Author's Note: In this very important public service announcement, I would like to note that, while I, being an unoriginal individual, based the Hibru culture on Hebrew culture, I didn't do so with the intent of offending anyone. Also, as with the Bazhir and Islamic culture, I had to alter quite a few things in order to fit the demands of my plot and the fictional universe I was writing in, so this fic does not reflect reality, and, as such, will not get you out of a World Religions course. Everyone should definitely do their own research before arriving at any conclusion based on my fantasy fanfiction.
By the way, since I am an equal opportunity offender, it should be noted that Tyra is based on Renaissance Italy, which, of course, makes the Tyrans based on medieval Catholics. (I am a devout Catholic, though, and so my portrayal of them isn't allowed to offend anyone…)
King and Pawn
"Please tell me that you only agreed to steal from the Vox Populi in order to trick the Hibrus into releasing us," Trevor hissed in Zahir's ear as soon as the two of them were safely ensconced in Zahir's bedroom. They had been escorted by Hiram's men to the wall, which wasn't covered in flowers, surrounding the city, and then had hurried through the capital back to villa the Tortallan delegation had been assigned to.
"I don't lie," Zahir replied crisply, lying down on his comfortable mattress. "I gave my word that I would help the Hibrus."
"You are not morally obliged to keep promises that you make to kidnappers, Zahir," Trevor reminded him, flopping down on the bed as well.
"I promised the Hibrus that I would help them before I was kidnapped," answered Zahir, his tone flat. "In fact, the friend I made the promise to probably arranged for me to be kidnapped."
"Well, that sounds like a charming and loyal friend," muttered Trevor, rolling his eyes.
"It was the only way he and his compatriots could speak with me about their plot." Zahir shrugged. "Sometimes the ends justify the means."
"Perhaps," Trevor responded, his gaze skeptical. "Still, in this case, I'm not sure that you have the authority necessary to promise the Hibrus Tortallan help, especially if that aid takes the form of stealing from the leader of Tyra."
"I'm not promising Tortallan aid," retorted Zahir. "I'm promising my own help, since I'll be the one doing the stealing."
"While you are here, like everyone else in the Tortallan delegation, you represent not just yourself, but also our entire country," Trevor pointed out levelly. "If you steal from the Vox Populi, all of Tortall will be seen as robbing the Tyran leader."
"Maybe it's good for all of Tortall to be perceived as stealing from the Tyran tyrant," Zahir snapped, grabbing a pillow. "You heard Hiram, Trevor. If we help the Hibrus overthrow the Vox Populi, the Hibrus will resolve our trade dispute favorably. We can save the Hibrus and benefit our merchants at the same time."
"Only the king has the authority to entangle our realm in another country's rebellion." Sighing, Trevor shook his head. "This is a situation where the king alone is fit to decide what is best for his kingdom. It's our duty to explain to him what happened today, and leave the ultimate choice of what to do in his hands."
"What if his hands crush the Hibrus?" demanded Zahir, his own hands tightening into fists around the pillow in his grasp.
"Our responsibility is to Tortall, not to the Hibrus, however much we may empathize with their difficulties," Trevor stated softly. "Besides, I'm not certain that we can trust your friends if they make a habit of resorting to violent methods such as kidnapping in order to achieve their goals."
"You don't know what it's like to be born into a people with a history of being oppressed, Trevor," Zahir snarled, resisting the temptation to hurl the pillow at Trevor's ignorant head. "You have no idea how it feels to be raised on a diet of pride and shame in your heritage. You don't have a clue how much it hurts your heart and strangles your spirit to realize that even though your people fought with everything they had, they still lost the battle for freedom. You don't understand just how degrading it is to be treated like vermin just because of your race or your culture."
Even though Zahir had spoken with a furious contempt, Trevor refused to take umbrage. "Yes, I don't understand," he agreed, his manner as mild as if they were discussing the weather. "The fact that you do is your greatest strength, Zahir."
