----------------------------------------
Chapter One
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The Prince of the city of Ajantha entered the House of
Kemel, surrounded by his guards and retainers, but with
very little fanfare. Two guards moved to block the doors
behind them, while the rest fanned out to protect their
Prince from any threat that might appear. They did not
expect trouble, since while not well-loved, their prince
*was* well-respected, but they were ever-vigilant in their
duties.

The employees of the house immediately descended on him
like a pack of dogs rolling over to bare their bellies and
necks before the alpha dog. The Prince stared down his long
hooked nose at the fawning mass, his lips curled into an
expression of disgust. While he expected the respect and
deference due to his position, he loathed obsequiousness.
Unfortunately, it was something he encountered every day.

There was a sharp handclap, and the servants melted away,
bowing -- and in more than one case almost crawling -- as
they backed up. To turn their back on the Prince would have
been a disrespect punishable by a flogging.

The overweight, richly-dressed man hurrying towards them
was obviously Kemel, the owner of the establishment. His
face was flushed and he was breathing hard. He was in need
of some good, honest exercise, the Prince thought to
himself with a sneer. Kemel spent to much time being waited
on, obviously. The Prince, however, had been trained as a
soldier in his youth and still sparred regularly to
maintain an impressive build.

"My Prince, you honor my establishment with your glorious
presence," the man said breathlessly as he came to a stop,
bowing low in the flamboyant manner that was currently the
rage in court.

"Indeed," the Prince said dryly. Of course he was honored;
a Prince spent more money than a commoner. As well, saying
that a Prince frequented your establishment was the best
sort of advertising.

"How can we serve your royal self?" the man asked, bowing
yet again, practically groveling. The Prince was tempted to
just kill the worm, but unfortunately, he was supplier of
the finest merchandise in the city. Merchandise that in
this case was important enough to bring the Prince out in
person instead of simply summoning the man to the palace.

"I need an... item. One that matches a very specific list
of requirements."

The Prince glanced around, pointedly, at the small crowd of
employees still watching intently from the corners of the
room. It wasn't every day that someone of royal rank came
to the House of Kemel, and they obviously hoped to find out
why. There were plenty who would pay highly for such
gossip.

Quickly understanding the meaning of the Prince's look,
Kemel finally straightened up and waved his people away.
"What are your requirements, Glory?"

"A slave. Noble-born, preferably. Attractive, naturally,
between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Male."

"Bed companion?" Kemel asked, suddenly all business. His
voice sharpened, and the Prince smiled. The slaver was not
as foolish as he liked to pretend. Suddenly, he found
himself almost respecting the man. Almost.

"Yes. But more importantly, a confidante, a companion."

"For yourself?"

"My son."

"We have a noblewoman from the north..."

"Male," he repeated. That surprised the slaver, he could
see, but while he was willing to be... flexible on the
other items, that was one requirement that he was not going
to back down on.

Kemel was silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he
considered the possibilities.

Finally he gestured towards a door. "Come with me, my
Prince. I do not know if I can exactly match your
requirements, but I do have one possibility." The Prince
nodded for the man to proceed, even though it would mean
turning his back on his Prince, and followed as the plump
man lead the way. "He is a recent acquisition, from east of
here. The grandson of a desert chieftain. His younger
brother sold him to one of my agents when the old man
died," the man said as he went.

"I take it that the older brother was to inherit?" It was
an interesting way to dispose of a rival. Usually, he would
expect the deposed brother to be killed to prevent him from
coming back to try to reclaim his place.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. However, he is... unusual
for his kind. An albino, but without the pink eyes. Because
of that, he cannot not go out in sunlight. It would have
been impossible for him to function as chieftain, despite
his grandfather's wishes. He even stepped aside in favor of
his brother, but if he stayed, it would have divided the
tribe, according to my agent. That's why the younger
brother sold him rather than kill him. It was necessary to
get rid of him, but he didn't have the heart to harm the
boy, even though there were those close to him that wanted
the brother dead."

The Prince nodded. An entertaining tale. However, "A desert
barbarian, even the heir of a chieftain, is hardly what I
would call noble-born," he pointed out.

"He is actually quite well-schooled, my Prince. Literate
and as well-read as a nomad can be. His grandfather
indulged his scholarly leanings. He is very graceful as
well, although with no training in the dance. However, he
does have a bit of a temper when pushed. We planned to
train him for a few more months to make him a little more
docile before selling him. Also," the man added
persuasively, "he is, as yet, a virgin."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "How old?"

"Just short of nineteen."

The Prince snorted softly. "I did not realize that you
could reach that age and still be a virgin."

Kemel shrugged. "His strange looks made his people consider
him possibly demon-sired. Between that and an
overprotective grandfather..."

The Prince nodded. This could actually work to his
advantage. A virgin might be more controllable. As well,
someone who'd been a target of his own people before being
cast out would be grateful for a place and protection. Yes,
this one sounded like he had potential. "Show me him."

Kemel nodded and led the way to a narrow stairway. The
Prince motioned one guard to follow, but indicated that the
rest should remain behind. The captain looked upset, but
nodded his obedience.

The stairway was steep and narrow, and led to an equally
narrow hallway, lined with lacy panels on either side. The
Prince stopped and looked through them.

To each side was a series of rooms. They were all quite
simple, with a pile of cushions in one corner, a few
objects for the occupants to entertain themselves with and
the occasional mosaic or tapestry to add interest to dull,
white-washed walls.

In the first room, an elegant woman with the slanted eyes
and yellow skin of the far east reclined on her pile of
cushions, playing a soft melody on a stringed instrument
sitting on her lap. The tune was haunting and unlike any
that the Prince had heard before. He watched her hands
moved and could easily imagine them moving equally
skillfully over an instrument of a different sort. His own
instrument swelled at the thought, and he quickly
controlled himself.

"They cannot see us through the screens," Kemel said softly
as he led his client on. The Prince smiled, realizing the
truth of the statement. If the occupants were to look up at
just the right moment, all they would be able to see was a
dim outline. As well, the screen would no doubt muffle
their voices. It was a very clever arrangement.

Halfway down the hall, Kemel stopped and gestured towards
the left. Stepping close to the screen, the Prince looked
down into the room.

Like the other rooms he'd noticed in passing, this one was
sparsely decorated. The only furniture -- if you could call
it that -- was a pile of cushions that appeared to serve
duty as both a seat and a bed. In a corner was a small
covered chamber pot, amusingly made from fine silver, he
noticed, amused. The outside wall was covered with a large
tapestry that depicted an angel and a demon engaged in a
battle that was more erotic than violent.

The slave was pacing his chamber, not impatiently, but more
from boredom, the Prince thought. As Kemel had said, the
young man showed great grace. If trained properly, he would
be the finest of dancers. Or warriors. It might even be
worth training him -- in secret, of course -- to be a
bodyguard for his son as well, since no assassin would
think a bedslave worth guarding against.

He wore mostly black; full pants with a high-necked tunic
over it, glistening with black on black decoration. It
served to emphasize the pallor of his skin, which was
almost completely without color, like an albino. And his
hair. It was white, but when the light hit it just right,
it seemed to shimmer a light... pink? Darker near the
roots. Whatever the cause, the result was beautiful and
exotic, just like the boy.

"Yes," the Prince said, almost a sigh. "He does not look
like a desert barbarian at all."

At the softly-spoken comment, the young man looked upwards,
somehow having heard them. The Prince met his eyes and
fought the urge to gasp. Albinos always had pink eyes, but
this boy's eyes were a silver that almost glowed in the
soft lamp-light. For a moment, he was sure that the boy
could see him clearly. But them he turned away and dropped
on his pile of black and silver pillows. He curled up on
them in a way that would seem almost calculated to entice
if he were not so obviously innocent.

The Prince smiled to himself. Perfect.

Staying silent, Kemel gestured the Prince to follow him to
the end of the hallway, where a door led to the man's
private offices.

The Prince sat, while Kemel, of course, remained standing.
"You say he has a temper?"

"As the son of a chieftain, he is not accustomed to taking
orders. When pushed, he pushes back. However, because of
his brother's actions, he is also given to bouts of
depression."

The Prince's satisfaction grew. Argumentative enough to
challenge Nemir, but vulnerable enough to appeal to a young
man's romantic and protective instincts.

"I will take him. My majordomo will collect him at sunset,
since you said that he is sensitive to light. I trust that
this will suffice?"

Kemel's eyes went wide as the Prince casually tossed him a
small velvet bag. Inside were five gemstones of the highest
quality. "It is far to much," he stammered, despite the
greed in his eyes.

The Prince waved the comment away. "In return, I expect you
to be discreet. Full details of the boy's origins are to be
kept confidential. However, if anyone asks -- and I am sure
they will -- I will name you as the source of the boy."

Kemel preened at the implied praise, as well as the
promise. The name of his House on the lips of the Prince
would bring him a great deal of new business.

"I will do as you ask," he said, bowing low. "The boy and
his possessions will be ready when your majordomo arrived."

"Good."

Business concluded, the Prince got to his feet and allowed
the slaver to lead him back down to the foyer. The easy
part -- finding an appropriate slave for his son -- was
complete.

More difficult would be getting the boy to *accept* his new
slave.

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Chapter Two
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Nemir rode his stallion through the gates into the
courtyard of his father's palace and allowed a groom to
take the reins while he climbed down. Then he reclaimed the
reins and led his mount towards the stables. Most nobles in
his age group would have simply handed the beast over to
the servants to tend to until the next time he wanted to
ride, but Nemir was not typical. Like his father before
him, he was trained as a soldier and he preferred to take
care of his horse, his weapons and his armor himself.

The stables of the Prince of Ajantha were famed throughout
the land for both its size and the quality of its beasts.
Only the finest of thoroughbreds were fit for the royal
stables. Thoroughbreds like Sirocco, Nemir's personal
mount.

He led the blood red stallion into his box stall and set to
removing the saddle and tack, setting the fine leather
aside to clean later. Then he took up a scraper and went
about removing the layer of sweat and desert sand that
dulled the stallion's normally bright coat.

There was a barely polite cough from the stall's door.
"What?" he barked, not stopping his grooming efforts or
turning around.

"My Lord, the Prince has commanded your presence as soon as
you returned to the Palace."

Nemir nodded, glancing at the messenger just long enough to
see the man's expression of disdain. He recognized him as
one of the minor nobles who infested his father's court,
doing as little as possible while trying to curry favor
with the Prince. "I will attend him as soon as I have
cleaned from my journey."

