Hakim opened his eyes.
True, nocturnal noises throughout Castle Vestholm weren't an unusual occurrence. Sound travelled through the stone halls very easily, and there were usually several servants up even at the oddest hours of the night. But they never sounded this close.
He lay still for a moment, listening intently. Whispers. Right outside his room. He bolted to his feet, yanked on his robe, sprinted for the door, and threw it open.
Maria stood in the hall, arms crossed, eyebrows faintly raised. More dramatically, a vaguely familiar figure had another man pinned up against the wall. Ah.
"Good morning, southerner," Maria said blandly, in Janubian. "I should have known that you would wake up."
"Do I want to know what is going on?" There seemed to be no immediate threat, yet his heart was still pounding like mad.
Maria nodded towards the two men. "Savas here –" As she spoke, Hakim recognised him with a start. "– was on surveillance duty. I came out for the changing of the guard, so to speak, and was just in time to witness him apprehending this gentleman."
"He was attempting to pick your lock, Your Highness," Savas said smoothly. "I suspected you might disapprove."
Hakim was not sure which was more disturbing – the idea of someone trying to pick his lock, or the fact that a near-stranger had been guarding his door. He cleared his throat. "I do indeed. I take it from this co-operation with Lady Sabatt that you are not intending to murder me yourself?"
Savas smirked. "I did explain, Your Highness. You simply refused to listen."
Maria echoed the look, much to Hakim's irritation. "He does that."
The door just down the hall clicked open, and Jabir stepped out, half-asleep but wary. "Ammar? What's going – you?!"
The captive flinched, but did not respond. Maria raised an eyebrow. "You recognise him?"
"Yes," Jabir answered, somewhat shakily. "His name is Qutaibah al-Tamerrast. He was a servant in our home until last year. I dismissed him for theft."
"I see." Savas adjusted his grip on Qutaibah's arm – unnecessary, really, as the man wasn't making any attempt to escape. He was simply giving Jabir a sullen glare. "But I'm assuming that you weren't breaking into His Highness' room to steal a few trinkets. Is that right?"
"You won't get anything out of him," Jabir interrupted.
"Won't we?" Maria lifted both brows. "You'll find I can be most persuasive."
"I doubt you're skilled enough to force a dumb man to talk," Jabir said dryly. "He has no tongue. My predecessor in Juahar was a little excessive in some of his disciplinary measures."
Qutaibah confirmed the assertion by displaying the organ in question – or lack thereof – and Hakim instinctively looked away. "As I see. But there are other measures of communication."
"He is illiterate, also." Jabir rubbed his face wearily with both hands. "A well chosen instrument. He would be hard pressed to confess even if he wished."
"Hmm." Maria looked more than slightly chagrined; were Hakim's life not so immediately concerned, he would have derived significant amusement from her annoyance. "Still. If he is working with the assassin, he can still identify his employer." She nodded to Savas. "But for now, he'll be safer in the castle dungeon. Savas, if you will?"
The Desert Raider inclined his head, and marched Qutaibah off down the hall without hesitation. Maria bowed elegantly to the remaining men, then retreated around the corner. Hakim didn't believe for a second that she had gone to bed. It was oddly comforting. If a little disconcerting.
"He'll be the one who put the glass into the soup, then," Jabir muttered. "A dozen new servants – can't expect the kitchen staff to recognise who doesn't belong. He could have gotten in easily."
Hakim nodded. "And who knows which of the other attempts he was involved in." He yawned involuntarily. "Progress, I suppose. Is Farihah awake too?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Good. Don't tell her tonight."
Jabir grimaced. "Obviously. She wouldn't sleep a wink if she knew."
"Will you?"
"Will you?"
Hakim shrugged. He was caught between an impulse to collapse groggily back onto his pillow and a desire to stay alert forevermore – or at least until the threat was over. "I'll try. There's no sense in alerting the Knights until dawn."
"I have a feeling Lady Sabatt might take matters into her own hands in that regard." Jabir crossed his arms, eyeing Hakim sideways. "Do you trust her?"
"Yes." The speed and certainty with which he said it surprised him as much as the answer itself.
Jabir grimaced and turned back towards his door. "Your decision, I suppose. I best go back to bed before Farihah hears us."
