“That doesn’t actually mean private,” Samarkar said, as Temur reseated himself beside her. “Not in the sense somebody who wasn’t caliph might use the term. It just means that only his closest advisors and current favorites will be present, not every minor functionary and courtier who wants to demonstrate an obligation or allegiance to the court.”
“Fewer favor curriers,” Temur said. Power was power, the world around. Though the trappings differed, the politics were the same.
“The important point,” said Ato Tesefahun, “is that Uthman’s war-band will not be present in force, although I doubt if we can avoid having to placate them entirely.”
Temur tapped his fingertips against one another. “Are relations so … uneasy between the caliph and his war leaders?”
“Where power is shared,” said Ato Tesefahun, “there is always tension. Uthman will no doubt use our quest—and the prospect of your future allegiance, Temur Khanzadeh and Samarkar-la—to solidify his authority.”
“Your human politics,” said Hrahima, prospecting through a plate of lamb in sharp-smelling sauce with her claw tips. She selected a nugget and pushed it into her mouth, wrinkling her nose at the spices. “Is not your caliph a priest-king of the Scholar-God? And yet his position is so precarious?”
Samarkar looked up first, the opportunity to discourse on politics too much for her. While Ato Tesefahun waved a servant to the kitchens—for raw meat for the Cho-tse, Temur presumed—the wizard smiled tightly and began. “The caliph is, indeed, a sort of priest-king. He is elected from the priesthood by the men who serve the Scholar-God, and often the courses of these elections follow bloodlines and dynasties. But the men who may compete for the role raise warlord-bands, like any would-be Khagan”—Samarkar raised her eyebrows at Temur, and he swallowed hastily; better get to work on that—“and they must keep the will of those warlord-bands behind them, or … the usual repercussions follow.”
“Civil war,” said Hrahima.
“Regime change,” said Ato Tesefahun.
Samarkar said, “Sometimes the elections do little more than confirm the outcome of the fighting.”
“And if they do not?” Temur asked.
Samarkar’s smile was tight. “More fighting.”
5
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife read aloud while al-Sepehr sat in close-lidded contemplation. Through the discomfort of hearing the words, he focused on their meaning—hands folded, head tipped back—until a sense of presence roused him.
Someone watched from the doorway. Al-Sepehr thought at first that he was seeing a ghost. Not one of the Qersnyk blood ghosts, but a proper Uthman haunt, a soul rejected by the Scholar-God and yet unable to find its way to Hell.
Just within the door stood a slender figure in breeches and a sashed knee-length robe woven in the dusty colors of hard-baked desert. Two wheel-lock pistols were thrust through the sash, the long chased barrels angled carefully down and away from the body. They shared space with a scimitar and a dagger.
The figure’s face was obscured by the wraps of an indigo veil, but even from across the room, even with his own failing eyesight, al-Sepehr could see the striking lightness of the eyes that fabric framed.
Shahruz: that was the name al-Sepehr’s lips framed—but Shahruz was dead, head caved in by a Qersnyk war mare as he had been about to finish that steppe-born boy nuisance Re Temur for good and all.
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife had ceased reading. In the silence, al-Sepehr glanced around the chamber, seeing its empty spaces, few cushions, heavy lap desk resting on short legs propped on the golden stone floor. His wife was looking up at him from behind it; seeing his gaze upon her, she quickly and demurely ducked her head. Her eyes were still clear brown. She had not yet begun to stumble over the ancient words. That was good. It meant a while yet before al-Sepehr must again remarry.
It was then that he realized that he was standing, and that she had stopped reading because he had come to his feet. “Go, beloved,” he said to her, with an encouraging smile. He did not wish her to think she had displeased him.
Head still bowed, her robes twisting in the wind of her passage, she scuttled for the door. The figure in desert garb and the indigo cowl of the Nameless stepped aside fluidly to give her room. Now that his startlement had passed, and as he moved a step or two closer, al-Sepehr could see that the flare of hip and swell of bosom outlined under the man’s garb were anything but masculine and that the figure was some inches shorter than Shahruz. The cuffs of the trousers had been skillfully hemmed up. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled.