A/N: I have a lot more of this written, never fear. However, I have no idea where it will end. Fear!
Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine.
Zahir ibn Alhaz, small for his ten years, halted his chestnut horse and stared apprehensively at the palace's City Gate. The large gold arch made the small Bazhir feel even smaller. He shrank under the gaze of the guards on the wall both high above and down here, next to the gate. Resplendent in the royal silver and sapphire, they seemed to radiate coldness.
What use, he wondered, would those uniforms be in a fight? Even his father's finest ceremonial burnoose would be easier to fight and ride in.
He knew the Tortallans would disagree, though. He had seen the dirty looks shot at him and his escort, Hakim. Hakim strode through the crowd, tall and pound as an eagle. Zahir, though, was curious as a lion cub and shyer than a skittish foal, quailing under the stares of passers-by yet wanting to ask each and every one of then a thousand questions about everything to do with this strange northern city.
Zahir squared his shoulders as his horse strode through the gate and into the palace courtyard. He wore his bravest face and scowled in a way that was more proud than angry, scorning those who looked at him oddly. At least, that was Zahir's impression of what he was doing.
* * *
"Well, well, well, what have we here. . . . Sand dogs, huh. Wouldn't want to be stuck cleaning their rooms, what with all the muck."
Zahir tried desperately to ignore the passing maid's comment. There had been many like it in the hour since they'd arrived. The trouble had started, he supposed, as son as they'd entered the palace.
The hostler had approached them, slightly wary. "Milords, may I take your horses?"
"No," had been Hakim's firm reply. "I will keep the horses. Show the boy to the master of the pages."
Zahir had seen that Hakim meant to ride off down the Great Road South as soon as Zahir turned his back. He had looked up into his friend's face, his eyes pleading silently. "Stay, Hakim."
Hakim had allowed some softness to show for nearly the first time since they'd left Persopolis. "You know I cannot stay. I must ride back as soon as I can."
"Let the man take the horses. Come in with me to see the Duke. You won't be delayed more than an hour."
Hakim had turned to the hostler, who had been standing impassively, observing the discourse. "Man, show us to the stables. We will put up our own horses."
"Name's Gerald." The hostler's face had been carefully blank.
After Zahir and Hakim had dismounted, Zahir hissed, "Hakim, this man's business is with horses. You insult him! You imply he is not worthy of his trade."
"He is worthy of the Northerner's horses, surely. But no white man will ever be worthy of the horses of the Bazhir."
"If you insult these men, they will think I insult them as well. What you do reflects on me! I will have to spend eight years here among people who will, almost invariably, hate me. Must you make it even worse?"
"Even so, I would not entrust my horse to that man."
Zahir had known from the finality of Hakim's voice that the conversation was over. Even so, he had persisted. "Must you make it worse?"
Hakim had angrily whirled to face him. "I would not trust that man with my horse!"
Zahir had followed Gerald, cowed.
As they reached a low, stable-like building, the hostler turned. "The stables, milords."
After both horses had been seen to, Gerald had escorted the to Lord Wyldon's study. A servant had escorted them in, then informed them that Lord Wyldon was out, but would be back shortly.
Zahir, and, more reluctantly, Hakim, had sat down to await the arrival of the training master.