"Very well. Good night."
"Good morning," Jabir corrected, with a grin and a shrug.
…
Marcus had spent the previous day on a cloud of happiness. He'd driven everyone nuts whistling and grinning. Especially Athos – the stallion had taken exception to his rendition of the Empire's national anthem and had bitten him on the arm. But, finally, the evening had come, he'd been alone with Alandra, and he'd had a chance to voice the thoughts that had been bubbling up in him all day.
Except he hadn't. Because, suddenly, a question had occurred: a very important question, to which he could form no satisfactory answer.
Why hadn't Lani told him?
There was no way in the world he'd be upset about becoming a father, so she couldn't possibly be thinking he would. And she wasn't the sort to hide it from him just for a laugh. So there had to be a serious reason for her to keep her pregnancy from him. What if there was something wrong?
Unable to squash the alarming thought, he'd brushed off her inquiries about his suddenly troubled expression and had gone to bed. But the idea had kept him awake half the night. If there was something badly wrong, it wouldn't be unlike Alandra to try to protect him from it. The more he considered it, the more convinced he became. The more upset. The more scared.
By mid-morning, he hadn't been able to take it any longer, and had gone for a walk. Vestholm's hustle and bustle wasn't helping his state of mind. He dodged a passing chicken and ducked a street sign, hoping he didn't look like he was brooding.
Whatever it was that was the problem, he desperately wanted to know. He wasn't a kid that needed to be shielded – he was a grown man, a knight, and a husband. He deserved to know; not only that, but it wasn't fair on Lani for her to suffer on her own. He'd have to ask her. There was no help for it.
"Ow!"
Marcus came to an abrupt halt, tugging a strand of hair free from his shoulder plates. Again. This was getting ridiculous.
And, right then, he knew what he wanted to do.
…
Aminah broke into a trot down the hall. Uncle Ammar was finally up, and she had something very important to say to him. The problem was that he walked far too fast. "Uncle!"
He paused and turned, smiling down at her. "Good morning."
She did her best to raise her eyebrow, just like Lady Sabatt. "It's afternoon, actually."
"Oh. My mistake." He lifted her up and balanced her on his hip, and she placed her arms around his neck. "How are you, Aminah?"
"A bit tired," she responded, yawning. She'd heard funny noises that had woken her up, and hadn't been able to get to sleep for ages afterwards.
"Already? At this time of day?" Her uncle smirked a little, shifting his hold. "Do you want to go and have a nap?"
She screwed up her nose. "Naps are for babies like Temel."
"Hmm. Pity." He yawned too, blinking rapidly. "I'd been thinking about having one myself."
"Did you hear the funny noises too?"
He didn't answer for a couple of seconds. "Yes."
"Well," she said consideringly. "I suppose you could get away with having a nap without looking like a baby."
"Could I?"
"Yes. You don't have to prove anything, you see."
He laughed. "Thank you. I think."
"You're welcome." She cocked her head to one side. "There is something very important I want to discuss, Uncle."
"Very well." He looked at her attentively. "Pray begin."
She took a deep breath, launching directly into her topic. "I don't think you ought to marry Princess Saraya."
Uncle Ammar flinched, an odd look on his face. "Why not?"
"Because I don't like her." She couldn't say the next sentence without breaking into an enormous smile. "I think," she continued coyly, "that you ought to marry Lady Sabatt."
He looked rather shocked, and for a couple of seconds she thought he had forgotten how to speak. "Aminah," he stammered eventually. "I don't think that's a terribly good idea."
She pouted. "Why not? She'd make a nice aunty. And you said she was your friend."
"Well, yes. But not that kind of friend." He took a deep breath. "You need to love someone to marry them, little one, not just like them."
"Do you love the princess, then?"
Now he had definitely forgotten how to speak. He looked away, swallowing.
"Well?" She looked at him sternly. He was not going to weasel his way out of marrying Lady Sabatt that easily. "The truth, now."
"Love is a very complicated thing, Aminah." He blew out a long sigh, still not looking at her. "Too complicated for me, I think."
"But you're smart!"
"Am I?" He turned to her and kissed her on the cheek, smiling a little. "Some would disagree."