"Forgive me, my Lord," the man said, not sounding sorry at
all, "but the Prince requires your presence first. The dust
of the road does not offend him." The man bowed and backed
away, his expression clearly saying that it *did* offend
*him*.

Nemir frowned, but carefully did not allow his displeasure
to upset his stallion. His father might not care that he
was still covered with the sweat and dust of several days'
travel, but *he* did. After two weeks of inspecting the
forts that guarded Ajantha's borders with adjoining
princedoms, Nemir had been looking forward to a cool bath
and perhaps some sleep before reporting to his father.

Still, the Prince commanded his presence, so he would obey.
He finished grooming Sirocco, then covered him with a light
blanket. He picked up his saddlebags and tossed them over
his shoulder, then headed for the palace, pausing only long
enough to give orders to a stable boy on the feed for his
horse and the cleaning of his tack. He would return later
to make sure that his orders were followed properly.

The messenger was waiting for him outside the stable doors,
his nose pinched with displeasure and a perfumed cloth
raised to block the natural aromas of the stable. Nemir
sneered at the man's pretentious clothing and attitude, but
said nothing as the man led the way to his father's study.

He knew the way already, but obviously he was not trusted
to follow orders, Nemir fumed silently as he walked down
hallways tiled with marble. The walls on either side were
covered with bright frescoes that showed the history of
Ajantha in all its glory. He took some small pleasure in
the trail of dirt that he knew he was leaving in his wake,
even though the only ones who would suffer as a result were
the servants who would have to clean the floors later.

The messenger stopped outside the carved and gold-leafed
doors to the Prince's private study. He pushed the double
doors opened and dropped to one knee. "Your Glory, the Lord
Nemir," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he rose to his
feet and backed away to allow Nemir past before shutting
the doors.

Nemir bowed to the angle required. "My Prince," he said. He
lifted his head to regard his father.

The Prince of Ajantha was dressed simply in a tunic and
leather pants, like the retired soldier that he was.
However, the pants were of the finest leather, dyed the
deepest of black, and the tunic of rare silk, dyed the
indigo blue of the house of Ajantha and covered with
embroidery picked out in silver with inlaid gemstones that
sparkled in the lamp-light.

And unlike most nobles of his age, the Prince was lean and
well-muscled, thanks to daily practice with sword and bow.
He also still rode like the soldier he'd been in his youth,
the soldier his son now was. His hair was still a glossy
black, cut short. His skin was unfashionably tanned and his
face could never be considered more than distinctive with
its sharp chin and prominent nose, narrow and hooked,
looking like it would suit a hawk better.

The Prince did not look angry, which confused Nemir. While
he did not recall doing anything that might have angered
his father, he could think of no other reason why he would
have been summoned without even being allowed the time to
wash and change his clothing.

"Nemir," his father said with a small smile and nod. "I
have news for you." His tone was warm, but with a note...

Nemir stiffened. While that did not seem threatening, his
instincts said that he was not going to like the news. "I
am yours to command, my Prince."

"The Prince of Mathan has been in contact with me." Mathan,
Nemir knew, was one of the largest princedom's adjoining
Ajantha, and one with which they had a long and
antagonistic history. "He has a daughter."

Nemir's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. "Father--"

"No," the Prince interrupted, holding up a hand to
forestall the expected protests. "It was inevitable that
you would need to marry, and equally inevitable that it
would be for political reasons, as I did. Your duty as a
future prince to this city requires it, and you *will*
submit."

Then his expression softened. "However, the girl is only
twelve, so you will have five more years of freedom before
you must bind yourself to her and only her.

"But that does not mean complete freedom," he cautioned as
Nemir breathed a slight sigh of relief. "You are my heir,
which means you must take care. And above all, you must not
endanger the line of succession. For the last eight years,
you have been a soldier, devoting yourself to the way of
the Warrior. Now it is time for you to learn the way of the
Prince."

Nemir lowered his head in submission, not letting his
anguish show. He had known that this day would come, but he
had always told himself not yet. It seemed, however, that
'not yet' had become 'now.' "As you say, my Prince."

"There are those who would use you, my son. Now, more than
ever. There have been rumors of discord among the nobles.
They will seek favor with you, thinking you easy to
manipulate." The Prince smiled at the outrage in his son's
face. "They think wrong, of course. However..." His face
hardened. "One thing becomes paramount now. The line of
succession must be kept certain."

"I do not understand?" Nemir said, puzzled by his father's
roundabout comments.

"As heir, you will be sought by many, including the
daughters of those nobles who would manipulate you. They
will attempt to draw you to their beds, to reach your ear.
And if that does not work, they will seek to conceive a
child that could be used against you. Or to replace you, if
they can. That cannot be allowed."

The Prince tapped lightly on his desk made of imported
ebony. "There can be no bastards to endanger the throne,
therefore you will go to your marriage bed a virgin to
women. If I discover that you have broken this rule,
whether the girl is noble or slave or any rank between,
*she* will suffer for your indiscretion."

He regarded his son with sympathy. "That does not mean that
you need to be a virgin altogether. Indeed, I doubt that
you are a virgin now." Nemir flushed, remembering nights
where brother warriors shared bedrolls and more. No, no
virgin he.

"However, that does not mean that the nobles of the court
might not use their sons to control you either. So, I have
dealt with that as well.

"When you return to your chambers, you will find a new
slave waiting for you. He is foreign, but high born, from
the desert tribes. You will train him as your valet. You
will also train him to fight. He has a great deal of raw
potential, I think. He will also be the only one to share
your bed. He will be your constant companion until the day
you go to the marriage altar."

Nemir opened his mouth, but could not find the words to
express his anger. How could his father order *this*?

"And before you can protest, there is no changing my mind.
You cannot dispose of the boy to suit you, I have told him
that. At the end of five years, when you marry, he will be
freed and the two of you will decide his place, here or
elsewhere, then."

The Prince smiled softly. "And this need not be a
punishment," he said. "If you embrace this wholeheartedly,
this boy will be to you as Konda is to me."

That sharpened Nemir's gaze. Konda was his father's friend
and closest confident, as well as captain of the palace
guard. The Prince nodded. "When I was brought home to learn
the arts of governance from *my* father, Konda was
presented to me in the same way, although he was a new
guard rather than a slave. And it was the same for my
father and his grandfather before him. And so it will be
for your son someday."

Nemir bowed his head. "I do not like it..." he said.

"But you will obey," his father finished for him,
sympathetically. "Now, I suggest that you go meet your new
companion. And Nemir?"

Nemir paused at the door. "Yes, my Prince?" he ground out.

"I trust you not to punish the boy for what is beyond his
control."

Nemir nodded curtly, then stomped down the hallway, heading
for the royal quarters.

His father had him in a position where he could do nothing.
It was not in him to defy orders that would result in
punishment for others, and he would not harm the slave, who
was innocent in this.

However, that did *not* mean that he had to embrace the boy
the way his father wanted. The boy could follow him around,
if that was what was necessary, but he did not need to
accept him or even acknowledge him. He certainly had not
intention of training a slave in how to fight!

And as for his bed, it would remain cold if need be. He had
no desire to take a slave to his bed simply because it was
his only choice. He would remain celibate, if that was his
only other choice.

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Chapter Three
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Judas stood back and watched as the palace servants
prepared the suite for the return of their -- and now his -
- master, trying very hard not to tremble as he prepared
for the third major upheaval of his life. Trembling was a
weakness, and weaknesses could be used against him. He'd
been warned not to show any weakness to the Prince's son,
by the Prince himself, no less.

The first upheaval in his life had been expected, and if
anything, he was surprised that it had not occurred years
earlier. It had started with the death of his grandfather,
Chief of the Tribe of the Sands, and ending with his
expulsion from the tribe.

His grandfather had been a proud man who had been forced to
watch as each of his children had died before him, from
illness, battle wounds, and, in one case, treachery, until
of seven sons and daughters, only the youngest remained. He
had doted on her as she grew up, and when the time had
come, he had broken tradition and allowed her to choose her
own husband, a handsome and daring young warrior of the
tribe. When she had quickly become pregnant, the entire
tribe had celebrated.

But less than a year later, they were grieving. First, the
handsome young warrior had died in a raid on a rival
tribe's herds. Then, a month later, the Chief's daughter
had died birthing twin sons.

The younger, Jamal, had been everything a tribe could hope
for: large and lusty, with dark hair, bright eyes and dusky
skin.

Judas, on the other hand, had inspired fear and suspicion.
His white skin started to burn the moment it was exposed to
direct sunlight. His hair and eyes were colors never seen
before in the tribe. And the birthmarks on his forearms
reminded even the least superstitious among them of bat
wings. As he grew, his height and slender build set him
even further apart from his short and stocky brother. By
the time of his grandfather's death, the majority of the
tribe considered his at best an ill-omen, and at worst,
demon-spawned.

But his grandfather had ignored the whispers. Perhaps he
never heard them at all. Whatever the reason, he was
determined that Judas, as eldest, would become Chief after
him. Everyone knew that this was impossible, Judas
included, but the elderly man had been insistent. However,
on his death, Judas had immediately stepped aside in favor
of his brother. His brother was not shackled by rumors and
fears. Jamal was not forced to remain inside tents during
the day. Jamal was a warrior, respected and loved by his
people.

In other words, Jamal was everything that Judas was not.

But still the whispering continued, even after Jamal was
acclaimed, and the whispers grew in numbers and volume
until Judas had resigned himself to a seemingly inevitable
death. Jamal was doing everything he could, but in the end,
if he did not reject his brother, he risked the tribe
turning on him as well.

It was into this volatile situation that the slaver
arrived. The next day, when he left, he took Judas with
him, carrying a small chest that had belonged to his mother
containing all that was left to him in this world. Jamal
had explained to him, tears rolling down his handsome face.

The slaver worked for a man named Kemel. This Kemel, he
said, dealt in the finest merchandise. His slaves were
bought by nobles seeking concubines that were beautiful and
exotic, who lived pampered lives. The picture he painted
was one of luxurious ease, and while Judas was skeptical,
his brother saw this as his only chance to save his much
loved brother.

And so he had come to the city of Ajantha and the House of
Kemel. He'd quickly been evaluated as promising and placed
in seclusion. For an extended period -- he was not sure how
long, although certainly more than a month -- the only
persons he'd seen were Kemel twice and the trainers he had
assigned to Judas's training. He was drilled in the basics
of dance, and he had been told that while he was graceful,
it would be years before they considered him a *true*
dancer. Similar evaluations had come from his music
instructors. He could pluck a simple song on a guitar or
harp, but not much more as yet.

Based on their words, he expected to spend months, if not
years, being trained into what they wanted him to be, and
he had resigned himself once more, this time to his new
life. Perhaps he would even come to enjoy this new life,
although for now, he missed the clean dry air of the desert
and the constant hum of the voices of the tribe outside his
tent.

But he hadn't been given time to adjust. He'd been waiting
for the next of his trainers to come break the monotony of
his day when Kemel had arrived, followed by a stranger.
He'd been sold, he was informed with great pride. Sold to
the Prince of the city, no less. Before he could grasp the
news, he'd been hurried out of the establishment and into a
carriage, carrying only his small wooden chest. The man in
the carriage with him had remained silent during the short
trip to the palace, and Judas had been too stunned to try
to ask the questions running through his mind.

Once at the palace, he'd been brought into the presence of
the Prince. Following the training that had been drilled
into him in his first days at Kemel's, Judas had dropped to
his knees and pressed his forehead to the cool marble
tiles.

The Prince had ordered all others to leave, then had told
Judas to sit up.

"I have bought you for my son," he had informed Judas. "You
are to be his most constant companion until his wedding
day. On that day, you will be freed and given more than
enough wealth to support you the rest of your days should
you choose to leave him. You will entertain him, listen to
him, guard him. And you will be his only bed companion, if
he so chooses. If he does not choose so, you will watch to
make sure he takes no others to bed. But understand this.
*I* own you. He cannot send you away, and if I learn that
you have shirked in your duties, it is *I* who will punish
you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Judas had replied, proud that there was no tremor in
his voice.

"Good." The Prince's voice had softened then. "It will not
be too onerous a burden, I think. Nemir is a good man. But
there are things you should know about him. He does not
mind weakness in a person, so long as no show is made of
it. Be everything you can and he will accept you. Pretend
to be less than you are and he will despise you. Be honest
with him in all respects, even if it is to disagree with
him, and he will respect you.

"Now, Nemir is currently inspecting the border forts. When
he returns, he will be taking up permanent residence here
at the palace. He has been training as a soldier up until
now. Now it is time for him to train as a Prince. Until his
arrival, you will remain in his suite. You will not leave
the suite except in his company. In the meantime, I will
have books sent, since I understand that you read, as well
as a wardrobe befitting the heir's companion."

He had paused and regarded Judas for a moment before
smiling. "You will do quite well, I think. Do not
disappoint me."

After that dismissal, Judas had been escorted to these
rooms and had remained there. That had been the second
upheaval in his life, leaving the tight, but comfortable
confines of the House of Kemel from the palace of the
Prince. Now, the third would come, the man to whom he was
now bound for the next five years, regardless of the
choices of *either* of them.

There was a disturbance in the halls, and all the servants
dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the
ground. Judas knelt as well, but remembering the Prince's
warnings, he did not prostrate himself like the others,
settling for just dropping his gaze to the floor as the
door opened.

He kept his eyes down as he heard a muffled thud of
something heavy hit the floor, then footsteps coming his
way. He kept his eyes lowered but his back straight as a
pair of scuffed and dirty boots came to a rest in front of
him.

He waited, but the boots didn't move and their owner didn't
speak. He did his best to remain calm, but his pride
prickled at the deliberate insult. Finally, he refused to
wait any longer for acknowledgement. He looked up.

Nemir, heir to the throne of Ajantha was a handsome man,
but not exactly what he'd expected. He looked to be at most
a year older than Judas. Like his father, he did not look
much like nobility. His naturally dark skin was tanned even
darker by sun and wind, and looked as tough as leather.
There were creases around his eyes from squinting, and
Judas could see the signs of calluses on his hands. His
travel leathers were stained and covered with dust.
Judas felt more than a little over-dressed in his black-on-
black silk tunic and pants.

And Nemir reminded him painfully of his brother, cut from
the same cloth.

"I don't want you here." Nemir's voice was deep and dry,
with a hint of anger underneath. There was more there, but
Judas couldn't interpret it. He was good at reading people,
but not someone he'd just met, if you could even say that
they'd *met*.

"Neither of us has much choice in the matter," he said
softly.

"I can find my own lovers."

"If you do, I'll be the one who suffers for it." But the
question was, did Nemir care? The young man's flinch
reassured him.

"I don't want you in my bed." He was sounding belligerent
now, suddenly seeming much younger than his years.

"I have a pallet," he replied, nodding at the thin mattress
in the corner with its pillow and cover. A slave's bed, yet
ironically more comfortable than any bed he slept on
growing up in the desert.

Nemir stared at him for a long moment until Judas was
fighting the urge to fidget, to strike back, then nodded.
"Good. Just as long as we understand each other." Then he
turned away, seeming to dismiss Judas from his mind, and
headed over to grab his saddlebags from where he'd dropped
them. Judas sat and watched as the man started to unpack,
wondering what he was supposed to do now.

It was going to be a long five years.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Four
----------------------------------------

Nemir woke just before dawn, as was his wont, but not
feeling rested for once. Normally, he slept like the dead
but he hadn't the night before for a number of reasons.

First and foremost was the suffocating feeling of having
been fenced in, both by the palace walls after years of
sleeping in mostly tents or under the stars, and by
society, which was now decreeing the path of the rest of
his life. Growing up, he had reveled in the freedom he'd
been allowed, if submitting to trainers and commanders
could be called freedom, and he did. He'd know that one day
that would end and he would be called on to fulfill the
duties of heir, but he'd done his best to pretend
otherwise. But now everything was being decided for him,
from his marriage to his very companions.

And that led to the second reason that he had not been able
to sleep properly: The slave boy his father had purchased
for him. The boy was like nothing he'd ever seen before,
and as a result, someone whose simple presence would draw
attention to *him*. No doubt, that was why his father had
chosen him, to ensure that Nemir learned to deal with that
attention quickly. The boy's freakish height, more than a
handspan taller than Nemir, who was not a small man, and
the eerie hair and eye color even drew Nemir's eye, despite
his best efforts to ignore him. The breathing coming from
the pallet in the corner sounded unnaturally loud in the
otherwise silent bed chamber. And this was to be his
constant companion and only allowed bed partner until the
day he was joined to a wife he'd never met.

The lack of sleep had left Nemir feeling exhausted already,
but he knew that there was no point in trying to sleep
further. His lessons in the politics, diplomacy, literature
and science that a prince needed to know would be starting
immediately after the morning meal, so now was his best
chance for some sword practice. He was *not* going to allow
his skills to rust due to lack of use. He slipped from the
bed and padded silently to the wardrobe for his practice
leathers, not bothering with a robe to cover his nakedness.

A small gasp told him that the boy was awake, but Nemir
refused to acknowledge him. He dressed quickly and headed
for the door to the suite.

"Where are you going?" a soft voice asked. He wanted to
ignore him, but basic courtesy would not allow it.

"To spar before breakfast," he said, reluctantly turning
around.

The boy was sitting up on his pallet, wearing a dark
nightshirt that covered his upper body but left his long
legs bare to Nemir's eyes. He might have thought it an
enticement to bedding if the boy was not so obviously
innocent of guile.

"May I come with you?"

Nemir rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was a
tagalong. "Don't you have other things you should do?" he
asked sharply.

"No."

"Then *find* something!"

The boy seemed to slump in on himself, his silver eyes
looking to his lap. "I am not allowed to leave the suite
unless it is with you," he said softly.

"How long have you been here?" Nemir asked with a frown.

"Eight days." The boy still would not look up, and Nemir
castigated himself for taking his anger out on him. The
suite was spacious, with four large rooms -- the
bedchamber, an office, the receiving room and a bathing
chamber -- but the concept of being confined to them for
even a day was painful to him.

"Fine," he said, and the boy's gaze finally flew up,
surprise plain to see. "Well? Dress quickly! I won't wait
long."

He waited impatiently as the boy dressed, all in black
again. "Don't you have anything in a different color?" he
asked, although he had to admit that the effect was
striking. Probably deliberately so.

"It was all I was given," was the reply. A slave had no
choice in what he wore, anymore than he had a choice in
what he did.

Nemir sighed, unable to hold onto his anger in the face of
the boy's simple acceptance. "We'll deal with that this
afternoon," he said, heading for the door again, the boy
following silently. Mentally, he cursed his father for
doing this to him, then quickly retracted the curses,
praying that the gods had ignored his foolishness.

It had been years since he'd lived in the palace on a
regular basis, but the route to the practice yard was still
burned in his memory. He'd lived in the same suite as a
child, although his nurse had lived in the room that was
now an office, and he'd spent much of his free time at the
practice yard watching the guards train, fascinated by the
grace and skill of their movements. His father had even
come with him on occasion, and had been his first teacher,
handing him a small wood practice sword when he was only
five. His grandfather had still been alive then, and as
merely heir, his father had had more time for his son.
Nemir missed those days.

He took the final turn and passed through the open doorway
into the yard that sat on the eastern side of the palace.
The palace ran along two sides of the yard, with the guard
barracks on the third side. The open end led towards the
stables. Even though the sun was barely above the horizon,
the palace side was bathed in brilliant sunshine. There
were warriors already drilling, and Nemir felt at home for
the first time since his return to Ajantha the day before.
He took a deep breath and appreciated the scents of dirt
and dust and the sweat of honest men doing honest work.
This was probably the only place in the palace where he
would find such scents.

He stepped forward, then paused when he realized that for
the first time, his shadow was not following him. He turned
and found the boy hugging the shadows. "What?" he snapped.
"Afraid that they might tease you? Call you names?" he
mocked.

"No." The boy's voice was low, but firm. Nemir frowned. Why
had the boy asked to come with him if he wasn't willing to
follow all the way? Perhaps he was afraid of getting dirty.

"Then what's the problem?"

The boy hesitated, then took a step forward, holding his
left hand out so that it was in direct sunlight. In the
light of day, the pale skin was almost translucent, blue
veins easily seen beneath it. Nemir could even see the
faint shadows of the fine bones beneath the surface. He
stood there, silent, for a long moment. Nemir was about to
snap at him again when he noticed what was happening *to*
that hand. Immediately, he pushed the boy back into the
shadows, grabbing his hand. The back of it was burnt red
and he could see small blisters forming already.

Nemir had been burnt by fire in the past, and he knew that
the boy had to be in great pain, but he did not make a
sound, simply biting his lower lip until Nemir thought it
would bleed. The fortitude necessary to stay silent
impressed him, against his will.

"Does this always happen?" he asked, horrified. The boy
nodded.

Nemir considered postponing his practice session, but was
reluctant to do so. "Can you wait until later for some
salve for that?" The boy nodded, and he couldn't help
feeling a grudging respect. "All right."

He led the boy down the hallway and around the corner into
the open corridor that ran along the south side of the
yard. A series of arches provided a view of the men
sparring. In the evening, the nobles of the court would
watch the guards fight in matches, betting on the outcomes,
but this early in the day, the corridor was empty. And
facing north, as it was, it was deep in shadow and would
remain so the entire day.

"Stay here, boy," he ordered, then hopped over the low wall
that separated the packed earth of the yard from the marble
of the corridor. "As soon as I'm finished, I'll get you
some burn salve before the morning meal."

"Judas."

"What?" The single word, spoken softly but firmly, caught
him off-guard.

"My name is Judas, not 'boy.'"

He grimaced, but said, "Fine. Wait here, *Judas*."

As he strode over to the equipment racks for a practice
sword, he found himself angry again, seemingly without
reason. As he started to stretch, he finally realized why.

The boy had a name. A nameless slave could be ignored.
*Judas* could not. He glanced over to where the boy was
waiting, a pale, ghost-like shadow out of the light of the
sun. His burnt hand was held cradled against his chest,
pale against the stark black of his tunic, but all of his
attention was focused on Nemir. Nemir had never been the
subject of such intense and personal scrutiny that he could
remember. Ignoring him for the five years until his
marriage was going to be more difficult than he had
expected.

Nemir turned away again and concentrated on stretching his
hamstrings, then moved to the upper body muscles. When he
was as limber as he was going to get, he selected a
practice sword and moved out to a bare patch of earth and
started the opening movements of the sword dance.

And yet... his eyes kept turning south, to the boy,
wondering just how he'd come to be here. High-born, his
father had said, and yet also a slave. Soft and untrained
in the arts of war, yet able to bear pain without protest.
Born in the desert, where men lived in tents, yet unable to
withstand the light of the sun. So many contradictions in
one person. He was a puzzle, and Nemir had never been able
to leave a puzzle lie.

Then a guard approached him and offered to spar, so Nemir
forced away all thoughts of his unwanted and unusual
companion, retreating in the familiar, comforting dance of
the sword.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Five
----------------------------------------

Judas watched as Nemir bowed formally to another man
dressed in the simple leathers of a soldier or a guard.
They moved gracefully into set positions, dull metal
practice swords held ready, and stopped.

A moment later they were in motion and Judas could see why
so many referred to sword-fighting as a dance. He also
understood why his teachers at the house of Kemel had told
him that he needed years of training before he would be
considered a true dancer. The ease of the two men as they
moved together, in concert and conflict at the same time,
showed long years of training, and Judas felt a flash of
jealousy. The same jealousy that he'd lived with all his
life, the jealousy of those who could go out in the
sunshine and do these things without fear.

His hand still throbbed where he held it to his chest
protectively. He ignored the pain, he and it being old
friends. As a child, he'd left the safety of his tent
several time, each time convinced that the Gods must have
taken pity on him. Each time he'd been wrong. By the time
he'd reached his manhood, he'd come to understand that the
Gods were never going release him from his curse.

But even though he'd given up on testing the limits of his
curse, it was impossible for him to avoid the sun always.
The tribe traveled from oasis to oasis with the herds, and
he'd had to travel on horseback, swathed in robes to hide
him from the sun. Unfortunately, a stray gust of wind might
blow up his sleeves, or sweep back his face covering, and
he'd be burnt before he could rearrange his clothing. He'd
learned long ago to accept the pain and thereby ignore it.

As he watched the two men battle, he began to see a
different side to Nemir. It took him a while to realize
what the change was, since he'd only known the young man
for less than a day, but it finally struck him: Nemir
wasn't angry. From the moment he'd looked up into the
handsome face of the Prince's son, he'd seen nothing but
anger.

The anger hadn't been aimed at him, though. At least not
personally. He was angry at Judas not as a person but as a
concept. Judas could even understand it, a little. Nemir
hadn't asked to be saddled with a slave ordered to dog his
every step. He hadn't asked to be ordered to take that
slave and *only* that slave to his bed.

The thought of that made Judas shiver. He had no illusions
about whether or not Nemir would do so, despite the man's
protests. After all, Nemir was young and in his prime, a
time when his sexual energies would be at their peak. Judas
knew that sooner or later, Nemir would want sexual
satisfaction. Self-pleasuring was not very satisfying, he
knew from personal experience, and Nemir would either turn
to him or someone else.

Judas was not sure which possibility scared him more. His
appearance meant that he was the only person in his tribe
to reach his age of majority still a virgin, something he'd
long resigned himself to, and during the brief time he'd
spent at the House of Kemel being trained, the bed-arts was
the one realm he'd not had any instruction in. He'd quickly
learned that this was because a virgin commanded much
higher prices. Nobles liked to... train their bed slaves to
their own tastes, whatever those might be. As a result, he
had no concept of what Nemir might want of him.

If Nemir took someone else to his bed, he would not have to
worry about that, but he would have to worry about *his*
punishment would be. It had been made very clear to him
that he was responsible for making sure that the Prince's
son did not compromise himself, although he was not sure
just what he could do to stop that. He had no illusions
that if Nemir *did* go against his father's orders, the
Prince would find out. Even in Nemir's quarters, Judas had
never been alone during the time leading up to the master's
return. Palace servants were everywhere and they saw
everything. Nothing that Nemir -- or Judas -- did would
remain a secret. It did not bother Judas. Living in tents
all his life, surrounded by the constant attention of a
tribe, he was used to the scrutiny of others. However, he
did not think Nemir was as used to the attention, and he
prayed that the man would learn soon.

At least Nemir seemed to be an honorable man, not inclined
to punish as slave for existing, and he doubted that Nemir
would deliberately bring punishment down on his head
either. The only real question was what might result from
action not properly thought through.

"And what have we here?"

The unexpected voice made Judas whirl around. Other than
the Prince and Nemir, no one had addressed him since his
arrival at the palace. He'd been ignored by the servants as
if he were just a part of the furnishings in Nemir's suite.
He was not sure whether or not he should respond to the
comment.

He was even more unsure when he saw who had addressed him.
He'd never seen the man, of course, but he was obviously
noble-born. He wore ornate robes that proclaimed to the
world that he'd never had to dirty his hands with work or
even his own defense, since they would have hampered any
attempt to do either.

Instead, a guardsman in a bright -- but far less hampering
-- uniform was a discreet distance away, watching Judas for
any signs that he was a threat, and Judas would wager that
a dozen or more servants waited on the man's every whim.

Which begged the question: Why was he *here*?

"Noble one," Judas said, bowing to the exact degree he'd
been taught.

The man walked a slow circuit around Judas. It was
disconcerting to be examined this way, like a fine beast or
costly statue being considered for purchase.

The man came to a stop in front of Judas. The smile on his
face seemed open and friendly, but Judas could see that it
did not reach his eyes. "You would be the heir's new...
companion," he said in a tone that verged on insulting.

"Yes, noble one," Judas replied, determined not to look
foolish in front of the man. He still wondered what the man
wanted.

"And a most unusual one at that," the man murmured,
reaching out and not quite touching Judas's hair. There was
a flash of an expression on his face that was equal parts
calculating and covetous. Then it smoothed away to bland
interest once more. And beneath it all, there was no sign
that he truly saw Judas as a person. Another might not have
noticed that, but it was a look that Judas knew all to well
from the members of his tribe who thought of him as demon-
spawn, when they dared to look at him at all.

The man's eyes, which were still looking him up and down,
came to rest on his damaged hand, still held to his chest
protectively. "But you're injured!" he cried in apparent
horror.

Judas resisted the urge to hide his burnt hand behind his
back. At the reminder, it set to throbbing, and a glance
down showed that the skin was starting to crack and peel.
"It is nothing," he said softly.

"I disagree, poor boy. Come, let me take you to the
healers."

"That is not necessary, I assure you," Judas protested,
glancing towards the practice yard. The man's eyes followed
his gaze to where Nemir was still sparring, oblivious to
what was happening in the shadowed corridor adjacent.

"I'm sure that the heir would not object to you seeing the
healers immediately," the man said, stepping forward and
laying a hand on Judas's shoulder. "After all, a burn that
severe must be excruciatingly painful."

As if on cue, Judas's hand started to throb even more than
before, and he had to fight back a cry of pain. He wanted
to step away from the man, but the instructions drilled
into him by his teachers at Kemel's told him that it would
be considered a deadly insult.

"Fair morning to you, Lord Morlan," Nemir said from the low
wall that separated the corridor from the practice yard.
His hair was matted and his skin glowed in the morning
sunlight with the sweat of his exercise. Judas had not
noticed him ending his spar or coming over to join them.

Immediately, the man -- Lord Morlan -- stepped away from
Judas. He breathed a well-hidden sigh of relief and
relaxed. The pain in his hand started to subside again.

"My lord heir," Morlan said, bowing in a way that verged on
obsequiousness. Or insult. "I was just suggesting to
your... companion that I take him to the healers, since he
seems in great need of their services.

Nemir glanced at him and he shivered, wondering if he would
be in trouble for someone else's actions. It did not seem
fair, but that was the lot of a slave, he knew.

Then Nemir turned his attention back to the lord. "That is
most kind of you, but also unnecessary. I will see to it
myself as soon as I have scraped the sweat from my skin."

"It would be no bother--" Morlan started to say, but Nemir
cut him off.

"I will see to it."

Obviously recognizing the steel in Nemir's bland voice,
Morlan bowed again. "As you wish, my lord heir."

Nemir nodded and waited, pointedly, until the man excused
himself and left, the guard following behind with n amused
look. Then he turned back to Judas. "You should be more
careful to whom you speak," he said icily.

Judas stiffened in outrage. "I am a *slave*," he spat. "I
do not have a *choice* in the matter." The voice of reason
told him that speaking this way was a mistake, that he did
not want to antagonize the man he was going to have to live
with for at least five years, but his pride overrode self-
preservation. Slave, he might be, but he still had his
pride.

Pride of the desert met the pride of a prince and soldier.
Met and clashed through their glares. The sound of steel
clashing from the practice yard was the perfect complement
to the battle of wills.

Surprisingly, it was Nemir who broke eye contact first.
"Give me a moment to cleanse myself. Then we'll go to the
healers to see to your hand," he said, then quickly headed
away, going to where he'd left his tunic.

