The Palace Pt. 02

I had come to the Palace. I had come in the Palace.

My routine did not vary for the next three days. Nanka watched me bathe, and then continued to scrub the ink from my fingers. She remained absolutely expressionless. Sartag escorted me to and from the baths, always hooded. The rest of my time was spent in the luxurious bedroom.

Then I watched the Prince at his lessons. Obviously, I was to learn his mannerisms and speech patterns, which I would no doubt be called upon to mimic at some point.

I did not see Yasina during that time. But I had no doubt what was expected of me. I would be a double of her son. But whether I would replace him, in some function, or merely act as a decoy ... that was when I remembered something Sartag had let slip, the day he first brought me to the Palace. I had asked him why there were so many soldiers about ...

The Emperor is ill.

It did not take a student of History to predict what would happen if, or when the Emperor died. The death of a ruler in Zamarka inevitably led to the same outcome: a bloody struggle for the throne.

Zoer would not nominate an heir while he lived. That would give his chosen successor too much incentive to speed up the process, by murdering his father. The brothers had spent years preparing for the day the old man would die. Each one had his agents in the Palace, and allies among the Imperial Generals.

Zoer's death would set off a bloodbath, an orgy of assassination, arrests and imprisonments, flight, and treachery. There might even be a civil war. The eventual winner - the wiliest, most cunning and most ruthless of them all - would become the next Emperor. All he had to do was survive. And eliminate his rivals.

Yasina, obviously, intended for Bishkur to survive, and succeed his father. She would rule from behind the throne. The alternative, most likely, was certain death. She had been planning for months, if not longer. And one fine day, outside the shop of Sumad the apothecary, she had seen my face - and instantly recognized a pawn, a possible piece in the Great Game.

That's all I was: a pawn. And I would be sacrificed, at need, without a second thought.

I could not leave the Palace. There were two guardsmen outside my door, at all times. Only Sartag came to see me. So I asked him, even though I knew he did not have the power to save me.

- "Sartag, I need to go home. My father is ill, and needs medication. I am the only one he has to get it for him. You remember, that day we first met - that's what I was doing."

- "You will have to ask Opkor." he answered.

- "May I see Opkor?" I persisted.

- "I will inform him of your request."

- "Will you tell him about my father? And the medication?"

Sartag frowned. "I will inform him of your request." he repeated.

When he left, I waited a few minutes, and then tried to leave myself. The two guards were surprised, but they snapped to attention belatedly. One of them, a dark fellow with abnormally bushy eyebrows, apologized.

- "I - I'm sorry, Highness. We have orders that you are to remain here."

That was plain enough, then: prisoner as well as pawn. They believed that I was Bishkur - but that didn't help me at all.

Opkor came to see me within the hour. He was clearly unhappy.

- "You must remain in this room - for now." he said.

- "I'm worried about my father." I replied, and explained about his medication.

- "I will inform the Empress." he answered. "In the meantime, I will bring you some books to read, to keep you occupied." Opkor's mouth twitched into a facsimile of a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Why hadn't I noticed this before? The eunuch had all the warmth of a lizard.

Later that day, Sartag came to move me. Hooded, I was returned to the sleeping cubicle. Hours later, Sartag came for me again. I thought that being moved to the cubicle was some sort of punishment, or a lesson. But he took me straight back to the luxurious bedchamber.

The room smelled of sex. The silken sheets had been changed, and one of the cushions had been changed, but the odour was unmistakeable. The room felt different. Even Sartag could feel it. He avoided my eye.

Opkor came again the following day. He made certain that I opened the screen, and observed Prince Bishkur's lesson. Opkor watched me watching Yasina's son.

A day later, after the Prince's lesson, Yasina herself came to see me, with Nanka and Opkor. She looked as ever, utterly desirable. I had never considered the power of sex, or lust, before this. With Minika at home, I could have sex whenever I wanted. Here, with Yasina ... I knew that I was nothing but a pawn to her - but if she had asked me to lie in the mud, I would have.

She had me walk, talk, and interact with them as I thought her son would do. I did my best - what could I do, except cooperate? She seemed quite pleased with my performance. Even Nanka was nodding, and biting her lip, though her face remained impassive.

- "Well done!" said Yasina. "It's remarkable, isn't it?"