…
Hakim slumped upon the sofa in his room, seriously considering going back to sleep. His comment to Aminah had been flippant; but now that he'd voiced the idea, it was becoming more and more tempting. His head ached, his eyelids felt warm and heavy … oh, yes, a nap would be nice. If tonight was anything like the previous, he'd be collapsing at the altar.
Not that that would be a bad thing. At least then he wouldn't have to marry Saraya.
No. No, no. He couldn't allow himself to think that. It was his duty to wed her, for the good of his country, and to fulfil his word. Besides, she wasn't that bad, objectively speaking. Perhaps he might be able to learn to tolerate her presence. For very short periods.
He groaned, settling back into the cushions. Oh, who was he trying to fool? As a lifelong companion, the Princess was sadly lacking. Not like … no. No, he could not allow himself to dwell on what was, or what could have been. The die was cast now. He ought to – needed to, if he was to have any chance of happiness – force himself to forget. Banish from his mind a pair of maddeningly beautiful hazel eyes, a smile that melted his heart, and a laugh that could mend any hurt. But he doubted it was possible.
His eyes drooped, almost closing, and he shook himself awake with an effort. Very well, he could doze off for a couple of hours, but he needed to take proper precautions first. Namely, locking the door.
He dragged himself to his feet and over to the portal. The key spun in the lock with a reassuring click, and he turned back toward the sofa.
And noticed a small, white envelope upon his desk.
…
"Hey, Kes!"
Kestral instinctively straightened – causing her head to thump painfully into the shaft of the cart she was crouched next to. "Yow. Watch it, Lackbeard."
Marcus' footsteps were audible on the flagstone floor of the mews. "What are you doing?"
"Investigating." She rubbed her wounded head, leaning against the edge of the cart. "One of the ostlers saw Qutai-whatever down here yesterday, and I'm seeing if he did any damage."
"Who?"
"Oh, right, you don't know about that yet. Ask Crims. She's the one who told me." Kestral pulled herself to her feet, turning to face Marcus, and felt her jaw drop.
Lord Marcus of Challia, against all the expectations and predictions of his colleagues, had cut his hair. It was admittedly still very Marcusy – more than a little shaggy, for starters. She had to admit that it looked kinda good. That wasn't gonna stop her from ragging him about it, though.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, grinning broadly. "I thought you were Marcus."
He chuckled and patted the back of his head self-consciously. "What do you think?"
"Looks … weird. But okay."
"Feels weird too." He smirked. "Want to come and see what Thordal says?"
"Yes, please!" She swung her leg over the shaft and vaulted over it – or tried to. Her left foot caught in the harness that someone had carelessly left attached to the cart, and she flopped back to the floor with a thud. "Yeouch."
"Well, what have we here?" Marcus laughed. "A cart has captured a bandit."
"It hates me, I'm certain." She freed her foot with a tug and crawled out from underneath the cart – then froze. Right behind Marcus, silently entering the mews, was Hakim.
Marcus, seeing her gaze, turned around, and coughed. "Ah. Hi."
Hakim inclined his head. "Hello, Marcus."
"Right. I'll just, uh, see to that thing that … needs to be seen to," he finished in a rush, darting past Hakim to the door. "See you later, Kes!"
Kestral scrambled to her feet, looking absolutely anywhere but Hakim's face. She was almost tempted to go after Marcus. "Hi, Wisey."
"Kestral." She heard him take a long breath. "I would like – that is to say –" A pause. "I need your help."
She looked up in mute surprise. Was she imagining it, or was that the first time she'd heard that question from his lips? He cleared his throat awkwardly, taking a few steps forward. "I am aware that you and Maria are conducting investigations. I would like you to look at this."
He handed her a sheet of paper, and she unfolded it and scanned it briefly. "Can't read Janubian."
"I know. But look a little closer."
She glanced over it again obediently. The neatly-written document was signed with a familiar device. "That's the crest of the Desert Raiders, isn't it?"
"Precisely."
"What's it say, then?"
"Simply put, it is an ultimatum." He began to pace restlessly, crossing his arms against his chest. "A death threat. The writer states that if I persist in my intention to marry Princess Saraya tomorrow, they shall ensure my demise."
