Ahsan didn’t blame them for their faithless murmurs. He didn’t have faith in himself either. He didn’t even blame them for their whispers wondering if he was the best choice, whispers that asked if he should be disposed of outright so the real king could get on with his life. Even his own mother, his historic voice of reason, had asked for him to lay upon the sacrificial altar.

  He was beginning to think the lot of them may be right.

  6

  Ahsan felt Nirah’s eyes on him all morning. All afternoon, too, and into the early evening. Not once had she left his sights since their breakfast of sliced apricot, honeycomb, and boiled barley arrived. When he merely picked at his food without eating, she sent for date-stuffed bread, but he didn’t even eat that. By lunch time, she ordered boiled pheasant and pestered him into taking a few bites, but even a mouse would have eaten more.

  “This is getting ridiculous.” Nirah pushed herself up and dusted off the backside of her saffron dress. She offered him a hand up. “Come on. Now.”

  He stared up at her from his corner of the floor, blank-faced. “What?”

  “No questions. Get up.”

  Though Ahsan wanted to protest, it would have taken more energy than he had to fight as Nirah dragged him into a new section of the palace, one he thought himself already familiar with. But, when she tugged him into a side room obscured by multiple twists in the hall, he quickly found that he was wrong. Ahsan stepped through the unassuming entryway, and into a sparse, solarium-like room with a shallow reflecting pool at its center. The tiles beneath the waters were as varied as rainbows. Jade, gold, alabaster, lapis, and more colors still caught the water’s light and rippled off its surface, dancing with every gush of water that spilled from the trickling fountain in the middle. He had grown used to the palace’s ostentatious displays of wealth, but here, tucked away from the eyes of others, this felt different. As if its ornamentation was made not to flaunt Sippar’s affluence, but for the simple enjoyment of its beauty. Sunrays poured in through the high windows, and the small space was so pleasantly warm that he may even be able to fall asleep in here.

  Aside from the fountain and its reflecting pool, the room held only seating cushions, plum velvet and mustard yellow, all as plush as an unshorn sheep. Ahsan collapsed undignifiedly to his knees atop one of the pillows. What was the point in maintaining his dignity? He was going to die anyway. Gathering no less than four pillows to cocoon around himself, he laid back and closed his eyes. He had no illusions sleep would come, though.

  Ice cold water splashed across Ahsan’s face.

  “Hey!” he yelped, jerking up. “What was that for?”

  Nirah stood across from him, one hand holding a cup and another planted on her hip. He wiped his face with the back of a sleeve, but the neck of his tunic was soaked.

  “I should ask you the same. You’ve been moping since yesterday, not to mention that you made asses of us in front of the chief tax farmer!”

  He stared up at her, blinking, willing his face to stay neutral. “So?”

  “So? The less convincing you are as king, the less convincing we are as a unit. You think the gods will fall for that?”

  “Have you considered that I don’t care whether they do or don’t?” He watched as Nirah chewed on whatever retort she had brewing, part of him pleased to find her without one at the ready. “I die either way.”

  “You’ve given up on escape, then? Not that I approve, but I didn’t think you’d be so easily talked out of it.”

  Ahsan flopped back onto the ground and looked away, jaw hardening. He focused on one of the skylights set high in the wall.

  “When we met you were this awkward, animated guy, even if a bit straight-laced. Whatever this is,” she gestured broadly at him with a wave of her arm, “it’s weird. What’s gotten into you?”

  “I saw my mother yesterday morning.”

  After an expectant pause, Nirah asked, “And?”

  “She told me I should see this through. Being imposter king.” He would have continued, had his throat not started to feel gummy. The backs of his eyes prickled.

  Silence stretched between them. When she at last spoke, her voice had softened by a fraction. “That’s… terrible.”

  “She’s right, though.” He sighed. “You said the same thing.”

  “I’m not your mother. But…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze flitted away.

  “But what?” Though he was usually the first to defend his mother’s honor, right now part of him bristled at the idea of someone else doing as much.

