The imposter king, p.10
The Imposter King, page 10
“Mesdi Udish can come with me,” Ahsan said, shrugging towards one of the two guards stationed in the corner.
The attendant gave an inward sigh of acceptance before nodding. “Very well, Your Highness.”
Ahsan strode out the hall with his robes flapping behind him like the wings of a jade and gold bird. He was consistently astounded by the number of garments the palace had, textiles in every shade, in every cut and pattern, from hunting garb to leisurewear to banquet attire. In his normal life, he’d only ever had three, maybe four sets of clothes.
As Ahsan passed through one of the halls, two voices came into earshot, one young and one old. He peered around the corner to find the palace oracles, heads bent in heated conversation. The elder, Ilshubani-Adad, looked up and abruptly stopped.
“Sorry.” Ahsan jerked to a halt. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
Nasha’s face lit up despite his weak appearance—the man looked like a flower perpetually recovering from wilt—and he shot a glance at his mentor. Ilshubani folded a hand atop his chest and bowed. Nasha did the same.
“Your presence is never an interruption, Your Highness. How may we serve you?”
“I was just passing by.”
The elder surveyed him, wiry beard shifting as he mulled over his thoughts. His eyes tightened. “It suits you.”
“I—” Ahsan looked down at his robes. “Thank you.”
At the elder oracle’s smile, his apprentice smiled too.
“Would you care to walk with us?” Ilshubani asked.
Ahsan fought back his instinct to pull away. Perhaps the oracles would be able to give him greater insight, either into the meaning behind his mother’s words or the events that were to come. He hadn’t gotten to know them as well as he should have during his time here, which, looking back, was foolish. If anyone would have been able to tell him what threats to watch out for, it would be them.
Ahsan walked over to join them. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
Ilshubani and Nasha smiled, though as the three of them moved down the hall, the oracles stayed a few paces behind him at all times. Ahsan knew to expect as much, but he looked back at them every other step.
“I worry I interrupted an intense conversation,” Ahsan said. He made sure to use as few conjunctions or casual verbs as possible, enunciating his every syllable like the nobility did.
Ilshubani gave a delicate sigh. “I’m afraid there has been much tension in the region as of late. Between the declining health of the soil, the disputes over canal rights, and squabbles over new taxes, every major household demands a trained oracle to foretell them of their misfortunes to come.”
“Is there any way I could be of assistance?”
Ahsan heard Ilshubani’s steps behind him falter before picking back up. “Your Majesty is slated to hear a few petitions regarding canal rights this coming week. Those will aid us in our work.”
“Hm.” Ahsan nodded, remembering the records of previous canal cases that the Mistress of Domestics had sent him. However, as riveting as irrigation was, it wasn’t what he wanted to discuss. Any other day, he would have wasted his time beating around the bush, but a benefit of playing at king was getting to be as direct as he wished. He turned to look over his shoulder again. “Your predictions. How often are they right?”
Ilshubani’s nose tipped up into the air and gave a small sniff of pride. “I have not been wrong for many decades.”
“But once, you were?”
The other man’s lips pressed into a hard line. “I suppose.”
It comforted Ahsan that there was a chance, however slight, the oracle’s predictions of the king’s death could be flawed.
Together they entered one of the palace’s many courtyards. Before them, a sapphire-headed peacock scratched in the garden beds to nestle into the cool dirt, and Ahsan knelt down to pat it. The bird gave his glittering bracelet an experimental peck.
“What is the king like?” Ahsan asked. “The real king?”
Paling, the oracles exchanged tight-lipped glances with one another. Nasha blinked at Ilshubani, then gave a double blink as if making a silent suggestion, before Ilshubani tersely shook his head. A moment of silence stretched between them.
Nasha opened his mouth. “He’s—”
“He is you, Your Highness,” Ilshubani said, shooting daggers towards Nasha as he spoke in a tone so calm it could have only been fake. “Surely you know him best.”
He gave a sharp point upwards. Gods and fates, ever listening. Ahsan swallowed down his disappointment. He should have expected such a reaction, however much he wanted to know about the king. He studied the brittle branches of a shrub. The king’s lust. Poor soil. A heavy tax burden and inter-community disputes. Could the king have perhaps curried the gods’ ill favor? If so, there was that much more reason to escape before dying in his place.
“Your Highness?”
Ilshubani’s voice brought Ahsan back to reality, and he snapped to.
“My apologies,” Ahsan said. “I—”
“There you are!” exclaimed a man in standard palace livery, cutting straight through the gardens and pushing vines and branches out of his way.
Guilt pricked up the back of Ahsan’s neck as he checked the sun’s position in the sky. What time was it? He’d been so engrossed in talking with the oracles that he’d forgotten all about the dinner he had.
“Dinner was supposed to have started a half hour ago. The guests are—” The man caught himself, biting back any chiding. “Your Highness, your presence is requested.”
Ahsan opened his mouth to apologize again, but he heard Mistress Tashlitum’s lesson that ‘royalty apologizes for nothing, least of all to the common people.’ He held his tongue.
“They could have started without me,” he said.
The attendant barely concealed the roll of his eyes. “They cannot begin without you, Your Highness.”
“We ought not to waste the king’s time.” Ilshubani bent at the waist, long sleeves brushing the ground. “Enjoy your meal.”
The oracle bade his apprentice to follow. Ahsan turned to go—when Nasha tugged on his sleeve. Brows arching, Ahsan looked over his shoulder at the man.
“Yes?” Ahsan asked.
Nasha leaned close, closer than Ahsan was comfortable with, but he still bent his head inward. The apprentice murmured something unintelligible.
“What?”
“The king will be betrayed,” Nasha repeated. He met Ahsan’s gaze. “By someone from within the palace.”
“What?”
Ahsan looked in both directions, from the oblivious elder oracle still walking away, to the attendant tapping his foot and looking at the rapidly setting sun, but neither of them heard. Why had Ilshubani not told him this? Was there a reason he ought not to know, or did everyone else know except for him? A chill crept along Ahsan’s skin. ‘Someone from within the palace’ hardly narrowed the list of suspects. He opened his mouth to press Nasha for more details, but already the man was scurrying after his master, head bent and shoulders hunched.
During dinner, Ahsan assessed each of the nobles in Sippar’s halls with tight eyes. When it came to imagining who may betray the king, there were too many options. Nobles, attendants, even the kitchen staff could move against him. A palace full of as many potential enemies as allies, it was easy to see how one could become paranoid. But those people would all know Ahsan’s true identity. If their goal was to kill the king, the true king, Ahsan’s position as a decoy would be useless. Or, could Nasha’s prediction merely refer to anyone who had set foot within the palace?
Ahsan ground his teeth as he made niceties over dinner. Prophecies were often frustratingly vague, the specifics of them hard to pin down.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if Ahsan were able to uncover a conspiracy against the king, he could show that the threat of the king’s death had not come from the gods, but was instead man-made. If the king’s death was not a choice of divine fate, Ahsan would not have to die to appease it. He could save his own skin, and help to keep the kingdom stable.
Hope rekindling, the imposter king kept a watchful gaze on everyone gathered around his table.
9
Nirah found that she had wildly underestimated two things about royal life. The first was the number of dinners royalty threw, and the second was just how stressful a dinner could be. Every day, a new function, a new set of faces to entertain with her best impression of a disinterested royal.
Tonight’s guest was the person it would be most difficult for Nirah to prove herself to. Her High Priestess, the High Priestess over Ishtar’s temple and the one who had volunteered Nirah for the task of imposter queen, had never done anything more than point her nose in her direction. Whether because Nirah’s work was lacking or because she wasn’t pious enough, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer. After this duty was over though, perhaps she would finally be promoted to a higher rank.
She wouldn’t hold her breath.
Nirah looked at the selection of dresses before her. Each was a masterpiece of dyed textiles and intricate threadwork, every piece telling a different story. A green wrap embroidered with palm leaves and suns around the hem and dipping neckline; a pale blue gown with a red sash that trailed to the ground, itself with shells braided into the tassels; an ivory dress with lapis stitching, and a wide saffron belt and shawl. She didn’t want to tell a story or flaunt herself tonight, though. No, she wanted to appear as humble as she could while playing the role of queen. She stepped out of her tunic and reached for the cream white gown.
What would Ahsan wear? They ought to coordinate on some level, even if subtle, but she hadn’t seen him all day. He had been shifty as of late, still his kind if easily-spooked self, but he had been more cautious to keep the guards around him and stand at arm’s length from those he was less familiar with. Though Nirah hated to use the word ‘paranoid,’ it fit.
The door swung open and Ahsan screeched to a halt before her. His eyes bugged out of his head before he clapped a hand over his face, spun around the way he came, and promptly staggered out the door.
Bless the man. He really was a pure spirit. If all men had been like that, Nirah might not have minded the eventual possibility of being forced to marry, though she had all but sabotaged those chances now. After all, it was why she had joined the priestesshood in the first place.
Today was the most lively version of Ahsan she had seen since she’d doused him with water, probably in part due to his new sleeping arrangements. The settee she’d ordered the attendants to bring into their quarters looked as if it had gotten him an ounce of better rest, but only that. She looked into the corner where the low green couch was situated, the pillows he usually slept on piled atop it.
“Look!” she had said as she swung the door wide. “Do you like it?”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a racing chariot.” She rolled her eyes with a half-laugh. “I know it’s not a bed, but I figured it’s better than what you have right now. After all, kings do not sleep on the floor.”
“The king gets to sleep wherever he likes.” Even through his weariness, he had eventually cracked a smile. “Thank you.”
As they both went to sleep that night, Ahsan’s legs had dangled off the end. By morning, he was curled up like an overgrown cat.
Nirah continued to grimace at the settee. She would find a solution for him at some point, his protests be damned. Even if he only got to enjoy it for a few nights before he—
Sharp pain lanced between her ribs as she stopped herself from finishing the thought. Nirah was no fool—she prided herself on her pragmatism—and she knew what Ahsan’s purpose was here. So why did the idea of his death hurt?
Nirah finished dressing by the time the attendants came to arrange her hair and paint on her makeup, yet all the while her stomach churned hot.
By the time she emerged from being primped, hair slicked into a low chignon and lids rimmed in shimmer, the knot in her gut had turned into a mass of writhing eels. So long as her appearance didn’t convey her turmoil. She was used to putting on fronts. Tonight would be no different, and with Ahsan at her side, there still might be some modicum of enjoyment she could wring from the evening.
Nirah made her way to the dining hall. Outside, she didn’t see Ahsan, but he had a habit of being late. She tried to push down the nerves building within her. She would get through this evening just fine, Ahsan would show up, and the High Priestess would leave in peace.
An attendant bowed before her. “Does Your Ladyship wish to begin dining?”
It was less a question and more a statement that it ought to have already begun, but Nirah continued to worry at her lower lip.
“Has His Highness arrived?” she asked.
“I had hoped he would be with you, Your Ladyship.”
That squashed whatever hope Nirah had of tonight being anything other than a disaster. Were this evening to be her and the High Priestess alone, she knew the other woman wouldn’t care about whatever status Nirah had been granted. It was fake, just like Nirah’s worthiness to sit in this role. The Priestess would have no qualms reminding her of that.
“He is not.” Nirah squared her shoulders, even as the weight of the world tried to drag them down. “No reason to delay any longer, I suppose.”
Nirah’s subconscious screamed at her that there very much was reason to delay, but she forced one foot in front of the other until she entered the dining hall.
The High Priestess awaited her, standing alongside the table with hands clasped at the small of her back. Eyes like a jackal’s, they sparked like embers. Her umber hair was divided into three low buns, each secured with bone pins adorned by rubies at their hilt. Where Nirah had chosen her evening dress for modesty, High Priestess Tilhar had done the opposite. Her neckline hugged her throat and billowed down to her wrists, slit open to show her fair shoulders and arms, soft and pale from a life without laboring under the sun. Though beautiful, the planes of her face betrayed her severe nature. Behind the soft upturn of her mouth, there lay a viper’s tongue. Under the flesh of her neat, unroughened hands were fists that meted out strict justice and punishment in equal measure. Entu Tilhar, no matter how bewitching, was not a woman to trifle with. Just like the goddess she served.
Without Ahsan, Nirah knew it was her responsibility to act the part, to entertain and escort the royal household’s guests. She might have forgiven his absence had today’s guest been anyone else. Now she had to perform before this woman, the one who offered up Nirah when the king requested a priestess for the palace’s imposter scheme. She had never done anything to wrong the High Priestess, but still the woman had always looked down her nose at her. Ignored her when she spoke, questioned her devotion, criticized how she performed her duties to the goddess Ishtar, and passed over her to promote other, newer temple sisters. That Tilhar had chosen to give Nirah such an elevated position—and one entirely false—was not lost on her.
“Entu Tilhar.” Nirah stopped herself from bowing in the other woman’s presence, an ingrained reflex.
“Lady Nirah.” Tilhar’s eyes tightened. The title dripped from her lips like honey, tantalizing, but a sure trap for the fly Nirah was.
Following the instruction she had received from the Mistress of Domestics, Nirah took her seat. She kept her eyes trained on the plate before her, piled with crisp cucumber drizzled with vinegar and lemon, and fought to keep herself from glancing at the door every other minute. As plate after plate was set before her, her hopes that Ahsan would join them dwindled to nothing.
The one time she needed him, the one time his awkward presence could relieve her from discomfort instead of heaping upon more. Where was he?
“Stop fidgeting,” Tilhar said.
Nirah swallowed and ceased drumming her fingers against the underside of the table, a tic she hadn’t noticed until the woman opposite her called it out.
“Yes, Entu Tilhar.”
The High Priestess raised a brow, lip curling with it. “What a sham this is. And yet, from you, I should have known to expect as much.”
The attendants posted in the corners of the room shifted, some exchanging glances with one another. None had the authority to put the High Priestess in her place, though. Were Nirah truly queen, such talk could get Tilhar flogged. But she wasn’t. She would remain an ant beneath the High Priestess’ heel, a new green shoot trembling in her windstorm for as long as she served in the temple.
Nirah kept her head down, sights fixed on the various dishes until her guest had eaten her fill, until the night was a heavy blackness. Nirah couldn’t find her appetite. At last, the final bowls of stewed fruits cleared away, Tilhar crossed her arms and leaned back on her cushion, chin angled high. Sweet wine had stained her lips dark. “Does this king wish to insult his guests outright, or am I to assume he has already been killed?”
Something cold hardened in Nirah’s chest. The mere suggestion chilled her blood. No. Surely if something had happened, the palace would have already sounded the alarm.
At her silence, Tilhar snorted. “I had heard he was a fool, but this evening has removed whatever doubt I had.”
“He is not,” Nirah said, voice small. She trained her gaze on the tapestry of songbirds hanging on the far wall, keeping her breaths steady.
From across the table, Tilhar’s eyes went to slits. “Excuse me?”
“He is a good man. Say whatever you will of me, but not him.”
“My dear, your endorsement does nothing to help his case.” The High Priestess’ lip twisted into a sneer to disfigure her face. She stood.
The unease coiled in Nirah’s stomach began to unwind, if only by a bit, as the evening came to an end. Soon, this would be but a memory.
“This charade won’t last,” Entu Tilhar said as she proceeded into the hall. She walked in front of Nirah by at least four paces and spoke to her in the casual tongue, both flagrant disregards of palace protocol, but Nirah didn’t bother to say as much. Nothing would come of it, except perhaps a beating once she rejoined temple life. Ahsan’s honor had been worth it. Her own, not so much. “Do you plan to be silent all night?”