Judas watched him go, his anger washing away as if it had
never been. He waited, confused, as Nemir used a soft
leather strap to scrape the sweat from his skin and
wondered.

Had he just won a battle or lost?

----------------------------------------
Chapter Six
----------------------------------------

As he used the leather scraper to remove the sweat from his
skin, Nemir tried to recapture the calm he'd felt while
sparring with the guard. That feeling was elusive, though.
He despised Lord Morlan under the best of circumstances,
and finding him trying to ingratiate himself with Judas was
beyond belief. The man had gall!

Nemir set aside the scraper and picked up a handful of
sweet-sand from the barrel at the cleaning station and used
it to scrub himself. He could have waited until he returned
to his suite and have a water bath -- a luxury beyond the
means of all but the richest in the small desert-bound
city-state -- but after years as a soldier, the sand was
comforting in its familiarity. Once it had absorbed the
last of his sweat, he took up the fine brush hanging from
the barrel and used it to remove the last of the sand from
his body, leaving behind only the gentle scent that gave
the sweet-sand its name.

As clean and refreshed as he could be, Nemir pulled his
breeches back on, then his tunic. He ran his fingers
through his hair and considered the length. It could use a
trimming, and not with a knife this time. No matter what
his own preferences might be, he did not want to reflect
badly on his father. Reluctantly, he added a visit to the
palace barber to his mental list of things that must be
done before the evening meal. He groaned at the thought of
that event: he would be on display as the heir returned
home, the focus of eyes and plots.

The tailor would be another stop, since his old formal
robes were too small for him. He also needed to arrange for
something other than black for Judas to wear. Something
especially nice, he decided, to make up for his harsh words
earlier. He should not have taken out his anger at Lord
Morlan on Judas. The boy was right: as a slave, he had no
choice in the matter.

Still, he would have to warn him to be wary of the man, and
others too.

But first, he needed to take the boy to the healers, he
thought guiltily. If he'd known how much worse the hand
would get, he would have done so immediately instead of
indulging him in a spar that wasn't *really* necessary. A
lesson that his own needs would not always come first from
now on, he decided.

He glanced around for his vest and found it dangling from
the hand of the guard he had been sparring with. "I believe
this is yours," the smiling man said.

"Thank you," Nemir replied, taking the vest and putting it
on.

"Will you be by later?" the man asked, and there was no
mistaking the invitation in his eyes or his smile.

He was a handsome man, perhaps five years older than Nemir.
His skin was tough as leather and darkly tanned from sun
and wind and sand. He had handled the practice sword with
the authority of long experience, and Nemir felt a shiver
of desire, remembering what sword calluses felt like
sliding over his body, his manhood.

But he sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps, but not for
*that* sort of sword dance," he said regretfully.

The man's gaze slid over to where Judas was waiting
patiently, and his smile turned wry. "I suppose if I had
that for my bed, I'd not be wandering either. Still, if you
change your mind, ask for Jorak. And the more the merrier,"
he added with a merry wink.

Nemir couldn't help smiling as the man walked away. The
simple, bawdy humor of the common guard had finally
succeeded in restoring his good humor, and his only regret
at that point was that he would not be able to take him up
on the offer.

Having regained his balance, Nemir headed over to Judas.
"The healers have their center this way," he said,
gesturing down the hallway in the opposite direction from
the way they'd come earlier. "They aren't far, since many
of their charges come due to training accidents here or at
the stables. Being close is more convenient for those who
have to carry an injured person to them. They do keep a
healer stationed in the court proper, just in case of
assassination attempts, illness or a case of vapors, but it
is mainly a ceremonial duty, and one not much liked."

Nemir kept up the travelogue as he led the way, carefully
concealing his amusement. Judas seemed thrown completely
off-guard by his change in mood. Well, if he was going to
be around for the next five years, he had better learn to
deal with it. Nemir held grudges for a long time, but his
furies were intense and burnt out quickly.

There were only two turns before the hallway opened
directly into the large room that was home to the palace
healers. A fountain sat gurgling pleasantly in the middle
of the room; an unexpected luxury. There were those who
protested the waste, but the fountain remained. It actually
had a practical purpose; providing water for cleansing of
wounds or healer's hands.

However, he had forgotten the large skylight in the ceiling
that filled the space with sunshine. Judas shrank back
against the wall, avoiding the large pools of light. An
elderly healer dressed in his traditional white robes came
over as Nemir tried to figure out a way to protect Judas
from further burns. "Do you have an injury, my lord?" The
man asked. Nemir wasn't sure if the man somehow knew who he
was or if he just called everyone as 'my lord.'

"My companion has an extreme sensitivity to sunlight and
has burnt his hand as a result."

The healer recognized the problem immediately. "Come with
me," he said. He led them around the perimeter of the room
where there were still shadows until they reached a door.
On the other side of the door, they found a windowless
office with books and scrolls and tablets on every flat
surface, storage cases along the walls except where broken
by hangings that depicted plants valuable to healers. He
lit two oil lamps hanging from the ceiling by chains,
allowing a warm glow to illuminate the room.

"Now, let me see your hand," the man said, his gray hair
and deeply lined face adding the wait of command to the
mildly spoken request.

Obediently, Judas held out his hand. The man examined it
closely, but did not touch it. The skin was an angry red,
contrasting vividly with Judas's natural pallor. The skin
was peeling, and Nemir knew that it had to be painful, but
Judas showed no sign of it. Grudgingly, Nemir had to
recognize the strength of will necessary to keep from
showing the pain.

"I must say, I am impressed," the healer said with a
definite tinge of disapproval in his voice. "The last time
I saw a burn this bad was during the aftermath of the
Hamajii fires. However, it is small and localized, so
easier to treat. Wait here."

"Hamajii fires?" Judas asked after the healer had bustled
out of the room.

"Hamajii is one of the poorer quarters of the city," Nemir
explained. "More than twenty years before I was born, a
fire razed the entire quarter. My grandfather sent even the
palace healers to treat the injured and ease the dying,
although many of his court thought that was a mistake."

"Do you?"

Nemir bristled at the question, but quickly realized that
there was no accusation in the question, just an open
request for information. "No, I don't. A Prince is prince
to *all* his subjects, not just those with money. Rumor had
it, though, that the fires were deliberately set on the
orders of someone high-born. No proof was ever found to
support those charges, though." Nemir sighed and shook his
head. "There are still those who believe that the quarter
should never have been rebuilt." He didn't bother to hide
his disgust at that attitude.

Judas nodded in response, but remained impassive. Nemir was
finding it difficult to read the boy's expression, but
before he could probe for more of a reaction, the healer
returned, carrying a glass jar filled with a whitish
substance and stoppered with a wood plug. "Here we go," he
said, placing the jar on the desk -- or more accurately, on
top of a pile of books sitting on the desk -- and removed
the stopper. Immediately, the smell of dust was overwhelmed
by the sharp scent of herbs.

He scooped up two fingers worth of the salve and gestured
for Judas to hold out his hand again. The salve was quickly
spread over the burn on the back of his hand, then worked
into the skin with gentle strokes. Almost immediately,
Judas's expression eased and Nemir realized just how much
strain had been there: he had not recognized it until it
was gone. Still, he would know it the next time he saw it,
he told himself.

"There," the healer said, replacing the stopper on the jar,
then using a cloth to clean the excess off his fingers. He
picked up the jar and handed it to Judas, who took it
awkwardly, one-handed. "Reapply once a day until there is a
layer of new skin that is no longer tender to the touch.
Then put the jar away until the next time." He smiled
ruefully. "With a... disability such as yours, I'm sure
that there *will* be a next time."

"Thank you, noble one," Judas said, bowing his head.

The healer waved off the gesture with a snort. "My name is
Kale, not 'noble one.' Save the titles for the court fops
who think they deserve such titles." He shot a pointed look
at Nemir. "I am a healer, and that title means far more to
me. It is my duty and my vocation. Now, come to me if you
need anything." The smile turned impish. "In fact, return
even if you do not need to. If we aren't busy, I would
enjoy the chance to talk with you. It's been years since I
last had the chance to speak to a member of the tribes, and
it would be nice to hear some new stories to go with the
old."

Judas glanced to Nemir, who was quick to say, "I'm sure
there will be many such chances, Healer Kale." He was
already planning to speak to his father about lifting the
restriction that prevented Judas from leaving his quarters
except in his company.

"Good. Right now, however, I do have duties to attend to.
I'm sure that you would prefer not to leave through that
sun-filled room." He moved over to one of the wall hangings
and pushed it aside to reveal a small doorway opening into
a dark corridor. "Turn right and it will lead to an alcove
in the main corridor," he said, then winked. "And please,
do not spread that information around. I like to sneak out
unnoticed from time to time."

Nemir couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. He also
couldn't stop the small flash of jealousy: he did not think
he would be allowed the same sort of escape from his own
duties. Still, he did not begrudge the man his own back
door. "Thank you," he said, then led Judas into the dark
space, made darker when the hanging fell into place behind
them.

The hallway was narrow and dark, with an old musty smell
that said the palace slaves did not know of its existence.
No one had cleaned there in decades, at least. Nemir
wondered how many *other* such passages were secreted
around the palace and who knew of them. He resolved to
search his suite carefully for any signs of hidden
passages. They could be useful to him, but they could also
be a danger if anyone else knew of them.

"How did he know I was of the tribes?" Judas said softly in
a puzzled voice.

Nemir smiled, unnoticed in the near-total darkness. "Your
accent is an obvious sign. And even if you had remained
completely silent, palace gossip would have told him." He
decided that this was as good a time as any to acquaint his
new shadow with the less than pleasant facts of palace
life. "The palace is a breeding ground for rumor and
intrigue," he said seriously. "Within a day of your
arrival, your name, origin and purpose would have been
known to any who cared to, and your connection to me means
that nearly everyone did."

Up ahead, he could see the patchy glow of light shining
through a lattice, indicating the end of the passage, so he
contented himself for the time with one last warning.
"Guard your tongue well. It can mean the difference between
life and death."

----------------------------------------
Chapter Seven
----------------------------------------

Judas followed Nemir back to the suite in silence. He kept
trying to memorize the twists and turns of the corridors,
but finally had to concede defeat. All his life, he'd lived
in nomadic camps where all you needed to remember was the
design of each family's tent. Even his time at Kemel's
hadn't prepared him for the maze-like interior of the
Prince's palace. He'd never even seen a structure that
exuded age and complexity like this one.