- "Highness .." I began. Opkor frowned, but I ignored him. "I am concerned about my father -"

Yasina raised a hand. "You need not worry. Opkor told me of his illness. I sent a guardsman to collect his medication from the apothecary. I also sent your first two weeks' pay, so that your father would have some money."

It was far more than I had expected. I bowed to her. "Thank you, Highness."

- You are very important to us, Carrach al-Batir." she said. "As you can tell, we are grooming you - preparing you, for a very important task."

- "To impersonate your son?"

She smiled. "Yes. I admit it. You're too clever not to have figured it out. Can you do this for us? Afterwards, I can let you go home. For a short time, at least. But I will probably need you back at the Palace for even more important duties thereafter ..."

The way she said that, looking me straight in the eyes, I pictured her leaning against my shoulder, stroking me to orgasm. How did she do that?

- "You walk just like Prince Bishkur." said Opkor. "You are a very talented mimic." His eyes flickered to his mistress, like a loyal dog seeking approval.

That's when I realized that they did not expect me to survive.

******

The next morning, Sartag came to collect me - but without a hood.

- "Is this a test?" I asked him.

- "I just follow orders." he said. He sounded a bit grumpy. I'm sure he would have preferred to be guarding Yasina, rather than shepherding a lowly clerk.

He did not take me very far. Apparently, Prince Bishkur spent most of his time in this wing of the Palace. We passed several guardsmen, who nodded to Sartag, but did not react to me at all. The same was true of servants.

- "That was impressive." said Sartag, when we reached the baths. "No one noticed anything."

- "They weren't looking." I suggested. "How many servants make eye contact with Princes?"

- "Maybe." he said, unconvinced.

In the afternoon, he took me out for a stroll in the gardens. I should have been enjoying my first clear view of the palace grounds, but instead I was racking my brain for a way out of this trap.

Our routine was similar the next day, only this time I was much more aware of the people we passed. Outside, there were even more soldiers - not Palace guardsmen. Some of them I recognized, but many were unfamiliar to me.

I made eye contact with Sartag before speaking, as the Prince would have done.

- "Do you recognize all of the different units?" I asked, imitating Bishkur's cadence and tone.

Sartag nearly had a heart attack. He stepped closer, and hissed: "Don't talk!"

- "Why?" I replied. "Do I not sound like him? Besides - how many of these troopers will have heard him speak before? They have nothing to compare my voice with."

- "Yes, Highness." said Sartag. He added the 'Highness' for the benefit of a pair of archers, who were walking by behind us.

"Yes, you do sound like him. But you aren't supposed to talk."

- "I will keep it to a minimum, then." I said. "And my original question?"

- "Yes. I do recognize the units." he admitted. "Highness. And which Prince they are beholden to as well."

- "Are any of them beholden to us?" I asked.

Sartag looked at me as if I had spoken in Kilchik. "What are you talking about? There is no 'us'." He grumbled. "And for your information, neither the Empress nor Opkor take me into their confidence to that degree." Then he whispered: " Now will you please stop talking?"

The next day was different. Sartag came for me as usual, but he took me to a room on the third floor. The floor was red, in this wing. Now that I was no longer hooded, I could also see that the ceilings, the walls, and the door trim had all been the work of different artists than those who had worked on the second floor.

We passed four soldiers in white cloaks, with round helmets. They looked surprised to see me - or the Prince - on this floor. One stopped, and saluted me, and the other three followed suit. I gave them a curt nod, while Sartag returned their salute.

I noticed that all four remained standing there as Sartag reached a door where two of his comrades stood guard. He ushered me in, muttering "Shitshitshitshit" under his breath.

- "What's wrong?" I asked.

- "Nothing." he lied. "Stay here."

The room he had brought me to was another luxurious bedchamber. This one had 3 walls painted. On either side of the door were trees, with songbirds perched in the branches. Another wall depicted a garden, with a veiled lady admiring the flowers. The third wall featured a craftsman's shop, where the master and an apprentice were making musical instruments. The elder was carving a flute, while the younger was sanding or smoothing the neck of a stringed instrument.

The ceiling was plastered, with billowing clouds in relief. But what attracted my attention most was the balcony. So far, the rooms I had been kept in had not had windows, facing the interior of the Palace as they did. I would have expected them to overlook an internal courtyard, but for some reason they did not.