  “Is she slow?”

  “She’s exceptionally bright.” He kicked himself. It seemed he was unwilling to hear any criticisms either.

  “From the way you speak about her, I’d think if she cares for you half as much as you care for her, and if she’s smart, then she must have a reason for what she said.”

  “Mm,” he grumbled noncommittally. Laying back down, he closed his eyes against the evening’s reddening sunlight.

  Another cup of water splashed across his face.

  “Hey!” He lurched up again, prepared to leap to his feet. “What was that for this time?”

  “I’m not going to apologize!” Nirah stood with feet shoulder length apart, as if she expected him to come barreling towards her, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment despite her non-apology. “You have every right to be sad, and I have no way to help you, but what I can do is snap you out of it!”

  “You— Agh!”

  Ahsan dodged another splash of the icy water and heard it slap against the floor behind him, him sidestepping to grab her wrists with each hand. Nirah faced him down, crinkling her nose as she searched his face. A face that he now felt reanimate with that spark of life. Small, but beginning to rekindle.

  “Next time something like that happens, just tell me.” She held his gaze, eyes as sharp and golden as a hawk’s. “I know we’re not actually husband and wife, but it makes coordinating this thing a whole lot easier if I know what’s going on.”

  He released her wrists and stepped back, swallowing down the lump in his throat from their sudden closeness. “Deal.”

  Nirah looked him up and down with a smiling nod, satisfied with herself, and set the cup aside. “Now, I think you need a bit of mischief if you’re to shake off these low spirits for good.”

  “You don’t exactly seem like the type who’d go looking for trouble.”

  “Confident for someone who has known me for, what, four days?” She shot him a slick smile. “Besides, mischief doesn’t necessarily mean mayhem.”

  “I get the feeling you already have something in mind.” He folded his arms and tilted his head, curious. And admittedly a bit eager, too.

  “The king’s quarters. Not the suite they have us in now, but the king’s real quarters.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then the king’s courtyard. Not the ones everyone else has access to,” she said, cutting him off as she saw yet another objection form in his mouth, “but his private courtyard. It would be attached to his rooms.”

  Somehow that felt even more intrusive than riffling through the man’s drawers.

  “Oh, come on.” She gave him another shove. “It’s not as if we’d be breaking in. It’s your courtyard anyway, right?”

  He was almost distracted by the conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes, but she did have a point. As the one sitting upon the sacrificial altar, Ahsan should be allowed to enjoy some of the privileges that came with his position, right? Before he was either dead or on the run, he might as well take a few risks while he had the chance.

  “Fine.” At last, he grinned. “Let’s go exploring.”

  The king’s private courtyard was a work of art. While Ahsan expected the rooms and adjoining courtyard to be ostentatiously oversized, it was actually quite intimate. Gauzy blue curtains fluttered around the canopy bed, and two plush divans sat around a low table. Ahsan looked up to find the ceiling gilded with pinpricks of pearl and gold, mirroring the heavens. On the queen’s side, there was a painting of a man with a strong coiled beard and heavy brow, but whether it was meant to represent the king of their son, Ahsan wasn’t sure. Though resplendent, the space didn’t look big enough to entertain. But then, as it was only ever used by the king, his wife, their accompanying Mesdi, and his gardeners, it did not need to be any larger.

  It was doubtlessly for that very reason that the Mesdi had been so hesitant to allow Ahsan or Nirah entry. However, at the risk of revealing their plans to the gods, they could not openly refuse either of them entry. In an effort to protect some shred of Meshki-Angasher’s privacy, though, Apil and Yarum stood at the arched entryway to the king’s chambers from the courtyard, lest Ahsan or Nirah try to wander back in. That was fine by him: no pottery, no tapestries, nor anything else could compare to the wonder that was the courtyard.