Equally confusing was the man he followed. He'd only known
Nemir for a day, and the man had gone through so many mood
changes that he despaired ever understanding him. Learning
the twisted pathways of the palace seemed a far more
achievable goal, even if he *was* ordered attached to the
man's side.

Among the tribes, life was too harsh to allow any form of
deception. Everyone was open about their thoughts and
feelings. Even if they concealed them, out of courtesy to
another, they never *lied* about them. Nemir, he would have
to learn to deal with by trial and error. And after his
encounter with Lord Morlan, he was beginning to feel like
he'd been dropped unarmed into a pit of sand vipers.

Thankfully, they reached the suite without encountering
anyone other than a few servants or slaves who had simply
bowed silently as he and Nemir passed.

Still, he breathed a deep sigh of relief as the door shut
behind them. After the morning, the rooms of the suite now
said 'safety' to him. For a moment he thought that he might
never leave them willingly again, but pride stiffened his
spine, telling him that hiding from his new world was not
an option.

"My lord heir," a new voice said. The stranger rose from
the chair in the reception room where he'd been sitting. He
was tall and slender, but well-muscled. He moved like one
of the desert cats that had followed Judas's tribe's camp.
His hair was steel-grey, contrasted vividly by thick, black
eyebrows. The shape of his nose echoed the beak of a raptor
and his dark eyes seemed to see everything. Judas felt like
a small mouse under the eye of a predator when that sharp
gaze turned his way.

"Konda!" Nemir said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "I was
not expecting you."

"Actually, you were," the man, his solemn expression
transforming into a wide smile.

Nemir blinked, looking confused. Then his expression
cleared. "I beg your pardon. I had not expected you to be
my teacher in this."

"Who better, Nemmie? Since I was not born to the court
life, I see it somewhat more clearly. And my position
allows me to see *all* of the maneuverings, not just a
small piece. You must be Judas," he suddenly said, turning
towards him.

Judas jumped slightly at unexpectedly being addressed. He
bowed his head as he had been taught and answered, "Yes,
noble one."

Konda laughed. "Not quite. And certainly, there is no need
for ceremony between us. "He took Judas's hand between his
own and smiled down at him kindly. "I know, right now, all
of this is new and confusing for you, but that will pass.
However, if you ever need advice about being companion to a
royal heir, come to me and I will pass on the fruits of my
own experiences." He winked, and Judas started again.

He glanced at Nemir, wondering if this was one of those
people he needed to guard his tongue around, even thought
the diminutive name he'd used for the heir implied a fond
familiarity.

Nemir groaned and rolled his eyes. "Don't worry," he said
when he finally noticed Judas's expression. "Konda was my
father's shadow, like you are mine. Or so I was told for
the first time yesterday. However, I wonder if it is wise
for *me* to let the two of you exchange stories?"

"Now why would that be, Nemmie? Just because I know all
kinds of embarrassing stories about your childhood?"

"Exactly."

Judas kept looking from one to the other, head reeling. He
was pretty sure that they were teasing each other, but
wasn't sure where he fit into the picture. Finally, he
nervously pulled his hand away from the other man and took
a step back.

"Now, I assume you went sparring this morning, so in all
likelihood, neither of you has eaten yet," the man said,
pretending not to notice as Judas moved away. "So I took
the liberty of ordering a meal. We can eat as I start your
lessons in politics and diplomacy."

Judas took this as an indication that he should take his
leave, so he headed for the doorway to the sleeping
chamber, but Konda's voice stopped him. "Sit, Judas," he
said in a voice accustomed to command, and waited until
Judas obediently settled on a stool off to the side of the
room. "These lessons will be of value to you as well," he
continued in a gentler voice. "You have not been exposed to
this sort of society before, and your new position, even as
a temporary slave, will put you at the center of it. You
need to know what I have to teach as much as -- if not more
than -- Nemir."

Judas nodded, the explanation being quite true. Perhaps, if
he'd been given this instruction earlier, he would have
been better prepared for the incident with Lord Morlan.

He folded his hands in his lap, noting as he did so that
the pain in his burnt had was almost completely gone and
the skin already showed the early signs of healing, much
sooner than he would have expected. The jar of the salve
was sitting on the table near the door, where he'd placed
on their arrival, and he made a mental note to store it
away safely. He'd never come across a salve as effective on
his easily-damaged skin.

Then Konda began to speak and he focused all of his
attention on the man.

>>>~~~<<<

Breakfast had come and gone, as had lunch, before Konda
decided that he'd passed on enough information to allow
Nemir to acquit himself in a way that would not embarrass
his father that evening. By that time, Judas was beginning
to think longingly of the simpler life of both the desert
and Kemel's house. Even the maneuvering for position among
his grandfather's warriors was like the games children
played compared to the poisonous plots of the Prince's
court. And yet neither Konda nor Nemir seemed to consider
it anything less than expected.

But finally, Konda took his leave. Judas felt as if his
head would burst if they had continued any further, and he
despaired of ever learning everything he would need to
survive the next five years.

Palace slaves cleared away all the traces of the meal as
Nemir started to pace, muttering to himself. "Why couldn't
I have been born a simple soldier?" he asked the empty air.
"Or a farmer? At least there, the only manure I would have
to deal with would be spread on the fields."

A slave approached and waited to be acknowledged. "My lord
Heir," she said, bowing low. "The royal tailor is here."

Nemir groaned, then looked over to Judas. "The next step of
the torture. Formal robes for tonight."

Judas wasn't sure what to say in reply, so he kept silent.
When in doubt, remain silent he'd already learned. He was
beginning to think that it was the most important lesson he
would learn.

The tailor turned out to be a man so lean than he was
almost skeletal. He came accompanied by a stream of slaves
and assistants carrying bolts of fabric and boxes of pins,
as well as sample robes, no doubt to determine size and
choose style. He was obviously confident of his position,
since he directed his people to set up without waiting for
permission, then ordered Nemir to strip to his breeches.

Judas watched in bemusement as Nemir allowed himself to be
pushed and prodded, posed and draped with pin-filled cloth,
with nothing more than the occasional roll of his eyes and
comments that were frustrated, but at the same time,
perfectly courteous. That puzzled Judas until one comment
that was a little too caustic was answered with a
carelessly placed pin and a heart-felt apology for drawing
blood.

Finally, Nemir was allowed to step down off the low stool
he'd been standing on so that the drape of his robes could
be perfected and change back into his own clothing. Then,
with a grin that could only be described as evil, he
gestured to Judas. "Your turn," he said.

Judas went blank. "Me?" he asked in confusion.

"Of course, you. After all, you need something appropriate
to wear tonight."

"Wear to what?" he asked.

Nemir's smile widened. "You are my companion, are you not?
If I have to go to the court banquet, so do you. Or would
you prefer to hide here?"

Actually, Judas thought to himself, he would. But the near-
glee on Nemir's face roused his pride again. Without a
word, he stripped to his own breeches, as Nemir had, and
stepped up onto the stool, back straight.

Nemir's expression seemed pleased, although he still wasn't
sure he was reading it correctly, and he turned to the
tailor. "Anything but black," he said, almost pleadingly.
"All the clothing he was supplied with before my return is
unrelieved black. It makes him look like a priest. Or a
ghost."

The tailor walked around him slowly as his assistants
waited for orders. Judas blushed under the intense
scrutiny. "Remove those," the man said with a frown,
gesturing to the wrappings Judas had kept on his forearms.
"They will interfere with the measurements."

Judas's eyes went wide. He raised his arms to his chest,
holding them protectively close. After the first day, not
even his keepers at Kemel's had interfered with the
wrappings.

"What is it?" Nemir asked, the sarcasm back, but somehow
his tone was also soft. "Hideous scars? Deformities? It
does not matter."

Judas met his eyes, pleading silently, but there was no
give. Reluctantly, he undid the long bandages wrapping his
arms and let them drop.

Several of the slaves, and even a couple of the assistants,
backed away with gasps that made him wince. He'd heard them
before, as a child, from visiting tribesmen. Between that
and the whispers of his own tribe, he'd quickly learned to
keep the markings covered.

Nemir, on the other hand, stepped closer, close enough to
reach out and touch Judas. "Are those natural?" he asked,
only honest curiosity in his voice. "Or are they tattoos?"

Judas resisted the urge to hide his arms and the damning
birthmarks there. On his forearms were black marks that
closely resembled batwings. "I was born with them," he said
softly, looking at his feet. The marks were yet another of
the unusual things about him that had convinced his tribe
that he had to be demon-sired.

"Interesting. I was thinking perhaps dark blue."

Judas looked up in confusion, but Nemir had already turned
away and was talking to the tailor about colors and styles.
The glances sent his way showed nothing of the fear and
hate he was too used to.

Once more, Nemir had both surprised and confused him. Would
he even understand the man?

----------------------------------------
Chapter Eight
----------------------------------------

Nemir discussed styles and colors with the royal tailor
while keeping one eye on his new slave. Judas was standing
on the stool, obediently holding his arms out and turning
as the assistant tailors indicated, looking almost
pathetically confused and out of place. Nemir had no doubt
that the boy had never been in a similar situation before
and a small, cruel part of him found it entertaining.

The rest of him found himself pitying the boy. So far that
day, he'd learned that the boy was handicapped in a way
that would have killed most tribesmen, that he had a quick
and agile mind that he seemed almost afraid to reveal and
that he'd been completely cut off from his own people
because of their petty prejudices and superstitions.

That, combined with his almost ethereal appearance, was
making him a fascinating puzzle, which he found extremely
annoying. He had not time to be distracted by puzzles. At
least not yet. However, he had more than enough time to
look forward to in the future to unraveling all the boy's
secrets.

And strangely enough, he *was* looking forward to it.

But for now he satisfied himself with watching the boy try
to stop from fidgeting. It was a pity that he'd not had the
same training as Nemir. A pity for Judas, that is, as Nemir
suppressed a wince as one of the assistants 'accidentally'
jabbed the boy with a pin when he shifted his weight
without permission.

While he'd never considered it that way, Nemir's training
as a soldier was going to prove useful in the court. The
first example of that had been his own lack of fidgeting. A
soldier had to be able to keep watch silently, not making
any move that might attract the attention of an enemy.
Nemir had once had to hold the same position from sunrise
to sunset, observed by his commander to make sure that he
did not shift or even relieve himself. It had been a long
and frustrating day, but he'd held, passing the trial. He'd
never expected that to be useful for a fitting, but he'd
been able to hold still while keeping his mind occupied.

Judas, it was obvious, was not prepared for that.