"Like they hadn't already been trying or something." She frowned. "Wait a second. But aren't we sure that the Raiders aren't –"
"Yes."
"Then why –"
"I am reasonably certain that they are not the authors." He rubbed his chin with one hand. "What I would very much like to know – and cannot discover alone – is who did write it."
"Well. Crims and Savas are the Raiders experts, not me." She shrugged, refolded the letter, and tucked it into her pocket. "I'll show it to them."
"Thank you."
"No problem." She looked a little closer at his expression. Solid though his mask was, she'd learned to see past it long ago. Right now, he looked exhausted, and he looked scared. For a moment she was tempted to march up to him, give him a hug, and see him smile – but no. That wasn't her right any more. "Don't let 'em freak you out, Wise Boy."
He stopped, looking at her, a tiny half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not frightened, if that's what you're implying."
"Aren't you?" she teased. "I'd say being worried about assassins is only sensible."
"Only if they're a true threat. These are more irritating than anything else."
She giggled; then abruptly bit off her response. No, Kes. Don't do this to yourself. She had to get out of there.
She headed past him towards the archway into the courtyard, mumbling "Better go see Crims." He nodded briefly and allowed her to pass, face expressionless; but, as she reached the exit, spoke.
"I'm sorry."
She halted, refusing to look around, automatically hugging herself. How she'd longed to hear that. But it wasn't enough. "That's not really going to help, Princey," she whispered, eyes fixed on the tips of her boots.
"I know," he responded, in what was more a groan than actual speech. "But I can't – there isn't anything I can ..."
She understood that. She wasn't an expert on international politics by any means, but Crimmy had explained enough for her to get the gist of the situation between al-Awan and Hidun. It was too late. But that knowledge didn't, and couldn't, stop it hurting. "I would have said yes," she murmured. "I would, if you'd just ..."
"I know," he repeated, and her heart, if it hadn't already, split in two. "Now."
Kestral squeezed her eyes shut. Nope, she wasn't gonna cry. She couldn't let herself. "Bit late."
"Tell me something I don't know." She heard him step closer. "Forgive me, Kestral. Please."
How could she not? How could she possibly hold onto resent towards the man she loved more than life itself? Yeah, sure, he'd ripped her heart out and crushed it, but there was no way she could ever hate him. If she did, it'd wreck her life. They both had to move on.
Her voice shook. "Promise me one thing."
"Name it."
"Be happy." She turned around and looked up at him, biting her lip in an effort to control the tears that were threatening to fall. "Don't dwell on any of this. Just get on with your life." Oh, great. She was definitely crying now. "I'd hate to see you miserable for the rest of your days."
He pressed his lips together, emotions struggling in his eyes. Finally, with resignation, he nodded. "I promise." He held out his hand. "Do we part as friends?"
She took it in both of hers, gently, studying the bandages. How had that happened, anyway? "Yes," she answered softly after a moment, releasing him. "Yes, we do."
…
"It's a forgery," Savas said firmly. Sabatt wasn't surprised.
"You're sure?" Kestral perched on the edge of the chart room table and swung her legs. "Really really? Wisey didn't see –"
"Absolutely certain." Savas tossed the letter onto the table and leaned over it. "See here. A true Desert Raider would have a stronger hand on the upstroke." He pointed it out, then indicated a different spot in the design, eyebrow lifting. "And would not have curled the lower left corner."
"Oh well," Sabatt said philosophically, shrugging. She stood up and strode over to the fireplace. "It was worth an attempt. Besides, I feel the curl is an improvement."
Kestral gaped at her. "You didn't – CRIMMY!"
The Guerannan woman's lip quirked. Now that the southerner had enlisted her fellow investigators, there was no point in allowing them to follow an unproductive lead. "As I said, it was worth an attempt."
Savas' eyes narrowed. "Were you a Janubian impersonating a Desert Raider," he said icily, "I would have no compunction in punishing you severely."
"Fortunately for me, I'm not –" She paused, and a smile involuntarily sneaked around her mouth. A small, tousled brown mop of hair was peeping around the door. "Hello, little one."
"I'm not little," Aminah protested indignantly, entering and clambering onto the chair next to Kestral. "What are you doing?"
