Down below, she could see a team of workers hauling an unwieldy carpet through the garden. The thing was massive. It took four men to lift it and a concerted effort to carry it up the steps and through the door.
An old man with a cane and a dignified, if subdued jacket, shouted orders from the sidelines. Beside him was a little girl in a brightly patterned smock and beads glinting in her dark braids. Now and again, she stomped her sandaled feet on the ground restlessly or bounced in place as though she were standing on a spring.
Iman watched for a time, through the gilded screen of her window, her book lying idly in her lap, her pen, in its inkwell.
Another front entrance carpet, she thought glumly.
Her mother was going through some sort of midlife crisis, which involved redecorating her wing of the house every few months and replacing all the servants. No one was ever around long enough for her to learn their names or to figure out how to fix her hair without hurting her. Faces came and went in a mad whirl and she remained - alone, unchanging, her room the only bit of the wing that was left well enough alone for any length of time.
Sixteen was not an age so different from six.
A workman stumbled on the steps, nearly taking down the entire operation. He regained his footing just in time and the carpet slid through the front doors without any further hitch. The man with the cane limped after it, straightening his jacket in the summer heat as he went. The girl skipped up the steps and vanished inside.
At this point Lord Suda rode through the gates on his stallion with a retinue of statesmen trotting behind him. Scattered bits of their conversation drifted up to her as they dismounted and the stable hands crawled out of the woodwork to take care of the horses. Refreshments were offered and robes of state were piled high in a hapless servant's arms. There was a toast and a loud burst of manly laughter. And then another servant came around, passing out hunting spears and crossbows, fitting everyone with bits of leather armor.
The door in the wall swung open and out stepped the Bosmer falconer who lived in the woods beyond. His falcon perched on his arm, peering about at all the guests curiously. No hood was required, with the power over animals that the man was said to wield.
He was her father's pride and joy, hired directly from Valenwood to the envy of all the noble houses with hunting grounds beyond the city. He spared absolutely no opportunity to show him off to men he was hoping to impress.
He clapped the Bosmer on the back jovially, abandoned his half-finished drink on the tray of a waiting servant and all of them proceeded to exit through the passage, single file, careful not to let their spears scrape the close walls. The door closed behind them without a one of them stopping in to say hello.
Technically, she had never set foot outside the walls of her family's garden. Excursions into the heart of the city were tightly choreographed affairs. She was to go with no less than four family guards. She was to shade herself from the sun, with scarves and cloaks and gloves. She was to be carried in a litter with silken curtains and not permitted to leave it so long as they were outside the walls of a building that was deemed safe enough for her to inhabit (her father had many political enemies and kidnappings were not unheard of in the family).
Special permission was granted when attending the theater or a debate, but only just. She was to stick to her family's private box, surrounded by family and bodyguards, and go no further.
Something thumped loudly downstairs where the carpet was being laid and she heard the sound of pottery shattering. Indistinct voices drifted up the hall - one whinging, one angry. The thought occurred to her that it had been her mother's prized Reman era urn and she felt a spark of wicked delight at the thought.
With a sudden rush of inspiration, she took the pen from the pot and began writing.
There was an urn of an ancient king
laden with the weight of an emperor
and the brags of those who loved it well
It was a thing shown to guests
and polished until it gleamed
the workmen little heeding the cracks that hid within
I saw an urn of an ancient king
in shards in the room it adorned
all its glory gone in an instant
Nothing more than trash to be swept up and burnt
it was loved the best of all the collection
but love could not save it from the incinerator
Notes:
Saadia/Iman is a character I've been fascinated with for a very long time (as I am with every crafty schemer who has complex motivations ever). When I figured out that she was going to be the villain of the story, everything else clicked into place.