemogen when Basaal had appeared so secure in himself, almost dismissive to the opinions of others. Here, in Zarbadast, his youth came out, his need for support and for the approval of those around him.

“We brothers care for each other deeply,” Ammar said. “Some in our own tepid ways.”

Basaal’s laugh sounded tart in response. “I wouldn’t call Kiarash tepid.”

“Hold still,” Ammar said again.

“Aren’t you finished already?” Basaal asked. “I’m beginning to suspect that you draw out the process so you can play with your victims.”

Ammar mumbled something in reply that Eleanor could not hear.

“He deserved the beating.” Basaal’s response came quickly.

“That was an interesting punch you threw,” Ammar said. “The quick left. It caught Kiarash quite off his guard.”

Basaal gave a deep laugh. “It’s something I picked up in Aemogen.”

“Not from the queen, I suppose?” Ammar said, his voice dry. “Done,” he added before Basaal could respond. “May I serve you a drink?”

“Please,” Basaal accepted. “Is she asleep then? Queen Eleanor?”

“Yes, if you don’t wake her up,” Ammar answered. “Speak quieter. Do what you will with her later, but while she is my patient, I’ll not see her disturbed.”

“At least tell me what you think of her,” Basaal said, trying to lower his voice.

“I think her fine company,” Ammar said, his response practical, as always.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What would you like to hear, Basaal?” Ammar asked, sounding impatient. “You seem to be looking for a specific answer. Tell me, and I will give it to you.”

“Curse it, Ammar,” Basaal said. He sounded tired. “For once, just talk. Speak openly, or rattle on about nothing, as long as it’s not so predictable of an answer, saying nothing.”

Eleanor was amused by their banter. She pulled her coverlet closer to her face, sinking into it. She was beginning to feel tired.

“I assume that is your way of asking for my open opinion?” Ammar said.

“Give me patience. Yes!”

Then Ammar said something about retiring to his chambers, where they would be more comfortable, and the two moved down the hall, past Eleanor’s doorway. She closed her eyes, straining to hear more, but their conversation faded until the sound of it had disappeared altogether.

Chapter Seven

Basaal found what he’d been looking for, a key. He had spent the morning searching for it and just needed to make sure that the lock had not rusted over. Hearing footsteps approaching, Basaal closed his hand around the brass key and dropped it into the pocket of his tunic. He would have to investigate later.

“Annan. Are we going to ride?” Basaal said as the footsteps arrived. But there was no answer, so Basaal turned. The man standing in the high arched doorway was not Annan.

“Father,” Basaal said as he lifted his chin, his eyes searching Shaamil’s expression.

“Son.”

Wordlessly, the emperor walked around Basaal’s chambers, touching a drape, picking up the occasional trinket from a table. Shaamil was tall and strong despite his age. His hair and well-trimmed beard had streaks of gray. He wore a long tunic, as did his contemporaries, contrasting starkly against Basaal’s southern fashion of boots and breeches.

“It is a surprise to see you here, in my chambers,” Basaal said slowly.

“Is it?” Shaamil looked at Basaal with a smile. “It is a surprise to see you here, in my country—” he replied. He picked up a brass box from a nearby desk, eyeing it with indifference. “With such paltry results,” he added.

Placing his hands behind his back, Basaal knew that he could either be subservient and humble or confident and unapologetic, so he chose the latter.

“I told you the Aemogen conquest would be handled in my own way, with my timing,” Basaal said. “You need not concern yourself with the process.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Shaamil snapped, and he turned his full attention to Basaal. “You could have marched in and subdued the entire population of Aemogen. Instead, I find that you have left your army in Marion, spending your time doing who knows what, while offering Aemogen the endless option of surrender. Did they surrender? No!” Shaamil shouted. “They brought down a mountain!” The emperor threw his hands up, looking disgusted.

“So I am delayed for one season,” Basaal said, walking slowly to a table and facing his father. He leaned against it, his arms crossed. “It’s of little consequence, and the conquest will be easier when I have wed their queen.”

Shaamil did not reply, but rather looked at his son as if mulling a thought over in his mind. “Yes, the young queen,” Shaamil said. “I have not yet seen her. Ammar moved her to the physician’s apartment.” The inflection of the emperor’s voice sounded as if he were trying to draw an answer from Basaal.

“So I’ve heard,” Basaal said, trying to sound disinterested.

“I’ll not hide from you my disappointment in how you have handled this whole affair, Basaal. At my pleasure,” he said, “I will have the queen brought before me, and then we will discuss what will become of her and Aemogen.” Shaamil gave a slight smile. “And you,” he added.

Basaal did not answer, knowing if he played this game wrong, too far to one side or the other, it would cost him his life.