Sabatt glanced at Kestral, who was wearing the blank expression she usually did when a foreign conversation was carried on in her presence. "I'm being told off."
Aminah giggled. "What did you do?"
"Oh, I –"
Savas cleared his throat. "Lady Sabatt, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to organise further security measures on the southern gate."
Sabatt nodded. "Excellent idea."
Savas exited with a nod. Kestral huffed out a sigh and crossed her legs, and Sabatt took that as permission to continue her conversation. "I tried to give your uncle a fright, that is all."
"Did it work?"
"I'm not sure."
Aminah folded her hands in her lap with a pert grin. "You should try putting glass in his soup."
Sabatt chuckled ruefully, running gloved fingers along the mantlepiece. "That would work."
"Yes. It worked on Daddy too."
"I think it frightened all of us."
"No, I don't mean that." Aminah tossed her curls. "I mean when someone put glass in Daddy's soup it scared him. I heard him and Mummy talking about it." She smiled proudly. "They thought I was asleep. I'm good at pretending."
"Aminah," Sabatt said urgently, her brain racing, making the necessary logical leaps with all the enthusiasm of a bolting horse. "Someone put glass in your father's soup?"
The little girl nodded, clearly not understanding even the most basic of the implications. "Mmm-hmm."
"Kestral," snapped Sabatt, stepping forward involuntarily, switching back to Westerlin. "You said that Temel is Ammar's heir."
The young woman looked up, blinking. "Yeah."
"With Jabir as regent?"
She sat up straight. "Yes."
"Consider what would happen if Jabir were – and he is – also a target."
Now Kestral bolted to her feet, working it out so fast her friend was almost proud. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," she replied grimly. "Find Ammar. I'll fetch backup. Now!"
…
"Ammar?"
Hakim glanced up, not shifting from his semi-comfortable position upon a stone bench, elbow upon his knee and chin upon his fist. The castle's herb garden, tucked away in the corner of the courtyard behind a low stone wall, had never been one of his usual haunts. Missus Perkins, the cook, might allow the Knights all kinds of leeway in the kitchen, but her herb garden was a domain not to be entered by any but the most trusted. The Knights of Darion were not included in that number; however, he hoped that he might be able to claim diplomatic immunity. He made no such guarantees for the two gentlemen who had just entered the area, though.
"My apologies," he murmured. "I was lost in thought."
"Understandable," Jabir replied with a wry smile, coming fully into the small enclosure.
Doruk leaned against the wall, crushing a thyme bush growing out from between the stones. "What triggers this particular reverie?"
"I've received a letter." Hakim sat up straight. Better tell them part of the truth than the actual reason he was skulking in a corner. "From my would-be assassin."
"What?" Doruk blurted, removing his shoulder from the bush.
"You're not serious?" asked Jabir blankly.
"Very much so. The first direct contact we've had."
Doruk crossed his arms. "Any signature?"
"The crest of the Desert Raiders, but that's a deception, of course."
Jabir nodded slowly. "Of course. May we see it?"
"I don't have it with me, I'm afraid. It merely stated that should the wedding go ahead –"
He stopped, out of necessity rather than choice. Halfway through his sentence, Kestral charged through the gate, looked 'round the assembled company, grabbed Doruk by the front of his robe, and shoved him up against the wall. Doruk looked far too surprised to react. "You," she hissed, bringing a dagger, "stay put. I know how to use this."
Hakim bolted to his feet. "Kestral, what in the world are you doing?"
"Think about it, Wise Boy." She glanced over her shoulder. "Who benefits most from your death?" She nodded towards Jabir, who was standing open-mouthed. "You, of course, since you'd be Temel's regent. But what if you die, too?" She aimed a glare at Doruk. "Guess who gets to run the show. Didn't want to give up any of your influence, huh?"
Hakim's brain was numb, his thoughts moving at the speed of treacle. No. No, it was simply impossible. He couldn't believe it.
Or did he simply not want to believe it?
Doruk struggled, then stopped as Kestral shifted the dagger. "This is ridiculous."
"I agree," Jabir said shakily, face drained of all colour. "I hope you have rather more evidence than this, Lady Kestral."