This balcony offered a lovely view of the gardens. And of the squads of soldiers patrolling the grounds. I could see out over most of the city: the sandy brown walls and the reddish-brown rooftops, and here and there the white and turquoise of expensive tile. There were also patches of green. Every Emperor planted trees. They provided shade, and fruit.

The Palace gardens had scores of fruit trees, including dates, almonds and pistachios. There were peach trees, apricots, persimmon, quince and pomegranate.

With nothing else to do, I napped. Sartag returned in the early evening, along with servants bringing me a meal. To my surprise, the guardsman remained while I ate.

- "You're staying?"

- "Orders." he grumbled.

Some time later, there was a knock on the door. Two young guardsmen informed Sartag that they were changing the guard.

- "I didn't recognize those two." I remarked, once they had closed the door.

- "They're new." said Sartag. "Very new." He did not sound very happy about it.

I was by now accustomed to bearing my status as a prisoner with some equanimity. Sartag, on the other hand, was obviously uncomfortable. He paced the room, like a caged animal. He also seemed to be carrying on some intense internal dialogue.

It grew dark outside. But the soldiers in the courtyard did not go away. They carried torches, so that the gardens looked like the site of some enormous, chaotic parade.

Then, from deep within the Palace, we heard the clashing of cymbals, and a chorus of high-pitched wailing. The wailing was picked up further down the hall. Sartag stood up. I knew what it meant.

- "The Emperor is dead, isn't he?" I said.

- "Yes." said Sartag, without looking my way.

It's odd, what you think of, at times of great stress, or during a momentous occasion. I thought of Minika's ears. She liked it when I licked them.

- "Did you like him?" I asked Sartag.

This time he looked at me. "What?"

- "The Emperor. Did you like him?"

- "What are you talking about?" snapped Sartag. "I never met the man!"

- "Why are you so upset?" I asked.

Sartag shook his head, bewildered. "Are you dense? The Emperor is dead - and so are we. Alright, Carrach? We're fucking dead. Those were White Cloaks, out in the hall. They know exactly where we are. And they serve Prince Levra. He's the second son of the Empress Norcan - the Emperor's first wife."

One of those men in the hall? That was Piris - a successful commander, a demon with a blade, and he-is-fucking-going-to-kill-us. We are dead men. Sometime tonight, they are going to come and kill us."

- "There are two guards on our door." I pointed out.

- "Dead men." said Sartag. "Just as dead as we are."

- "She planned this all along, didn't she?" I said. "From the very beginning. From the day you saw me outside the apothecary's shop."

- "I don't know. Maybe." he admitted. "I told you - Opkor, Nanka ... they're close to her. I'm just an errand boy." He chuckled. "Clueless. And expendable."

I had a sudden flash of insight. "You've slept with her."

Sartag laughed aloud. "Once! One night - like a fool, I thought it meant something. The greatest night of my life - I'll tell you that for nothing, Carrach al-Batir. And now I'm going to die for it." Then he looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. "Did you get to enjoy her?"

I shook my head. Did a handjob count? Besides, in his present mood, I don't think Sartag wanted to hear about it.

- "You poor bastard." said Sartag. "Well, you're just as dead."

- "You keep saying that." I observed. "But what if we leave? What if there's a way out?"

- "There's no way out."

- "Why can't we leave?" I persisted.

- "Because they know where we are, and they think you're him. They have to wipe out rival Princes, even the insignificant ones. They will come sometime tonight, and they will kill us. If we try to leave, there are eyes everywhere. There's no way of knowing which servants belong to Prince Levra. Or to Prince Igris, or Alperix. Most of the Palace guardsmen belong to one Prince or the other.

- "You could leave." I suggested. "You don't have to die with me."

Sartag chuckled again. "No, I'm too well known as her man. But thank you."

I walked out onto the balcony. It was too high to jump, or drop. Plus there were still soldiers all over the Palace grounds. There was nowhere to hide. Unless ... my Father had always taught me to be thorough, to consider every last detail.

I turned around, and looked up. The roof was too high to reach. Even if I balanced atop the balcony rail, it was too far to leap. Unless ...

- "Sartag!" I called. "Come here!"

He did, and I explained my plan. He didn't think much of it. But since he didn't have a better one, he agreed to at least try.