“Admittedly, I am disappointed in you, Basaal. I had thought the lesson of Aramesh would be enough and that you would eliminate your own weaknesses.” Shaamil looked directly into his son’s eyes. “Don’t force my hand.”

Then the emperor left as quietly as he had come. Basaal blew out a breath and sat on his bed. Beneath the seven stars, if there was a way for him to get Eleanor out of Zarbadast without losing his own head, he had to find it.

Tapping the toe of his riding boots on the floor, a thought crossed his mind. He would go riding, but not with Annan—Basaal needed some very specific advice.

***

The high desert pass was draped in folds of green, as it was for only a few months every year. It was here, above Zarbadast, that Basaal took his black stallion, Refigh, through his paces. Once satisfied, he reined up next to Dantib, who sat astride a humble brown mare.

“He’s perfect,” Basaal said, offering the old stable master a grin. “You’ve done a beautiful job with Refigh since we’ve returned.”

Dantib watched his young master but said nothing.

“You are a silent companion today, Dantib,” Basaal said, pulling at his Safeeraah, and he looked down upon Zarbadast, which spread wide, like a fierce desert plant.

“You have been preoccupied in spirit the last several days,” was all the answer the old man would give.

“Yes,” Basaal said, rubbing Refigh’s neck. “I must help the Aemogen queen escape Zarbadast.”

“And?” Dantib asked.

Basaal looked quickly up at Dantib. “And, I would like you to be the one who leads her out of Imirillia,” Basaal said, directly to his friend, unblinking and straightforward. He knew asking this of Dantib was selfish on his part, for Dantib would not only put his own life at peril but he would also be exiled from Zarbadast, never to return to his homeland. His position as stable master in the house of Shaamil would also be forfeit forever as well as his customs, his memories, and his home. Basaal knew he was asking this and more of the old man, and he watched as each consideration registered on Dantib’s wrinkled face.

“You ask this of me?” Dantib inquired.

“I do,” Basaal said. “You are the only man I would trust with Eleanor’s life.”

A cry broke out, and Basaal pulled Refigh around, facing the rocks of the pass behind them. There, a band of high desert marauders had broken out from the cliffs and were barreling towards Basaal and Dantib. Refigh was one of the fastest horses in the realm, so Basaal could have easily outrun the thieves. But Dantib rode his old brown mare, which would be inadequate to outdistance the desert thieves.

“Go!” Dantib yelled.

Shaking his head, Basaal withdrew his scimitar, lifting it high in the air as a symbol of battle. Dantib’s face was taut. He had no weapon drawn for he carried none.

In a rush, the seven marauders surrounded them. Basaal wanted to tell them to go to the devil, but he held his tongue and turned his horse towards their leader.

“May we help you with something?” Basaal asked, his scimitar still raised.

The leader ignored Basaal for a moment. “Look men,” he said, “it seems we’ve caught a nobleman and his slave,” he laughed.

“Both of you will be in slavery soon enough,” a fierce man with a scar across his face called out. “Then, the old man will have revenge on his young master, eh, Fasseil?”

“After we’ve taken his fine weaponry and the steed, of course.” The man Basaal suspected to be their leader, the man they had called Fasseil, scrutinized Basaal.

Jaw clenched, Basaal tightened his fist around Refigh’s reins. He kept a continual watch on the men around him, making sure they stayed a sufficient distance away.

“I’m afraid we cannot oblige you,” Basaal said, addressing Fasseil. “So, if you would be so kind, we will be about our business.”

The man with the scarred face laughed, and Fasseil seemed amused.

“The old man has no weapon,” Fasseil said. “You are outnumbered by seven to one. Do you really suppose we would let you go just because you ask politely?”

Basaal was certain he could inflict whatever damage necessary—five of the seven men would certainly be no challenge for him. But it would only end in more bloodshed—a foolish risk—so he forced himself to talk.

“You are men of Imirillia,” Basaal said, scanning their eyes. “If not of Zarbadast. So, yes, I do expect you to let me go.”

“Why?” Fasseil asked.

“I have an army at my disposal.”

“An army?” Fasseil laughed and turned to his men. “We’ve a young noble, pretending to be a prince of Imirillia, trying to frighten us off.”

“Would you like a copy of my pedigree?” Basaal asked, raising his eyebrows, half a smile appearing on his face. “Or, shall I prove myself some other way?” He glanced at all the men in the circle. “I could simply ask you to reveal your allegiance.”

Doubt played across the face of Fasseil, but the man with the scar still scoffed. “Even if you are a son of Shaamil,” he said,“we would never be found. We kill you, and no one ever knows. We are wanderers, marauders. You are a fool to think we mind such things—the killing of princes.”

