The Ruby Prince: Book Two of Imirillia (The Books of Imirillia 2) (14 page)

No movement.

Basaal slowly lowered the dagger as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Nothing waited in the corners, and all was as it should be. His heartbeat pressed against his chest, filling his ears so that the noises of the night-filled city were swallowed up in the constant pounding. Basaal took a step forward and waited.

It must have been in his mind.

Breathing out, Basaal reined in his pulse. His guards would be standing at their posts, and they would have heard something. Basaal moved closer to the open doors and through the archway and was about to call out to them, when he saw it, a deep puddle, black against the cool, white floor. A hand lay open on the floor, the guard’s body sprawled across the growing pool of blood.

Basaal spun around just as a figure flew towards him. The assassin held a knife in each hand as he crashed into Basaal, sending his own dagger flying across the chamber. Basaal fell to the floor and twisted on his side, rolling once he had hit the ground, and raising himself in a crouch before the assassin.

“Who sent you?” Basaal hissed as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. The shadow, with a flick of his wrist, sent a small dagger spinning towards Basaal’s heart. But Basaal threw himself to the side, feeling the blade graze his bare arm.

Then the man ran towards him, his dagger slicing at Basaal with incredible speed. Basaal jumped back, arching his back away from the blade, feeling the tip marking the skin below his chest. After the assassin’s arm had passed, Basaal grabbed the man’s shoulder and flung him towards the ground.

“Who sent you?” Basaal repeated his question, the anger strong in his voice. The assassin quickly regained his feet but not before Basaal was able to pick up his own discarded dagger and attack, thrusting it towards the black shadow. But the blow did not strike anything, and the assassin spun away, kicking Basaal in the stomach.

Dropping back, but still clutching his weapon, Basaal readied himself as the assassin withdrew another knife, throwing it expertly. Basaal turned quickly to the side, but the blade lodged itself in his left arm, and he cried out. He reached his hand up towards the hilt, pulling it out and throwing it back towards the assassin. It missed its mark and in the darkness, Basaal thought he saw the man smile.

Soon, voices could be heard, then running, and light began to bounce off the white walls of the corridor outside Basaal’s chambers. The assassin took three quick steps back then turned, jumping onto the large windowsill. He glanced over his shoulder, considering Basaal for a moment, before dropping into the night.

Basaal yelled after the assassin as his chambers filled with guards and servants.

“He’s hurt!” someone called out.

“Call the physician!”

Basaal brushed them away and sat, breathing deeply on his bed. Pulling his hand away from his left arm, he could see that the wound was deep and bleeding profusely.

Annan was there in what seemed an instant.

“The guards outside the door?” Basaal inquired, feeling light-headed.

“Both dead,” his friend confirmed, himself out of breath. “One with a slit throat; the other through the heart. It does not appear to be Vestan work, but you can never be too sure.”

“How am I supposed to fight a challenge tomorrow?” Basaal lashed out at no one in particular while his friend inspected the injury.

“Wait until Ammar comes to make any judgements,” Annan answered.

Soon, Ammar, still in his nightclothes, carrying a satchel, and followed by Tameez, was ushered into Basaal’s chambers. “Away,” he said as he motioned for the small crowd to disperse. “Annan, move everybody out!” Then Ammar sat on the bed next to Basaal and looked at his arm. “Is this the only injury?” he inquired calmly.

“The assassin grazed my right arm,” Basaal said. “But it’s nothing.” He brushed the sweat from his forehead.

“He grazed your stomach, too,” Ammar noted. Basaal looked down and saw a thin red line.

“Yes. I was clumsy enough that I should be dead,” Basaal said. “His skill was not greater than mine, but I felt unfocused and rattled.”

Ammar set about cleaning Basaal’s wounded arm as the bleeding began to slow, and then he pressed a clean white cloth against it. Basaal watched as the material turned red under his brother’s fingers. His surprise was wearing off, and the pain was increasing.