As well, the banquet that night would stretch his
observational skills. He'd always sneered at the petty
machinations of the noble-born, but his first lesson with
Konda had shown him just how little he knew and how what he
did not know could endanger him. Konda had force-fed him
the basics, and he prayed that he would remember them when
he needed that knowledge. Still, he had not been able to
hide his disgust, which had earned him a lecture in parting
not to take things too lightly. These were the people he
must deal with from this point on. People that he would
have to rule.

Judas, on the other hand, had shown an almost horrified
fascination when he had not been able to hide his feelings.
He'd stayed silent, at first, but Konda had encouraged him
to speak up, and while his questions had betrayed his
complete innocence, they'd also proved how quickly he
learned and how adept he was at piecing together fragments
of knowledge into a whole. Despite his own greater
familiarity with the people and events discussed, although
not too much more familiar, Nemir would have to work hard
at these lessons to remain ahead of Judas in what was
already becoming a contest in his mind.

"Enough," the tailor finally barked, waving his assistants
aside. "My lord heir," he said, turning to Nemir with a
bow. "We will have robes for the two of you ready before
sunset. The others we discussed will be delivered as they
are finished."

"My thanks," Nemir said with an nod. He did not offer the
man money, nor would it have been accepted. The Prince
supported him more than adequately, and tailors fought for
the chance to work at the palace, where the finest of
materials were provided for them to work with and the
members of the court encouraged them to greater and greater
heights of creativity. And when they chose to leave, they
could command amazing fees to reproduce that magic for
those not lucky enough to have the services of the court
tailors.

The man and his entourage packed with amazing speed,
considering how far the tools of their trade had spread
across the room. After they left, Nemir nodded to one of
the palace runners. "Tell the barber that we will need his
services before the dinner hour," he told the young girl.
She nodded, and headed off at speed.

Nemir turned to his companion and smiled at the boy's
stunned expression. "Get some rest," he said, his tone
almost gentle. "There is time for some sleep before we need
to prepare for the banquet."

Judas looked uncertain, but Nemir did not wait for him.
Stripping off the clothing he'd barely gotten back on after
his own fitting, he headed for his bed. He normally would
not sleep in the middle of the day, but the evening's
festivities would no doubt go late, so he fell back on
soldier training which told him to get his rest while he
had the chance.

After a moment, Judas followed. Already in his bed with
only the gauzy bed-curtains between himself and the world
due to the high mid-day heat, Nemir watched through slitted
eyes as Judas unlocked the chest he had next to his pallet
and carefully put the jar the healer had given him inside
and relocked it. Nemir wondered what else was inside and
how a slave, however recently so, had been allowed to keep
a locked space.

Yet another puzzle to ponder.

>>>~~~<<<

The heat of the mid-afternoon was oppressive, even deep
inside the palace made of stone, and Nemir woke bathed in
sweat and almost panting for breath. He'd slept for several
hours, which should be enough to sustain him through the
evening, so he decided to get up. The barber would be
coming shortly, along with the robes for the evening, so he
would just have enough time to bathe first.

Judas's pallet was empty, the blanket that would be
necessary once the sun went down folded up neatly at the
end with the thin pillow carefully positioned on top of it.
The locked chest was placed between the pillow and the
wall. Nemir eyed it speculatively for a moment, but decided
to let it go for the time being.

In the reception room, he found Judas curled up on a
cushion reading one of the books that Konda had left for
them, so absorbed that he didn't notice the looks that the
two servants tidying up the room unnecessarily were sending
his way. Their expressions cleared to blank masks the
moment they noticed Nemir and they dropped to their knees,
but Nemir had seen the mixture of hate, fear and lust that
had been there. He glared and nodded for them to leave,
which they did quickly. Judas hadn't stirred the entire
time, except to turn the pages of the leather-bound history
of the city.

Nemir couldn't help smiling at the expression of intense
concentration on the boy's face, the crease between his
nearly invisible brows as he obviously tried to puzzle out
the archaic language of the old book. "You don't have to
read it all today," he said softly.

Judas nearly jumped out of his own skin before controlling
himself. "I'm sure Lord Konda will want his book back."

Nemir shrugged. "If he does, my father has a large library
we can borrow from. In fact, I expect that the volume you
are holding came from that library. It can stay here until
we finish it and are ready to move to the next."

Judas flinched at that, although he wasn't sure why. "I'm
sorry. Did you want it first?" He closed the book carefully
and held it out. Nemir blinked, wondering why the boy
seemed so nervous. Or more nervous than before.

"There are four volumes here to read," he said, rubbing at
the dried sweat that was itching on the back of his neck.
"I'm sure I can find enough to keep me occupied while you
read that one. Besides, I read it when I was a child, so
all I would be doing is refreshing my memory."

Judas nodded and returned the book to his lap, although he
didn't open it again.

The silence was starting to be awkward. "There's just
enough time to bathe before the barber arrives," Nemir said
finally. "Would you assist me?"

That brought on a flinch again, and he quickly realized why
this time, but Judas quickly got to his feet before he
could reassure him that his virtue was safe. Nemir sighed
and waited for the boy to flee the room in a panic, but he
just headed for the bathing chamber with a determined
expression on his face. Nemir followed, feeling more than a
little frustrated. While Judas was his for the taking, as a
slave, and despite his resolutions, he was not sure he
could stay celibate for five years, he had no intention of
molesting the boy. He wasn't ready to completely give in to
his father's plans, and he certainly was not going to bed
an unwilling partner.

Inside the tiled and slightly cooler room, he found Judas,
already nude, filling the sunken tub. Pipes carried the
lukewarm water from the central cistern that serviced the
entire palace.

Deciding that actions spoke louder than words, Nemir
stripped and stepped down into the deep tub. He picked up a
sea sponge, transported across the desert by merchant
caravans, and started to soap himself. Sweet sand was fine
for everyday use, but soap and water was necessary before
presenting himself to the court.

Judas was standing, fidgeting ever so slightly, watching in
silence as Nemir bathed. Once he'd soaped and rinsed every
part that he could reach, Nemir turned and held out the
sponge. "I cannot do my own back," he said simply.

Judas took the sponge and soap and gingerly put it to use.
"A little harder," Nemir prompted, then groaned with
pleasure as the scrubbing intensified. He hung his head
forward and let Judas continue with his task until every
part of his back tingled. At that point, he pulled away and
crouched down until the water reached his neck.

Standing up again, the soap all gone, he took up a handful
of a softer, milder soap and scrubbed it through his hair.
He cursed softly as a bit of soap made his eyes sting.

At that point he heard a splash and felt the water move
around a second body. Then he felt finger moving into his
hair. "Cover your eyes," Judas said softly from behind him.

Not replying, he rinsed the suds from his hands, then used
them to shield his eyes. Judas's fingers quickly worked the
soap through his hair, then urged him to duck under the
water to remove the suds.

His task done, Judas moved back and started to climb out of
the tub. Nemir reached out and grabbed his wrist. There was
a flash of fear in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. "You
need to bathe to," Nemir pointed out. "Will you allow me to
wash your back as well?"

Judas stared at him for a moment, then nodded, almost
shyly.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Nine
----------------------------------------

Judas held still as Nemir scooped up a handful of the soft
soap from a bowl set on the sunken tub's edge and worked it
into a lather against his back. Then the sponge he'd used
on Nemir was used by the man to scrub *his* back.

He'd never had his back scrubbed before and he found that
he liked the feeling. Now he understood why the other man
had groaned in pleasure, and found himself leaning back
into the scrubbing, his eyes closing as he enjoyed the
sensation. Nemir chuckled, but there was no derision in the
sound, so Judas decided to ignore him.

When his back was clean, Nemir used his hands to lift water
to rinse the rest of the soap away. Judas expected him to
climb out of the bath at that point, but instead, the heir
tugged at his arm to turn him around and started washing
his chest and arms as well.

"Stay close to me tonight," Nemir said, his eyes on his
self-appointed task. "There are those who will try to trick
you into saying something that will reflect badly, so just
stay silent if you have any doubts."

Nemir took up a handful of the other soap and lifted his
hands. "Close your eyes," he ordered, then started to work
the soap into Judas's hair. Judas had to fight to keep from
gasping; the massage of fingers against his scalp felt even
better than the scrape of the sponge against his skin.
"Actually, staying silent might be a good idea. The nobles
of the court have all been raised to ignore the servants.
If you stay silent, they may say things in your hearing
that they would not say in mine. Rinse now."

Judas pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and
dipped below the surface of the water. When he surfaced, he
pushed his sodden hair back and blinked the water from his
eyes. When they cleared, he found Nemir staring at him with
an intent expression.

They were standing in the deep tub almost chest to chest. A
little startled by the expression of Nemir's face, he
dropped his eyes a little and found himself becoming
fascinated by the way the man's breathing made the muscles
of his chest expand and contract. Once more, he could not
help comparing his own slender frame to Nemir's stocky,
firmly muscled one.

After the silence stretched up, his gaze returned to
Nemir's face and saw that the man was swaying towards him,
lips slightly parted and eyelids drooping sleepily. Judas's
heart started to pound as he realized that Nemir was about
to kiss him.

Then Nemir's eyes flew open and he stepped backwards,
looking almost shocked. "I trust you can finish your lower
body?" he said, climbing out of the tub, looking at
anything *but* Judas.

"Yes," Judas said softly, his heart rate slowing again.

"Don't take too long. The barber will be here soon."

With that, Nemir nearly fled the room. Judas watched him
go, confused, and wondered if he was relieved or
disappointed that Nemir had not followed through on his
apparent intentions.

>>>~~~<<<

By the time he'd finished his bath and dried off, he could
hear voices in the outer chamber. He used one of the
waiting bath sheets to dry himself, then put his breeches
back on.

When he exited the bathing chamber, he found Nemir sitting
on the stool he'd so recently been standing on with a man
holding a knife standing behind him. His eyes went wide and
he rushed forward to grab the arm holding the knife as it
descended towards the heir's unprotected throat.

The armed man spun and his forearm connected soundly with
Judas's jaw, sending him sprawling. "How dare you!" the man
blustered, then kicked out, landing a solid blow on Judas's
ribs, driving the air from his chest.

His foot was drawing back for a second blow when an ice-
cold voice stopped him. "Stop."

To Judas's amazement, the man did just that. "My lord--" he
started to say, but Nemir cut him off.

"Do not touch him. Are you alright, boy?"

Judas nodded, pushing himself upright to a seated position.
His side ached, but there was no damage, although he would
certainly have a mark in time. If anything, the use of the
name 'boy' hurt more. "He had a knife," he said softly,
looking back and forth between the two men in confusion.