“The seven stars mind such things,” Basaal said. He caught the eye of a man in blue, who kept his eyes looking away. He felt familiar, but a headscarf concealed his face. “And, your curse would be severe,” Basaal continued. “Do you think that there would be little retaliation from the emperor? Were none of you at Aramesh?” Hearing this, two of the men looked at each other, one of them being the man in blue.

“I see the remembrance in your faces,” Basaal said, lifting his chin towards the man in blue. “Tell me, would you like the vengeance of Shaamil upon your head?” The two men looked away. “Well,” Basaal said, turning his horse in a circle, keeping a close eye on the scarred man, who appeared the most eager to strike. “I am his seventh son, Basaal. I would not encourage you to test the wrath of my father or my brothers and certainly not of the seven stars,” he added. “Leave us be, and I will leave you be.”

Fasseil looked towards the man in blue, who simply nodded in return, apparently confirming Basaal’s identity. Then the leader of the marauders frowned.

“A prince, eh?” His eyes narrowed. “Then you must certainly be generous to your subjects and give us of your riches. You have many horses, do you not? And many fine weapons, do you not? Are not a few goods worth your life or the life of your servant?” The marauders traded apprehensive looks at hearing the words spoken by Fasseil.

Seeing their uncertainty, Basaal motioned to Dantib. “I am instructing my friend to ride out, down into Zarbadast,” Basaal said, carefully. “Do not try and stop him in any way. As you can see, your mounts are all finer than his, and he has no clothing, weapons, or personal effects that you would desire. I warn you,” he added, “not to make a move as he goes. Dantib.”

“But Master—”

“Go!” Basaal repeated sharply to Dantib.

“We are not just going to let him go,” the scarred man spat, “so that he can go and rouse your men. Do you think us fools?”

“You are going to let him go,” Basaal countered. “This man is under my protection, and, if you impede him, I promise all the seven curses upon you and your sons.” Basaal’s arm still held his scimitar, waiting. He was perspiring, but he held his face firm.

Finally, the man in the blue scarf backed his horse away, creating a space for Dantib to lead the brown mare out of the circle. The old stable master looked warily back at Basaal.

“Clear out,” Basaal ordered, keeping his eyes on the armed marauders around him. The stable master clucked his mount forward, riding south, towards Zarbadast.

“Now, let’s settle this,” Basaal said, sheathing his scimitar and leaning forward, facing Fasseil.

Fasseil seemed surprised, if not suspicious, at Basaal’s actions.

“Is there a grievance you need mended?” Basaal asked. “I am in a position to offer this to you if you make your case well. Why are you marauding rather than serving at a trade?”

Fasseil blew air out of his mouth. He was growing impatient. No one else spoke, but the man dressed in blue looked down. Basaal turned his questions at him.

“You, soldier,” he said. “Why have you abandoned your post to join these desert thieves? Have you not pledged your loyalty to the empire?” he pressed. “I ask you now if you will stand with me.” The man did not answer Basaal’s question, but he did look towards Fasseil.

“I vouch for the prince,” he finally said. “And, I join him as a protector. If you fight him, you fight with me.” He offered Basaal the sign of a subservient soldier, and, when Basaal offered him a sign in return, the deserter moved his horse closer to the prince’s.

“You’re a fool, Zanntal,” the man with the scarred face said, and he cursed at Basaal’s new ally. Basaal glanced towards Zanntal, then he continued to eye the others, ignoring the hairs rising on the back of his neck, knowing that at any moment the marauders’ fury could break, and he would be a dead man.

“Fasseil, what is your grievance?” Basaal pressed.

“I have no grievance,” he said. “I’ve chosen my life.” He was growing impatient with Basaal. But, the prince could see that the man was weighing his options in his mind and that he did not like the idea of having Zarbadast after him.

“Any of you here,” Basaal said, turning to look at all the men, “if you choose, may apply to my personal steward for work. But, Zanntal and I will be on our way.”

The stunned men looked towards Fasseil as Basaal motioned for Zanntal to leave the circle, and then he followed him cautiously. As they passed near the man with the scarred face, Basaal placed his hand near his scimitar. His instincts proved correct as the man slipped a dagger from his sleeve, and Basaal, in one quick motion, cut off the man’s hand.

Then there were shouts and screams as Basaal urged Refigh into a run, Zanntal keeping pace. The thieves behind were shouting, arguing about something. When Basaal threw a glance over his shoulder, he saw that they were not following him, but rather were retreating to the rocks of the high desert.

Once they had left the high desert behind and dropped down onto the sands before Zarbadast, Basaal slowed Refigh to a walk, and Zanntal did the same with his mount.

“Zanntal?” he asked.

Zanntal pulled the blue headscarf away from his face. “Prince Basaal.”