My brain was dull this morning. I had spent half the night searching for the type of poison that could produce the effect I had witnessed in Hamed, without success, and the other half gazing at the picture in the locket. Now, I needed a full carafe of strong tea just so I would think straight.
It was with my head still reeling with the night's event that I took the direction of the kitchen. In general, princes did nothing by themselves—not even wash. They certainly didn't get their own food. Servants did everything for us. They worked nonstop. Over half of the palace's population was made up of servants of one kind or another: bath attendants, cooks, maids, gardeners. They were everywhere. Well, everywhere but my rooms. Perhaps it was me, growing suspicious with age, or maybe it was the many intrigues involving servants I had witnessed with time. Whichever the case, years ago I broke with tradition and decided not to have any personal servants, as they were susceptible to betrayal. Not necessarily by character flaw mind you, but they could easily be convinced by force. So I'd rather get my own meal and ask for services from the palace servants whenever I needed it rather than have a potential spy permanently stationed in my household.
Exiting the long, white corridor of the old palace's section, I entered its more ornate new addition. Here, instead of plain windows, the walls were pierced with intricate gilded latticework. Bright depictions of peacock feathers shimmering in blue, green and gold decorated the walls.
Knowing that I was going to take this route, I'd chosen to wear simple pants, chemise and kaftan in the same hue as these walls—blue-green. This morning I wanted to be invisible. I didn't feel up to playing average, which wasn't a simple thing to do: if one looked too strong one could be seen as a threat, but looking too weak meant one was an easy target. It was a hard balancing act, like walking on the edge of a sword.
I entered the registry hall. As usual my eyes fell on the gold frame and beautiful cream vellum of the registry. The name and birth rank of each prince was artfully penned on the registry. I noted that a black dot covered poor Hamed's number indicating his passing. The registry was updated daily. Tomorrow Hamed's name would be gone and the names below his would be shuffled around a lot before settling in a permanent position. Ranks tended to fluctuate depending on the weight of gold passing from the princes' mothers' hands to the tabulator's. Of course, the Sultan could stop this at any moment. But very few Sultans had done this. And neither did our father. So by now no rank was accurate anymore. Take me for instance; I should be ranked forty-four instead of fifty-five, but having no one to bribe the tabulator, my rank could only go down. Not that it mattered much. The tabulator was rumored to keep an unmodified registry stashed away, and it was this registry that my father would consult in the end. But most princes believed that Father would compare those two registries and choose the prince who had climbed in ranking the most. The other prevailing rumor was that the registry was useless, that only our actions counted and that they were all noted by the Grand Vizier. This rumor I believed.
I shrugged and hurried ahead. In my rushing, I turned the corner leading to the Great Hall a bit too fast and collided with my brother Darius.
"Ah, watch where you're going!" Darius grunted.
Not losing a second, I leaped back and bowed—more by prudence than respect. Darius was the most powerful of all my brothers and in my opinion the most dangerous. No other brother had more deaths linked to his name than he. I cursed myself for making such an avoidable mistake. Darius was certainly not hard to spot. Contrary to me, Darius wanted to be noticed, and dressed in consequence: bright red silk clothing, huge turban and overstuffed kaftan, anything to make him look bigger than he really was. And the thickness around his waist wasn't fat either, an over abundance of silk, no doubt. Darius was too smart to allow his body to become fat and slow.
"My most sincere apology, brother," I said.
Darius didn't reply. He just stared at me with narrowed eyes. A bad sign, I thought. Then again, Darius always looked at me that way, as if my presence alone in his vicinity offended him. I often wondered what incident had caused this profound dislike, a feeling I'd come to reciprocate with time. I believed it had its roots in our youth. Slowly Darius raised his hawk-beak nose high in the air. He hadn't inherited the classic profile of the Ban: a flawless profile I was proud to bear and why most portraits of our ancestors showed them from the sides. Still, Darius was handsome despite his hawk profile, or perhaps because of it—I couldn't tell. One thing was sure though, Darius knew he was handsome; and he wasn't going to hide his good looks under a beard, not even the shadow of one. Clean-shaven men were a minority in the palace. Wearing a beard was a more traditional look for a Telfarian prince. Was Darius's choice to go beardless just another way to get noticed?
I was still pondering this, when Darius closed the space separating us and his towering shadow fell over me. "You struck me," he said.
"It was an accident. I'm truly sorry for it." I meant every word.