Kestral smirked grimly. "Just try talking to Qutaibah."
Doruk visibly paled. That in itself was practically an admission of guilt. But no, no, the evidence was all circumstantial, he couldn't possibly – "Come now, Ammar." He laughed weakly. "Given the choice, precisely who are you going to believe – a bandit girl, or one of your oldest friends?"
The man was right. Hakim's mind was made up. Put like that, it was the simplest thing in the world.
"Kestral, let him go."
"But –" Her expression was one of dismayed alarm, and it was all he could do to control his own. "Wisey!"
"Let him go."
Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered the knife and stepped away, clearly still ready to act at any moment. Hakim stepped up to the pair and looked Doruk in the eye.
And struck him with the full force of his arm. Doruk slammed back against the wall, and for a second Hakim was tempted to lash out again, but restrained himself. Just.
"Why?" he whispered hoarsely, ice cold fury creeping through him. Why indeed? Why would the man he'd relied on for years – hunted with – rode with – played with as a boy – trusted –
Doruk rubbed his jaw. A trickle of blood was creeping from between his lips. "Why do you think, Hakim?" All trace of friendliness was now gone. "Do you think neglecting your country for half a decade entitles you to respect and loyalty? I do not enjoy the prospect of letting the country I love be destroyed by a man without any sense of responsibility or duty!"
Hakim flinched, yet again controlling the impulse to violence. The accusations were close to the mark. Too close to not set his conscience stinging. "I do not have to answer to you, Doruk."
"Oh, do you not? What about to each struggling farmer and merchant in Jumajir?" Both mind and body winced. "Have you any idea what's been happening in your absence – what sacrifices it's been necessary for me to make just to keep matters balanced? Your country needed you, and you have let us down." His voice dropped a little. "And I, for one, do not believe in second chances."
"Yes, you do."
Jabir. Hakim half-turned, as did Kestral. He continued, breathing ragged. "What you do not believe in is giving up. You'll cling to power at any cost, even if you destroy everything you have ever cared about, because you honestly believe that your way is best. You do not understand what loyalty is, Doruk, much less love. You never have."
Doruk did not respond, and his expression did not alter; but his shoulders sank and his posture drooped. There was nothing that could be done now. He'd confessed, before witnesses. Hakim's course of action was clear, but his mind shrank away from it as a coward from duty.
And then rescue, of a sort. Marcus sprinted through the small opening in the wall, closely followed by Maria and Lieutenant Chester of the castle guard. "What's –"
"Lord Marcus," Hakim said evenly, teeth gritted. "You would be doing me a very great favour were you to place this man under arrest."
"Right." Hakim was vaguely thankful that Marcus was enough of a soldier to obey a simple request without question. The young man motioned to Chester, who quickly and efficiently tied Doruk's hands. "The charge?"
He couldn't say it. He tried, but the words would not come.
Maria spoke quietly. "Attempted murder. Far more counts than I can compute at this moment."
Marcus' jaw slackened a little, but he accepted her word without demur. "Very well, then. Chester?"
And Marcus and the lieutenant unceremoniously escorted Doruk out. Silence.
"Kestral," Hakim muttered, squashing his emotions into a corner of his brain. "Your evidence was flawed. Qutaibah is unable to talk."
"A fact that our culprit apparently forgot," she responded humourlessly.
"And thus incriminated himself by confessing." Maria shifted the position of her cane with a sigh. "Well."
Hakim could not think of a word less apt for the situation.
More footsteps. Farihah raced in a moment later, Princess Saraya at her heels. "Whatever in the world is going on?" she cried. "Why is Doruk –" Then she took in their faces, and clapped both hands over her mouth. "No –"
"Yes," Maria answered.
Farihah did not hesitate one more second. She rushed to her husband, who buried his face in her shoulder, clinging to his wife. Hakim bit his lip. If this felt like a betrayal to him, how must it be for Doruk's brother?
"But – oh, how horrible!" Saraya gasped, hurrying over to him. "Ammar, are you quite all right?"
"I am uninjured."
"I'm so glad!" With that, she hugged him tightly, and he absent-mindedly put one arm around her, gaze fixed on Kestral.
"Thank you," he mouthed.
For a tiny second, she smiled.