"My greatest strength?" Zahir chuckled scornfully, the blood pounding in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear the bitter words pouring out of his lips. "The fact that you would say that when that knowledge is actually my greatest weakness proves just how little you comprehend. Of course, like a typical arrogant northerner, that lack of understanding doesn't prevent you from judging me just like you believe that you can pass judgment on the Hibrus from your comfortable position well above their misery. Since your government will listen to your complaints, you figure that all governments will hear petitions from their people. It never enters your mind that maybe the only way that some people can get their government to pay any attention to them is through violence. Similarly, it never occurs to you that perhaps the only method by which some people can attain a government that actually cares for their welfare instead of oppressing them is through revolution. Since you have the privilege of being able to use words to solve your problems, you condemn those who have to fight for the right to speak."
"I'm obligated to tell Lord Conan about our adventure today," remarked Trevor delicately after a pause. "Doubtlessly, he, in turn, will wish to inform the king."
"Doubtlessly," Zahir spat, all acid.
Shooting Zahir a sidelong glance, Trevor suggested, "Perhaps you should speak to your knightmaster about what happened before Lord Conan has a chance to do so."
"I'll not betray the Hibrus." Zahir pressed his mouth together in a resolute, thin line. He could see that Trevor was trying to offer him the opportunity to preserve his relationship with King Jonathan, but honor mattered more to him than being on good terms with his knightmaster. Even if the Hibrus were going to be betrayed anyway, he wasn't about to be the traitor.
"I see." Grimly, Trevor nodded. "I will do what I must, Zahir."
"As will I," asserted Zahir, his chin lifting stubbornly.
The pair of them were silent for a long moment, and then Trevor said with a slight wobble in his voice, "I sincerely hope that we can still be friends after this."
"We're too close to let stupid politics divide us." His lips quirking, Zahir reached out to clasp Trevor's hand. Even though he had never felt his anger flare so hotly against Trevor as it had earlier in this conversation, he also knew that the other boy was a friend that he would treasure far more than he did Joren, Garvey, or Vinson. While Joren, Garvey, and Vinson all brought out the worst in Zahir, Trevor had never revealed himself to be anything less than a positive influence upon him, and, in fact, had taught him valuable lessons about forgiveness. One friend like Trevor, he thought, was worth fifty of Joren's caliber.
Feeling his throat constrict, he went on awkwardly, "Both of us are just trying to do what is right, as we see it, and there's no crime in that. I mean, I can't even really accuse you of doing wrong when you are just serving your king as any northerner would. When it comes down to it, I can't blame you for being raised a loyal northerner any more than I can fault myself for being reared as an independent Bazhir. We are both just honoring our different cultures, and there is no shame in that."
"I'm relieved that you perceive it in that light." Squeezing Zahir's hand gently, Trevor grinned. "After all, it would be really tense being jammed into our crate-sized room on the return voyage if you were determined to give me the cold shoulder."
"I'm sure that you'll have to endure worse trials in your years as a diplomat," Zahir teased.
"Indeed I will," confirmed Trevor, chuckling. "One of those trials doubtlessly will be finishing the book on addressing Yamani nobles that Lord Conan expects me to complete reading by this evening, so he can tie my tongue into several knots when he quizzes me on all their exotic titles. Addresses of nobles aren't the most fascinating things to learn about other cultures, in my humble opinion. Of course, that's what I should be doing now that we are back from our little adventure."
"Now I know why you were praying in the cathedral earlier," Zahir snickered, as Trevor left his bedroom.
Once the door shut behind Trevor, Zahir sighed and glanced around his chamber for something to occupy his mind with, since he didn't want to lie on his bed, waiting for his knightmaster to summon him about the Hibru plot, which would inevitably happen as soon as Lord Conan informed King Jonathan about it. His eyes alighted upon a chess set arrayed on a small table beside his window, and he walked over to it.
Absently, he scooped up the white king. As his fingers stroked the smooth ivory, he imagined that it was the cold, pale-skinned King Jonathan. Matching his knightmaster with a chess piece made him wonder which one best represented him.
Since he was a warrior to the marrow of his bones, Zahir's gaze automatically focused on one of the two ivory knights serving the white king. Just as he was about to pick up the knight, however, he frowned and stayed his hand, deciding that he wasn't an ivory knight, after all. When it came down to it, he wasn't a knight of Tortall. He couldn't move forward and backward, he couldn't jump over other pieces, and he wasn't designed for executing forks.