  Rows of willowy trees spilled heaving blossoms and featherlike leaves around Ahsan and Nirah, petals spangling the stone walkway. Fragrant grasses and herbs sighed in the breeze. A series of ivy-covered pergolas swept over the paths, each leaf and bud swaying. Not only was it a visual feast, but a physical one too. Fruits in sizes and colors Ahsan had never seen hung from shrubs, trees, and sprawling vines; blood red and tiny, bright yellow and succulent, bulbous and purple. He could only imagine what they tasted like.

  “He can roll out of bed and simply pluck whatever fruit he wants straight from the garden,” Nirah said.

  “Be realistic, Nirah,” Ahsan chuckled. “Even if it were a foot away from him, he would still send a servant to fetch it.”

  She snorted and dragged her fingers over the glossy beaded surface of what looked like a cluster of blackberries, only white and with a slightly golden hue.

  “Never seen a fruit like that.” He squatted down alongside the bush and carefully tapped the thorns wrought along its vines. They were large and sharp, surprising for a garden of such importance. As laborious as the task was, he had heard of nobles ordering their gardeners to de-thorn their plants.

  “I think I have, but only once. Bet it’s exotic,” Nirah said. “White mulberry, maybe?”

  She popped off a handful and offered one out to him. He took it, though not without shooting a glance over his shoulder at the guards. Pretending to be the king was one thing, but stealing from his personal garden felt like a violation. Thankfully, Apil and Yarum were chatting amongst themselves.

  Nirah tilted her head back and dumped the handful into her mouth. Immediately, her face turned sour. Whatever the unpleasant taste was, she fought through it and swallowed them down. “Ugh, I don’t think those were ripe.”

  Ahsan flicked his into the garden bed. “I’ll pass.”

  “What, are you afraid? I can’t be the only one who suffers.”

  “Finally, you understand how I feel,” he snickered.

  He caught the shimmer in her eye, her surprise that he was starting to make jokes about his predicament, but before he could say anything more she clutched her head.

  “Oh.” Nirah grumbled and squeezed her eyes shut. “I think I need to lie down.”

  “What is it?”

  Though Ahsan had to swallow down the lump in his throat, he rested the back of his hand against her forehead. She was clammy, and her color was fading.

  “I don feel tho well.”

  Ahsan’s brows rose, and though he knew it was impolite to laugh, he was tempted to do just that. The slur of Nirah’s speech struck an amusing contrast for someone as quick-witted as her—but more than anything else, it worried him.

  Something may have made her ill. But could mere fruit do such a thing? Rarely, he had heard of infants and young children who reacted to certain foods, but if they didn’t overcome it, it took their lives. Never had he seen an adult with such an ailment, and he hadn’t seen Nirah show any caution around food either.

  “Is your tongue swollen?” he asked. When she shrugged, he tugged on her jaw to look into her mouth. It was normal sized, thank the gods.

  “I ca feel it.”

  “Can? Or can’t?”

  She stared at him with eyes as narrow as her patience, and a sliver of her flame shone through. “Why wou I tell you if I cou feel it?”

  That she felt well enough to take a jab at him, even in her state, calmed him.

  “Okay, so you can’t feel your tongue, and what else? Do you want to see the physician?”

  She shook her head, and Ahsan had to admit he felt a touch of relief. Entering the king’s private garden was already stretching whatever sway his fake title held, but stealing fruit from it may have gone a touch too far.

  She tipped her head sideways and closed her eyes, shaking her head. He had only seen people like this when gorged on strong ale or opium. “I jus wanna go bed.”

  “A good idea, I think.”

  Prepared to steady her should she need it, Ahsan hovered a hand over her back. Nirah took all of three steps before she swayed sideways. He lurched forward to catch her, and just in time.

  “Easy now,” he said. “If I hadn’t seen you eat those, I would think you’re drunk.”

  “Psh. I much rader I were.”

  He couldn’t tell if she sounded amused or embarrassed, and despite the dismissive flap of her hand, she sagged in his arms. It wasn’t that she was heavy, but rather that Ahsan was weak. Not that he was about to say as much. His biceps and shoulders strained as he straightened. It wasn’t likely she’d be able to get her feet under her any time soon.