"Really!" he said. "For some reason, I don't believe you."
I felt my guts twist. I knew what was coming—a duel for his bruised honor. Damn!
Outright murder was forbidden in the Cage. If caught in the act one could lose all rank. But if offended, a prince could kill his brother in an honorable combat—as long as it was overseen and authorized by the Grand Vizier. Sadly, princes got offended at nothing. And although months had passed since the last duel, I remembered a week which held as many as three duels per day. Many of my brothers saw their last days that week. Was today going to be my last day?
Just then I noted a group approaching behind Darius. Composed of eighteen of my brothers and their personal servants, this group formed Darius's court and followed him everywhere he went. Pledging allegiance to a powerful brother was a way of escaping a duel with him and securing one's survival after his crowning. I watched the group circle us. Dressed in Darius's vibrant fashion, my brothers resembled a flock of exotic birds. I peeked at my dull clothes and thought, Crow. With a sigh of resignation, I looked back at Darius.
He gave me a predatory smile.
I was readying myself for the words: "You have offended me," to come out of his mouth, when someone behind me said: "Hey, you're blocking our path to the kitchen."
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ibrahim and his court approaching. Second most powerful brother, Ibrahim had fifteen supporters in his court. It was rumored that he was our father's favorite and most likely to become the next Sultan. Tall and fair-skinned, he favored clothes of dark shimmering hues of gray. His kaftan was trimmed in black fox and a bejeweled saber always hung at his hip.
Ibrahim's eyes skipped over me to settle on Darius. He smiled while twirling the tip of his waxed mustache, an action he often did. Ibrahim was very proud of his thick mustache. "You're in my path, Darius," he said.
"I'm always in your path, this isn't new," Darius replied. "You'll have to wait, Ibrahim. I have unfinished business here."
Ibrahim frowned. "Business, with whom?" He shot me a look of contempt. Ibrahim had decided long ago that I wasn't a threat. To him I barely qualified as an annoyance. Still having his cold calculating gaze on me was by no means pleasant. "You don't mean with our scholarly brother, Amir!" Ibrahim exclaimed; then he burst into laughter.
His supporters looked unsure of what to do, but as Ibrahim's rule over them was one of terror and violence, they followed his example and laughed too.
Seeing this as a chance, I turned to Darius. "Perhaps we could pursue this conversation another day."
Face pinched, Darius made the slightest of nods. Good enough for me. I scurried away, leaving the two factions to face each other. Only when I had put three turns of corridor between me and my brothers did I allow myself a break.
Resting against the wall, I exhaled heavily. This had been too close a call.
Although he was as vicious as a rabid dog, I wasn't afraid of Ibrahim—not much anyway; Darius however worried me. He was smart and saw everyone as a potential rival, even me. I believed this attitude came from not having the protection and push of a high-ranking or influential mother. Like me, and many other princes for that matter, Darius was the product of the "fancy-of-one-night" as it was called. Neither of us knew who nor where our mothers were. Raised by eunuchs and palace attendants, and taught by tutors, princes like us had to be clever to escape the harem's intrigues. Showing too much smarts and potential at a young age was dangerous. In general, smart motherless princes tended to die young. In comparison Ibrahim's childhood had been easy and sheltered. The son of a Sultana, one of the four official Sultan's wives, he and his four full-blooded brothers were raised in the safety of her apartment. They formed a real powerhouse, those five—a cruel and deadly one.
I sighed. A few years back, I might have joined Darius's court, if he had asked me. Now it was too late—much too late. Things had happened between us that just couldn't be mended. All I could do was to wait for the day when Ibrahim and Darius would confront each other. Sadly that day was still far away. For the moment, they were content to growl at each other while dispatching weaker brothers or bulling them into allegiance. No more mistakes, Amir. He's aware of you. With this in mind, I moved toward the kitchen.
* * *
Carrying food for two days and for three persons, I took the direction of my tower. I wasn't bound to bring my mentally ill brothers food; if I didn't the palace's servants would take care of it. However, Mir and Jafer might refuse food from strangers—Mir in particular, his distrust of servants was stronger than mine—and I owed them for guarding my door. So I gladly did it.
Careful of every step, I reached the top of the stair without dropping anything. The huge silver platter I held with both hands bent under the weight of all this food. Aroma of saffron and herb stew teased my nose as I walked. My stomach began growling. I ignored it and looked ahead. As I passed the tall mirror I had placed at the corner of the corridor leading to my quarters (to see people approach from my door's grid), I caught a glimpse of myself. I looked more like a kitchen servant than a prince. I smiled. Pretty good, I thought, and walked to Jafer's door.
He began screaming and howling immediately.
"It's me, Jafer," I said. "I bring you food."
Calmed down, Jafer approached the broken grid of his door's window. His brown eyes were wide and glossy. The dark circles surrounding them seemed more somber than usual. It made me question when he had last slept. It also saddened me to see him this way. If healthy, Jafer would've been serious competition for Darius. Only a few years ago, Jafer was handsome, bright and strong. I sighed; only a few years ago he was sane.
"Evil is afoot. Its stench is everywhere." Jafer's voice was raspy from too much yelling. "Demons! Demons hidden in dark clouds. I hear them. Hear them speak all the time. Their voices are terrible, so terrible."
"I know, I know," I said. "I'll do my best to chase them away."
The deterioration of Jafer's mind had begun in his late teens. By now he was utterly mad. Agreeing with him and offering help was the only thing that soothed him . . . only to a point though. Jafer had to be kept under lock, because he could become violent without notice. But most times he just hurt himself and couldn't be trusted with anything sharper than a wooden spoon. Once he found a dagger and tried to stab himself in the ears to stop the voice in his head. Jafer was also prone to visions, or as some called it, "prophesying." In my opinion this had more to do with lack of sleep and bad digestion than anything else. These bouts of delirium were usually announced by a powerful sugary smell emanating from his entire body. There was no such smell in the air right now, so I unlocked the slot cut in his door and passed several plates of food to him, pilaf rice and roasted chicken, bowls of olives, dates and apricots and two loaves of bread. I didn't bring any water. Every room in the palace had its own fountain. Once I was done, I bid Jafer good day and moved to Mir's door.
Mir was quieter than Jafer, his door locked from the inside instead of the outside. He barricaded himself three years ago, believing that everyone in the palace was out to kill him. In this he was not that far off. For some, life in the Cage was intolerable. Mir belonged to those who were unable to cope with the constant threats and intrigues of the Cage. Although the stress had not led him to commit suicide, as it had many. But he did live his life in a state of permanent terror.
I knocked and waited. I knew Mir was on the other side, glued to the door, listening. "Mir . . . if you don't answer soon, I will leave."
Mir's window grid opened. Hard black eyes stared at me. "Are you alone?"
"Yes."
"Have they followed you?"
"No. I was careful." I tried not to smile. Mir always asked the same questions.
His meal slot opened with a metallic clank. I began pushing plates in.
"This isn't right," Mir said after the second plate of fruit and cheese—Mir loved goat cheese. (I suspected it was at the origin of the foul smell coming out of his room—leftover cheese and bad housekeeping.) "There's too much food. What's happening?"
I sighed. "Nothing. I won't leave my room tomorrow, that's all."
A flash of suspicion crossed Mir's eyes. "Why?"
While I racked my brain for some reassuring explanation to give my brother, I noted a bright object on the ground, a shiny brass bell. "What's this bell doing in the corridor?" I said, picking it up.
"EVIL . . . the stench of evil is everywhere!" Jafer shouted at my back.
"There's no evil, Jafer, please, stop worrying," I said in a voice I wanted light. Pocketing the bell, I added, "You too, Mir. I'm staying in to work, to study."
"Liar!" Mir said. He always caught my lying; I didn't know why I still tried. Stubbornness, I suppose. "There's a plot, isn't it." Mir continued. "That why this man came to see you—to plot! To plot against us!"
I frowned. "What man? What are you talking about?"
Mir blinked repetitively. "A man came after you left. He went into your room. I heard noises, and then he left."
I glanced at my door then back at Mir's eyes. "Who was it? What did he look like?"
"I don't know his name. He was tall and pale. Not a servant—a brother."
"Was he blond?"
"Perhaps, no one can tell what's under a turban." Mir then slammed his grid shut.
I rushed to my door and found it unlocked. With the silver platter precariously balanced in one hand and my sword in the other, I nudged the door open.
I winced. My rooms had been ransacked. Hundreds of books piled up in tumbling mounds dotted the rugs; my writing desk was toppled over with its inkwell spilled over embroidered cushions staining their exquisite designs. I followed the trail of debris to the entrance of my bedroom. This room too was a mess. Disgusted, I turned around. Immediately, my eyes went to the spiral staircase at the back of my reading room. I grimaced, certain that the upper level of my library was in the same disastrous condition as this one. A dark spot bobbing about in my fountain caught my eye; something was floating inside its blue and gold ceramic basin.