I stood on his back, then his shoulders. He put his hands under my feet, and pushed me up. I was just able to grab the edge of the roof. I had to scratch, and scrabble, and the edge of the roof cut into my hands cruelly - but I made it.

The roof had a slope, but it was so vast that the incline was not very steep at all. This is what happens when you have rooftops measured in acres.

I stripped off my fine clothes. Then I lay down flat on the roof tiles, with my head and shoulders just over the edge. I wrapped my pants around one hand and wrist, my silk shirt around the other, and dangled the two pieces of fabric, extending my reach by another foot or two.

Sartag tossed me his sword. I caught it, and put in on the roof tiles, next to me. Then Sartag climbed onto the balcony rail. It was quite narrow. and he struggled to find his balance. He fell off, and landed on the balcony.

A second try was more successful. He stood up on the rail, and then launched himself towards me, reaching for my outstretched shirt and pants.

He missed.

He caught hold of my shirt with his left hand, but missed my pants completely with his right. Sartag lost confidence, and let go altogether. He crashed back on to the balcony, landing heavily.

I was worried that he might have injured himself - twisted an ankle, or something like that. "Are you alright?" I whispered.

Sartag laughed aloud. "I'm fine. Fine. What a couple of idiots." he said.

He mounted the balcony rail again, preparing for another try. Without preamble, he leapt for the roof, snatching at my hanging clothes.

This time, he got them both. I wasn't prepared for his sudden weight, and nearly tipped over the edge. Sartag 's body, defenceless, slammed into the outer wall. For a moment there, I thought we were going to tip over, that I was going to plunge off the rooftop.

But I held on. So did Sartag. And then he reached for the roof's edge with his hand. With my now free hand, I held onto him. Between the two of us, we got him onto the roof.

We lay on the roof tiles, on our backs, breathing heavily. Sartag shifted uncomfortably, as he felt how sharp the edges of the tiles were. Then he looked at me.

- "Gods! You're cut to shreds. Put your clothes back on, at least." he said.

It was true. Lying naked on Zamarkan roof tiles is not a good idea - you can take that from me. My chest, stomach, and legs were scraped and abraded. I was bleeding in several places.

- "You're tougher than you look." remarked Sartag.

- "I didn't feel it - at the time." I said.

- "We'll make a soldier of you yet." he said.

- "Oh, shit - I hope not." I said. I think that was the first time I saw him smile.

- "I don't know if they'll find us up here. But either way - it was a good idea." Sartag glanced at me. "Thanks."

We lay back on the rooftop, a few feet from the edge, so that we could not be seen by men in the yard below.

It came as quite a surprise to both of us that we could hear so well. There was the rolling thunder of running feet on the third floor. Twice we heard the clash of blades, down in the gardens. Then a scream.

- "Blood will flow." whispered Sartag.

- "All night long?" I asked.

- "Perhaps for days. You know what they call it when an Emperor dies?"

Zoer was the only Emperor I had ever known. But my father had told me tales. "Yes - the Night of the Knives."

There were more running feet, and then the door of the room below us was thrown open. I heard no clash of swords, no cries of pain. The two young guardsmen had most likely deserted their post.

Silence. Were there three men below us? Or four?

- "Where is he?" said a voice.

- "How the fuck should I know?"

- "There's nowhere to hide in here." said a third man.

- "Out the window?"

The voices were nearer now, as the intruders came out onto the balcony.

- "That's a long way down." said one.

- "'Specially without a rope."

- "You think they jumped?"

- "Nah - most likely snuck out before we got here."

- "How? We had eyes on 'em the whole time."

One of them sheathed his sword.

- "I don't know. All I do know is that if we don't find him, it's our heads on a stick."

The soldiers rummaged through the room, noisily. One of them complained that there was nothing to steal. But they did not remain long. We heard them leave.

Sartag put a finger to his lips. Then he pointed down. I understood him: there might still be one or more men in the room. In any case, it was not safe for us to climb down. They might return - or another party could arrive.

We spent the night on that rooftop, afraid to talk, or even whisper, for fear that we would be overheard. It was not cold, but it was certainly not comfortable. We couldn't sleep - it was unlikely that we would roll off the roof, but if we dislodged a roof tile ... better to lie still.