“You lead with your right arm, do you not?” Ammar asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re lucky, then,” Ammar said. “For, the emperor never reissues a challenge—it is tomorrow or never—so you will have to see it through.”

Basaal swore and threw one of his pillows across the room with his free hand.

“I would be lucky,” he said through clenched teeth, “except that Kiarash and I have already agreed to a double-blade fight, a scimitar in each hand.”

“Then,” Ammar said as he poured a concoction of oils onto the wound and began to wrap a clean bandage around the arm, “you had better be able to stand the pain.”

***

“Are you ready?” she heard someone say aloud and, probably, for the second time.

Eleanor looked up from the scroll of Shantar’s Philosophies to see Ammar waiting in her doorway, as impassive as ever.

“They’re beginning now?” she asked.

Ammar nodded.

“Such a strange thing,” Eleanor muttered, rolling the scroll and tying it closed with a leather string.

“Pardon?” Ammar said.

“It’s strange,” she repeated, “watching your fate be decided.”

Ammar did not answer but held the delicate curtains open as Eleanor passed into the hallway. “You seem calm despite your uncertain fate,” Ammar said at last as they walked down the hallway.

“Do not be fooled by years of practice,” she replied.

“I was called away last night,” Ammar volunteered. “It seems that an assassin was sent to kill—or injure—Basaal, seventh son.”

“An assassin?” Eleanor halted and put her hand on the physician’s arm. “Is he alright?”

“He will be,” Ammar said matter-of-factly. “I attended to him again this morning. The assassin threw a dagger deep into his left arm—remarkably, the blade was not poisoned.”

Eleanor winced. “He is in much pain, then?”

“Enough,” Ammar replied as he began walking again, and Eleanor followed. “I wonder at it, though,” the physician said. “Who was behind it? And what was their aim?”

Eleanor was not surprised that she could hear the noise from the throne room even before they had reached the space behind the lattice, for Ammar had promised that many people would attend. When they reached the hidden room, there were satin cushions waiting for them.

“It is hard to know how long this will last,” Ammar explained. “I thought we should at least be comfortable.”

“We?” Eleanor asked in surprise. “You’re not going down to the fight?”

Ammar shook his head and handed her a cushion before sitting himself and leaning against the wall. “I thought I would offer you companionship. If this goes badly—” he began but did not finish his sentence.

Eleanor dropped beside the lattice and pressed her palms against it, looking out at the people, standing so close to each other that they could hardly move. The energy of the room was strong as those gathered spoke in curious tones amongst themselves. Bright and beautiful, the clothing of the women sparkled in the light that spilled from the tall, open windows.

The gathering appeared almost celebratory, like a holiday or a festival. To them, Eleanor guessed, this event represented no more than a great entertainment. To Eleanor, however, tucked up in a secret room, watching helpless, it meant the future of her people and the fate of her own life. She put her hands to her forehead and closed her eyes.

“It looks like the beginning of a grand feast or gala rather than a fight,” Eleanor voiced her thoughts aloud. “Does this not happen often?”

“A challenge?” Ammar clarified as he leaned his head back against the wall. “No, but often enough that they all have seen one before.”

“Who can challenge?” Eleanor asked, tucking her knees under her chin and wrapping her arms around them, feeling the slight tremor in her hands again.

“A member of the royal family, who has a position for it, can challenge the emperor,” Ammar explained. “If the emperor declines the challenge, his decision stands, no questions asked. But, if he accepts the challenge, he will allow his decision to be altered on the side of the victor.”

“Does Shaamil always decide what the challenge will be?” Eleanor asked.

“Yes.”

“And is it always a fight?” she pressed.

“Almost exclusively,” Ammar replied. “Brothers have fought brothers—” he began.

Then a roar in the crowd swept away Ammar’s words, and they both turned their attention back to the throne room below them. Kiarash had entered. He was a strong man wearing dark green. His black eyes looked bright in his handsome face as he greeted the crowd. Then another cheer resounded, and Basaal entered.