No, in the final analysis, he was a mere pawn only capable of moving one painful square forward at a time, vulnerable to attack until he finally managed to reach the far side of the board, where he could finally be promoted to the status of knight. Of course, even when he was elevated to knighthood, he would still be nothing more than a glorified pawn who would have to travel wherever the king ordered. Even a promoted pawn could only attack when commanded to do so by the king, and even a glorified pawn could be killed by a king who saw all pawns as expendable.
No matter what happened, he concluded, he would be King Jonathan's pawn for the rest of his life. He might earn new titles or powers intended to distract him from that fact, but that didn't make it any less true.
If he was King Jonathan's pawn, though, why did his eyes center upon an obsidian pawn, and why did he wonder what exactly would transpire if a black pawn dared to challenge the might and majesty of a white king?
He didn't know how long he contemplated that question as he studied the chess set before there was a sharp rap on his door, and bracing himself, Zahir called, "Come in."
A manservant entered, announcing, "The king wants to see you in his study."
Wrinkling his nose, Zahir nodded. Then, feeling as though he were marching to the gallows, he walked down the carpeted corridor to King Jonathan's study. When he reached the door of the office, his misery only heightened when he spotted his least favorite maid, Myra, leaving the room.
As they brushed past one another, Myra jeered, "I hope that you're up to your neck in trouble."
"Well, I pray that you'll take a long walk off one of Tyra's many piers," Zahir fired back, glowering at her. Then, as he entered the king's study and shut the door behind him, even though he recognized that he should probably strive to keep the upcoming exchange as non-confrontational as possible for as lengthy a period of time as he could, he couldn't resist asking, "Did you bring Myra to Tyra just to torment me, sire?"
"No, Squire," King Jonathan educated him from one upholstered armchairs situated near the blazing fireplace. "I had hoped that relations between you and Myra might have improved after you intervened to defend her from Musad ibn Salim in Persopolis."
"That would be a vain hope, Your Majesty," replied Zahir, his mouth twisting. "Myra still believes me to be a brute, and I still think she is the most annoying maid I've ever met. I could save her from a pack of Stormwings and a dozen spidrens, and we'd still loathe each other."
"I see." Waving at the plush armchair opposite him, the king said, "Please be seated. I had Myra bring up some tea and biscotti for us."
"Ah, then she has finally done some good in the world," Zahir mumbled, as he obediently settled himself upon the indicated furniture, alarm bells clanging inside his head the entire time. His knightmaster must be trying to catch him off-guard for an attack about plotting with the Hibrus by offering him smiles and treats. However, he would not fall into such an obvious trap, he warned himself sternly, even as he felt his body being relaxed by the warm fire and the soft cushions swallowing him.
"Have a biscotti," King Jonathan continued, beaming, as he selected what appeared to be a long, hard cookie. "They are a truly delicious type of twice-baked almond biscuit."
Remembering Master Oakbridge's lectures about it being ill-mannered to refuse food that had been brought out mainly for your consumption, Zahir tentatively reached out for the biscotti. As he removed one of the biscuits from the silver tray placed on a little willow table between the armchairs, King Jonathan, who was dipping a biscotti in a cup of tea, advised, "If I were you, Zahir, I would dunk my biscotti into my tea. You don't want to break your teeth on one of the biscotti."
Once Zahir had dipped his biscotti in his tea and nibbled on it, his knightmaster inquired gently, "Is there anything you would like to tell me, Squire?"
"No, sire." Taking care not to scald his tongue, Zahir sipped his tea, noting inwardly that he certainly did not want to tell the king about his dealings with the Hibrus.
"Very well. I will rephrase my question." Pensively, King Jonathan tapped his fingers against his mug. "Is there anything you feel like you should inform me of, Squire?"
"No, sire," repeated Zahir, observing mentally that this wasn't a lie, because, no matter what his knightmaster thought on the contrary, he personally did not feel like he should betray the Hibrus even if that meant keeping important information from the king.
For a moment that spun out into an eon, the king scrutinized Zahir with disappointment and sorrow clear in his gaze. Although his mind was convinced he was doing the right thing by not betraying the Hibrus' trust, his heart felt like he was betraying his knightmaster's trust and doing the wrong thing.
As a result, he found himself ducking his head, even though he had no cause to feel guilty, as King Jonathan commented softly, "Zahir, I understand that after I misused the power being Voice affords me over your mind, you still may have difficulty trusting me, and I respect that however much it pains me to realize that. If you don't trust me, you are at liberty to conceal your thoughts and emotions from me. That being established, you are still my squire, which means that you have a duty to Tortall and to me. I need to trust that you will approach me with any information that you gather which might have an impact on how I choose to run my country. After today, I'm not certain that I can rely upon you to do that."
Part of Zahir longed to burst out with an apology for breaking faith with his knightmaster, because, as someone who viewed his honor as his most valuable possession, the last thing he had wished to do as a squire was make King Jonathan feel he was anything less than trustworthy. However, reminding himself that, as his father would say if he were still alive, sorry was the most pathetic word in any language, since it never changed anything, he pressed his lips together defiantly and refused to apologize.
"I shouldn't have to depend upon Trevor to tell his mentor that my squire had been kidnapped and that my squire was planning on involving himself in a rebellion against the government of a foreign country we are currently negotiating in," King Jonathan continued, his tone sharpening slightly.
"If you knew about what happened already, Your Majesty, why did you bother browbeating me about it, anyway?" Zahir flared up, taking refuge in a righteous indignation that was preferable to the surges of remorse rippling through his veins.
"I had hoped that if you were stupid enough to agree to steal from the leader of Tyra, you would at least have the nerve to tell me about it," his knightmaster snarled. "Nobody can claim that I didn't provide you with enough opportunities to do so."
"It's not stupid, sire," Zahir protested heatedly. "I promised the Hibrus that I would steal a scroll from the Vox Populi's study, and I have every intention of fulfilling my pledge."
"You aren't obliged to honor your word to the Hibrus," the king stated brusquely. "Since you were a captive when you made the promise, it was made under duress, and, thus, is invalid."
"My promise to be your squire was made under duress, Your Majesty," snorted Zahir. "Does that invalidate it in your opinion?"
"I did not abduct you, which the Hibrus did, in case you had forgotten that minor detail." King Jonathan glared at him. "It would be most imprudent of you to ally yourself with the sort of lowlifes who had no qualms about kidnapping you and Trevor."
"They had no choice, sire," Zahir pointed out tersely, itching to throw his mug of hot tea in his knightmaster's face. "That was the only way they could meet with us."
"You can't place your faith in people who organize mutinies on ships and prevent Tyran cloths from reaching our merchants, Zahir." Dourly, the king shook his head. "Actions like that could have sparked a war between Tortall and Tyra. That alone is enough to show that the Hibrus you are dealing with are traitors to their country who don't care how many innocent lives they endanger."
"The Hibrus aren't traitors." Zahir's spine stiffened, as if King Jonathan had insulted him personally.
"They are plotting to overthrow the Vox Populi," countered his knightmaster impatiently. "If that isn't treason, nothing is."
"The Hibrus don't see themselves as being Tyran just as my ancestors would have died before they called themselves Tortallan," scoffed an affronted Zahir, lifting his nose in the air. "If the Hibrus are traitors for resisting a government that is bent on destroying them, then my entire tribe for generations back was comprised of nothing but traitors, sire."
"That is quite beside the point, Squire." Briskly, the king waved a dismissive hand.
"It's not beside the point," insisted Zahir, scowling. "The only reason you were interested in becoming the Voice, Your Majesty, was because it was the only way to get my people to stop killing northerners who dared to venture into the desert. If the Bazhir hadn't been such fierce fighters, you would not have felt any compulsion to learn about their heritage before attempting to rule over them in the only fashion that you really could. Only people who are a threat receive attention or respect. To this day, I've met many a northerner who assumed I was a savage on account of my race, but not one of them has ever suspected me of being a weakling because I was a Bazhir. Just as salvation for the Bazhir only came through bloodshed, so, too, is violence the only answer for the problems of the Hibrus."