  “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

  He hefted her up once more to adjust his grip, then, ignoring the burn in his forearms, took the garden path back. When he returned to where Apil and Yarum stood, Nirah in his arms, the guards’ eyes bugged out of their skulls. Belshun had arrived to speak with the other two, but upon seeing Nirah and Ahsan, the lesser guards only laughed.

  Ahsan tossed them a raised brow.

  “Do not mind them,” Belshun explained. “They merely suspect you of having defiled His Highness’s private courtyard.”

  Ahsan would have dropped Nirah out of embarrassment, were one of her arms not looped around his neck.

  “Stop assuming foul things,” he said to cover for his burning cheeks.

  “Yeah, ‘elshun, stop being a perbert.” Nirah added. Despite her serious tone, the finger she pointed at the Gal Mesdi swayed.

  Belshun tucked his smile away, and inclined his head. “At once, Your Ladyship.”

  Forgetting his role, Ahsan returned the gesture and continued on. After carrying her back to their quarters—not all in one go, since he lacked the strength and they had to stop every few halls when her vertigo worsened—he tried to sit her on the bed, but she protested that she was not tired and that, even if she were, she could manage on her own.

  “It’s night time. You’re supposed to be tired.” It was like trying to put a child to bed. Could the fruit have been fermented and gotten her drunk? There were tales from far southwest of elephants, towering beasts, that became drunk off mere fruit. Perhaps this was the same phenomenon.

  “Dis isn’t de temple, I don’t hab a curfew here.”

  “The guards enforce—” Ahsan snapped his mouth shut. Her slurred speech, though fading, threatened to make him laugh. “Nevermind. You can stay up, but early tomorrow I have to go to some Records Hall, which—”

  “De Records Hall?” Nirah’s shoulders jumped as her eyes sparkled, jaw going slack for the first time Ahsan could recall.

  “Er, yes?”

  “Good gods.” She dragged a hand down her face and smudged the kohl around her eyes. “Why do none of my dasks dake me vere?”

  He suppressed a snort. “You’re going to hate me even more then.”

  “Why?” She leaned forward.

  “I have no idea what the place even is.”

  “Ahsan-Sin!” She swatted him on the arm, but it held no malice. “I can’t blame you, not on the dop of people’s minds, but still.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “I wish, but dat’s usually a duty of the High Priestess.” She sighed. A small pout distractingly puffed out her lower lip. “I’m a long way off from dat, if I ever get there at all.”

  “So, she has aspirations,” he remarked with an arched brow. He may not have been a fan of Nirah’s water-throwing, nor their romp around the king’s private courtyard, but her scheme had worked. He felt lighter.

  “I introduced myself as future High Priestess, didn’t I? And, in a different life, if Tilhar didn’t hate me, I might’ve actually been able to become dat.” Her laugh turned to a sigh. “I’ve been working my way up since I was thirteen. Six years later and I’m not far from where I started. So many other girls have come and passed me by, too!” Catching herself, Nirah leaned back and smoothed the front of her billowing dress. At least it seemed her stutter was beginning to go away. “Anyhow, de Records Hall holds the largest document collection, private and personal both, this side of the Tigris. Do you know why they’re taking you there?”

  “I’m supposed to review their livestock budgets for the past year and approve the new ones.”

  She blinked. “Was it boredom that the oracle predicted the king would die from?”

  “I’m finding that most of the king’s day is boring. Aside from the food and access to whatever you want, the bones of it are dull.”

  “Pft.” Nirah made a crude sound. Though her lisp was almost entirely gone, something about the sound wasn’t quite right, which only amused him more.

  “Why are you interested in the Records Hall, anyway, if you think it’s so boring? Can you read?”

  “Of course not. You have to be higher up in the priestesshood to start taking lessons,” she said, lips in a sour twist.

 

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