“You could gamble that both of them have several weapons concealed, one of which will have been dipped in poison.”

“Poison?” Eleanor said. “This is just an exercise to best one another in skill. Surely, it won’t be to the death, will it?”

“Not often,” he said. “But challenges have before.” Ammar watched as the two brothers greeted one another in the center, leaning in to speak into each other’s ears, and exchanging smiles. “I’m sure this will not come to that,” he added. “But, one never knows. That is why it’s good to know who your true enemies are before you ask a challenge. For, the emperor always knows whom to match for the best fight.”

“There will be blood then?” Eleanor asked. “Someone will be hurt?”

“Oh yes,” Ammar said, pointing to a figure near the throne. “I’ve sent Tameez down, in my place, to attend to any injuries, if necessary.”

“So, if Basaal is to fight Kiarash for his right to lead the Aemogen conquest,” Eleanor said, “who will he fight for my life?”

“The emperor did not say,” Ammar replied. “He enjoys little moments of his own orchestrated suspense. In my view, it is one of his more irritating flaws.”

A sudden cloud of silence rose from the throne room, and Eleanor craned her neck to see the entrance of Emperor Shaamil. Draped in elegant robes of the deepest purple, he passed his sons with no recognition and sat down, both his arms extended comfortably on the armrests of his throne. Eleanor marked again how overwhelming the man was. His presence seemed to change everything, tinging each of Eleanor’s emotions and bearing down until it had drilled its way to the core, and then it struck like a desert serpent. She recoiled.

“One never gets used to his presence,” Ammar said rather matter-of-factly. “But, it’s always interesting to watch those brought before him for the first time. Some wish to be as close as they can, begging, as it were, for the power of his personality. Others,” Ammar said, motioning towards Eleanor, “know better.”

Two servants, each carrying a scimitar in both hands, approached the princes. Blood pounded through Eleanor’s throat as she watched Basaal take the first blade with his right hand then lift the second with his left. Although his expression was set, Eleanor could see the pain around his eyes. Basaal stepped back, sweeping both scimitars through the air, testing the weight of each weapon. Then he rolled his shoulders back, one at a time, to keep his muscles loose.

Kiarash paced back and forth, slicing his blades through the air, smiling and calling back at hecklers in the crowd. He threw one scimitar high into the air. Eleanor watched the light catch on the blade as it spun fiercely back down towards Kiarash’s waiting hand. Just as it seemed that the blade would slice through his fingers, Kiarash twisted his wrist and caught the blade up by the handle. The crown applauded, and he responded with a charming smile.

“Exhibitionist,” Ammar said under his breath. “He is trying to emotionally sway the audience to his side.”

“Will it work?” she asked. Eleanor looked back at Basaal, who was now standing still, his eyes closed, muttering a prayer, the blades crossed in front of him.

“No,” Ammar replied. “Basaal has had Zarbadast on his side since the day he was born.”

Eleanor made an unsurprised sound, and Ammar smiled.

Then the clear, silver sound of a trumpet rang through the throne room, and Eleanor leaned forward. She had expected to see them walk around one another, careful to weigh their opponent’s skill before engaging in the fight, as she had so often seen Basaal do on the battle run. Instead, Kiarash grinned at Basaal, and the two brothers ran at each other, their scimitars colliding in a terrible sound that slapped against the stone walls. The fury of their swordplay caught Eleanor off guard as both brothers moved with great skill and agility.

After several displays, that forced Eleanor’s heart up into her throat, they settled into a more steady fight. Kiarash spun both scimitars in a continual assault at Basaal, taking the aggressive lead, and Basaal, who relied heavily on his right arm, lifted his left only to fend off his brother’s attacks, grimacing as he was thrown into constant defense.

“Why does the emperor allow the people to see such discord among the ruling family?” Eleanor asked Ammar. “They look like they wish to kill each other.”