"If you think I'm about to violate the rules of diplomacy by condoning a rebellion against the leader of a foreign country I am visiting, I don't know where your wits have gone begging, Zahir." King Jonathan's blue eyes pierced into him. "Since the Hibrus broke the rules of diplomacy first by abducting you, no Tyran will fault you for promising under duress to steal from the Vox Populi, but if you actually attempt to act upon your pledge, you would be abetting the Hibrus in treason and shattering the rules of diplomacy in the process."
"Sire, Giovanni Medica doesn't deserve to rule." Zahir's jaw tautened intractably. "He enslaves the Hibrus."
"He also pays for cathedrals to be built and maintained, funds schools, sponsors poets and artists, and employs many of Tyra's citizens," responded his knightmaster in a frigid tone. "Of course, even if he did none of those things, I still would have no right to determine whether he was fit to rule his country, especially since he can claim he was elected by a republic instead of inheriting a monarchy."
"After what he has done to the Hibrus, he deserves to overthrown by them," observed Zahir caustically. "He doesn't treat them with any compassion at all, but I suppose if one is lugging around one hundred- fifty extra pounds like he is, it is easy to be overcome by compassion fatigue. Perhaps that will vanquish him if the Hibrus can't."
"You certainly will not be helping the Hibrus defeat him," the king told him sternly. "If you do that, you will be imperiling the peace and the trade negotiations between ourselves and the Tyrans."
"I would be helping the trade negotiations and the peace between ourselves and the Tyrans if the rebellion I involved myself in was successful," argued Zahir. "The Hibrus promised they would give our merchants the cloths if I aided them and the revolt worked."
"It won't succeed, Zahir, and you must accept that now," King Jonathan declared somberly. "The Hibrus will be crushed, and the wisest thing you can do is distance yourself from them."
"It's not fair." Obstinately, Zahir lifted his chin. "The Tyrans shouldn't be allowed to abuse the Hibrus so."
"Squire, it would be wrong for us to force our notions of justice upon the Tyrans, just as it would be wrong for them to do that to us." Once again, the king's voice had softened with understanding, although his eyes remained unyielding. Obviously selecting his words with care, he paused for a moment and then resumed, "The situation with the Hibrus is heartbreaking, yes, and it is a hard one to walk away from, but that's what we must do."
"I know I can't solve all the world's problems, but I can't walk away from a blatant case of injustice and oppression, either." Zahir shook his head defiantly. "If I ignored the cries of the Hibrus, I would be as much a cause of their suffering as Giovanni Medica."
"I admire your compassion and thirst for fairness." His knightmaster spoke gingerly. "However, I am a king, and being king means that I must look after the welfare of my people, instead of going off on a crusade whenever the ruler of another country violates the human rights of their subjects. As my squire, you must comprehend that I must temper my idealism with pragmatism in order for my plans, which are genuinely intended to help people, to become reality rather than wistful daydreams that will never actually be of any use to anyone. That pragmatism isn't a lack of compassion or a desire to permit injustice to occur, no matter how much it may sometimes seem like it is."
"Your Majesty, you must understand that the Hibrus feel like my people," answered Zahir simply. "Their cause feels like mine. It calls to me like nothing I've ever felt before."
"Zahir." King Jonathan pronounced his name gently. "Everything that you think you have found in the Hibrus, you already have. You are a Bazhir. What you need is distance and a little time for reflection."
"I don't need to reflect." Irked that the king could misunderstand him when he used such plain words, Zahir bristled.
"That is your decision," his knightmaster conceded. "Still, you will have plenty of time to do so, because you will not be leaving this villa until we depart from Tyra. I would hope that you would not dream of disobeying me and involving yourself further in the revolt, but I would not wish you to experience the temptation to do so when the consequences of you giving in could be very dire indeed."
"That's cruel, sire." Zahir didn't even want to think about how crazy he would go locked up inside a villa while a rebellion rattled the city around him.
"You'll be perfectly comfortable here, and you won't be inconvenienced by the rain you complain so much about," King Jonathan replied firmly. "Now, Squire, I want your word that you will not involve yourself any further in any plot to overthrow the Vox Populi."
"If you don't trust me, Your Majesty, it doesn't matter what I promise," muttered Zahir, arching an eyebrow.
"Just give me your word, Zahir," commanded the king quietly.
"You have my word," Zahir whispered through numb lips, defeated.