Cursing under my breath, I dropped the platter on the windowsill and dashed to the fountain. "Ahh . . . the bastard!" I let out, fishing a rare and precious booklet out of the water. The booklet was ruined: its meticulously painted illuminations smudged, the gold embossed leather bounding its exquisite verses of poetry drenched . . . totally ruined. Squeezing the dripping poetry booklet, I stared at my room. Rage abruptly engulfed me. I was so angry, I could've screamed, but instead I walked to my desk and straightened it. It's going to take me a full day to right this room . . . better start now.
I went to fetch the platter and stopped to admire the view outside the window, which was of a tower identical to mine. While staring at its beige brick wall, I took a series of deep, long breaths. The view was boring, yet this blandness was also calming. My worst moments of torment were often spent by this window. In the Cage, one found solace where one could.
Once my temper was somewhat appeased, I bent to pick up the platter. From that position I could see past the corner of the facing tower and into the mausoleum's yard. Through this narrow space between the towers, I saw a blurry figure roaming the court. The faint sound of music touched my ears. I listened attentively. There was no doubt in my mind: this was the low complaint of a cimara, a stringed instrument only played at funeral processions. The cimara's strident, lamenting notes were said to emulate the sound of the human soul. Hamed's funeral procession. The music was fading, which meant that the cortège had left the mausoleum some time ago. By the sound of it, they were nearing the third courtyard. So who was this person lingering in the mausoleum yard? I stretched but failed to get a better view. I put the platter on my desk and hurried up the spiral staircase.
"Damn!" I let out once I saw the messy room. "Two days of work, no less."
After a frantic search through the piles of books and scrolls spread about the floor, I found my brass telescope. I twirled the instrument in my hand in a state of utter panic. The telescope was intact, and its precious lens still in one piece. Breathing a sigh of relief, I kissed the shiny brass tube twice. Shoving it under my arm, I went to the closet. Inside were shelves filled with ancient clay tablets and two big apothecary chests stacked one on top of the other. I gripped the top one—a bulky ebony block of small square drawers adorned with ivory knobs—and shoved it aside. Behind this chest was an old unsealed window.
I had discovered it while making an inventory of the chest's contents. The window opened directly onto the mausoleum and its yard. The yard was simple: green grass with a brick path leading to the mausoleum—a white marble building with an arched doorway and a gold domed roof. The figure stood near the mausoleum's entrance with his back turned to me. He was tall and wore a white turban. As for the rest of his clothes they were of a foreign fashion, short coat and skintight pants tied just under the knee with a ribbon. To make matters worse, this garment was of the most ghastly shade of powder blue and embellished with silver arabesques. In my opinion, this was a hue ill suited for a man. I then noted something in the man's hand. I put the telescope to my eyes. At first everything was out of focus. After some quick adjustments, the image became crisper. I moved the telescope slowly, going down the man's shoulder to his hand. I gasped. He was clutching a white tulip. Was he mad? The white tulip was the symbol of our dynasty; therefore all white tulips belonged to my father and were only allowed to grow in one place—the Imperial White Tulip Garden. How did he manage to get there unnoticed? I was baffled—totally baffled. Not only was the White Tulip Garden outside the Cage, but it was also one of the most heavily guarded areas of the palace. For good reason, tulips were worth twenty times their weight in gold. Numerous conflicts had been waged over the ownership of a single tulip bulb.
As if sensing that he was watched, the man suddenly whipped around. I quickly focused my attention on his face. His eyes were identical to mine, almond-shaped and light brown, and so was his nose, straight and fine. His jaw was squarer than mine and his skin very fair and without any beard or mustache. I judged him younger than I, and although I couldn't see his hair, the paleness of his eyebrows told me that he was blond.
I lowered the telescope and stared at him. He seemed uneasy and kept looking over his shoulder. After a moment he stopped fidgeting and entered the mausoleum.
I stayed at the window, my head filled with questions. Who was he? I had to admit it: I was a bit vexed that this brother had managed to become more anonymous than I. How did he leave the Cage? Not only was it impossible, it was forbidden. Who did he bribe to get there? Amidst all these questions two things were very clear to me: First, he was a brother. Second . . . I pulled the locket from my pocket; he'd ransacked my room looking for this.