Surprise flashed across Nemir's face, then he chuckled. "He
is a barber. How else would he shave me?"

At that point, Judas finally noticed the remains of a
lather on Nemir's face. Earlier, the man had sported a
closely trimmed beard. Now his face was bare of any facial
hair. As well, Nemir's hair was of a shorter and more even
length. Embarrassed, he dropped his eyes. "I apologize, my
lord," he whispered, his face burning.

"There is nothing to apologize for," Nemir said, squatting
in front of him, ignoring the spluttered protest from the
barber. "Better that you err on the side of caution."

"He should be punished," the barber said angrily. "Slaves
do not attack free men!"

Nemir twisted around to glare at the man. "I will not
punish him for trying to protect me, even if there was
nothing to protect me from. Or do you believe I should not
*be* protected?"

"Of course not, my lord heir. But protection is the
province of the guards, and he is a *slave*. Slaves should
not be allowed to act above their station."

Nemir rose to his feet, his face dark with anger. "Enough.
You have finished your task, so go."

"My..."

"Silence! Or do you believe that it is the province of
barbers to lecture nobles?"

The older man stiffened, then bowed. "Of course not, my
lord heir." But his gaze was still hot and angry on Judas
as he left the suite.

Nemir sighed, then turned back to Judas. "So much for
having your hair trimmed."

"I am sorry..."

"Don't be, Judas. I will not fault you for trying to
protect me, although you might be more circumspect about it
in the future. In the meantime, do you know how to shave
another person?"

Judas blinked at the sudden change of subject. "I used to
shave my brother."

"Good." Nemir went into the bedchamber, then came out
carrying a small, but obviously very sharp dagger. "Since
you interrupted my shave, you can finish it."

He handed the dagger to Judas, then sat down and lifted his
chin expectantly. Judas stared at him in shock. They'd
known each other for only a day and Nemir trusted him -- a
*slave* -- at his throat with a knife? He touched the edge
with the pad of his thumb and winced as the skin parted
easily.

Nemir was watching him, one eyebrow raised in an amused
challenge. That amusement was enough to provoke him into
motion. He stepped forward, took Nemir's chin in his hand
and started to carefully scrape the last of the beard from
the man's face.

The activity made him very nervous, although he controlled
it so that his hands would not shake while the razor-sharp
blade was at Nemir's throat. Remembering his own reaction
to such a sight, he could only imagine what a guard might
think seeing a slave with a dagger pressed against the
heir's flesh.

Fortunately, there were no interruptions before he finished
his task. He cleaned the blade against his breeches, then
handed it to Nemir before heading to the bath chamber to
soak a cloth in water to use to wipe the last soap and hair
from the man's face.

Once that was done, Nemir ran a hand over his chin. "Very
nice," he said. "I prefer a beard, but as long as I need to
be shaved, I believe I will let you do it." Judas couldn't
help smiling at the compliment.

At that point there was a knock at the entrance. At Nemir's
nod, Judas went to the door and opened it. "Yes?"

It was one of the tailor's assistants. She had bundles of
cloth slung over one arm. "The robes," she said, nodding to
her burden.

Judas stood back and let her enter. "The master tailor told
me to see that they fit properly," she said, setting the
clothing down over the back of a chair. Then she stood back
and settled into a waiting posture.

Nemir strode over to the chair and separated the clothing
into two piles. One, he handed to Judas. "Dress," he
ordered, then unashamedly stripped himself. Judas could not
mistake the flash of interest on the young woman's face and
deliberately placed himself between her and Nemir. Not that
he was jealous of that interest, of course. He was simply
performing his duty of ensuring that the heir remained
chaste until his wedding.

The clothing he held were far simpler than the outfit Nemir
was dressing in, but it was also richer than any he'd ever
worn. The breeches were white, as was the shirt with loose
sleeves that gathered at his wrists, making the fabric
billow. The soft boots sent to go with the outfit were dark
blue and almost fit. Considering the length of time they
had, he was surprised that they found anything that would
fit his long, narrow feet, and while the fit was not
perfect, it was a pleasant change from the slippers he'd
been wearing since leaving his tribe.

And for over it all was a knee-length tunic made from a
heavy fabric died a deep blue that reminded him of the
desert sky after the sun had set but before the light had
completely faded. It had wide shoulders that hung like
short sleeves over the longer sleeves of his shirt. The
edges of the sleeves, hem and neckline were embroidered
with a very simple design of silver and a deep pink that
almost matched the roots of his hair.

"Let me see," Nemir said, coming over to stand in front of
him. Judas held still as the man adjusted the hang of the
tunic and looked him up and down. Nemir smiled and nodded.
"Much better than black," he said in a satisfied tone.

Naturally, Nemir's outfit was much more luxurious while
being similar in design. His breeches were of a dark brown
velvet and his ivory-colored shirt was of silk instead of
the plain linen that made Judas's. The boots were his own,
shined to a high gloss, and the dark red tunic was open
down the front and sides, held together with gold laces.
The ornate embroidery was also gold, with rubies sewn in
until he almost shimmered in the light of the room's lamps.

The tailor's assistant walked around each of them, checking
the hang of the cloth and every seam. Two loose threads
were snapped off, then she stepped away, looking pleased.
"The fit is proper," she said. "Do you like the design?"

Nemir ran his hands down the front of his tunic, smoothing
a tiny wrinkle, and nodded. "Very impressive, especially
considering the speed of execution. I am extremely
pleased." He smiled and the young woman nearly glowed at
the praise.

However, if she was expecting a more personal thanks, she
was disappointed. Nemir escorted her to the door and sent
her on her way with another smile, but nothing more.

Then he turned back to the room and headed for the sleeping
chamber. Knowing that they needed to leave soon, Judas
waited where he was, a little confused at the delay.

Nemir emerged again with a gaudy, jeweled dagger tucked
into the top of his boot and strapping another, more
functional looking dagger to his thigh, just under his
tunic where it would not be obvious but would be easily
reached. The first was obvious just for show, distracting
watchers from noticing his other weapon.

He paused and looked at Judas. "Your hair is a mess," he
said bluntly. "Sit."

Judas sat down on the stool, wondering if Nemir intended to
cut *his* hair. Instead, a towel was placed around his
shoulders to keep his finery from getting any wetter and a
comb started tugging at his hair determinedly and not very
gently. Luckily, his hair was very fine and the tangles
were soon gone, but before he could say anything, it was
tugged at again.

Finally, Nemir stepped back. "Stand up. Let me see."

Judas stood, his head feeling strangely unbalanced. He
reached back and felt the heavy plait that now fell halfway
down his back, along his spine. Only the hair around his
face had been left loose. He'd never braided his hair
before, and it felt... different.

Nemir nodded with obvious satisfaction, then headed for the
door again. "Time to go, Judas," he said, pulling the door
open.

And like a lamb to the slaughter, Judas followed.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Ten
----------------------------------------

The banquet was exactly as Nemir had expected: long,
tedious and more than a little embarrassing. Nemir disliked
being the center of attention and on this night, he could
not avoid it. Worse, he knew that it was not just for the
one night; it was from now until the day he died.

But he was pleasant and respectful, not wanting to spoil
the night for his father. While the Prince understood and,
to a degree, shared his son's feelings, his pride in the
young man was obvious to all. This was his first
opportunity to present his son to the court as a man. Under
the circumstances, any father could be forgiven.

Thankfully, with the setting of the sun, the desert air had
cooled considerably. As a result, he was nearly comfortable
as the Prince proclaimed that his son, having proved
himself a man on the fields of battle had returned to take
his place at his father's side as aide and heir. In
addition, Nemir's betrothal to the first daughter of the
Prince of Mathan was announced.

For Nemir, the most embarrassing point of the evening, and
one that he had not expected, was the moment when everyone
in the room except his father had knelt to acknowledge his
elevation from heir-presumptive to Heir. He'd had to fight
to keep from fidgeting until the crowd had stood once more.

The formalities finally over, the court moved to their
seats in the banquet hall. The placements of the seat spoke
volumes for the status of the members of the court with the
most powerful seated closest to the dais.

The dais was where the Prince sat, raised up so that he
could see the entire room and so that all could see him.
Konda, as his chief guard, despite being past the prime of
youth, had his place standing behind his Prince's reclining
couch.

The Prince's chief wife would normally take the couch next
to his, but since the death of Nemir's mother more than
five years earlier, the Prince had not elevated any of his
concubines to that position, Instead, Nemir took that place
as the reason for the night's festivities. And while
normally a slave would not attend at all, except as a
server, Judas was seated on a cushion on the floor at his
feet. While this was highly unusual, no one would question
it, since the Prince had expressed no disapproval.

Talk began as the servers arrived, setting out the platters
of food. In the corner, a group of musicians provided
musical accompaniment to a dancer who weaved her way around
the room, hips swaying and filmy garments floating in the
breeze from the windows.

"So, Konda tells me that he expects you to learn quickly,"
the Prince said, leaning close so that they could not be
overheard.

Nemir picked up a round, flat-bread and filled the center
with some of the heavily spiced meat and potatoes from a
bowl before answering. "I do not like politics," he said
tersely before rolling the bread and taking a bite.

His father chuckled. "Beware of anyone who *does* like
politics," he advised, exchanging glances with Konda.
Knowing now the truth of their relationship, Nemir wondered
how he could have missed seeing it before. There was an
easy intimacy there that told him that they were more than
just Prince and guard.

"Those who love politics and the games involved play to
benefit themselves," Konda said in agreement. "And for
them, betrayal is a way of life. Treat the game as an
exercise in war and tactics. Learn it well, but avoid the
blood-lust that makes it an addiction."

Nemir nodded, then glanced down at Judas. The boy was
hunched over to minimize his exposure to the room, and
while his eyes were fixed on the colorful tiles of the
floor, the tilt of his head said that he was listening to
every word.

Noting that the boy's position behind his couch shielded
him from most eyes, Nemir surreptitiously cut a wedge of
the sharp, golden cheese and passed it and a flat-bread to
him. The boy had not eaten since midday, and since the
banquet would go late into the night, it would not be fair
to make him wait until morning to eat again.

When he looked back to his father, he saw an approving
smile on the man's face -- and a slightly smug one on
Konda's -- and could not suppress a flash of anger. While
he loved his father dearly and found Judas less of an
irritation than he'd expected he did not like being
manipulated. Not even when it was to supposed to be for his
own good.

The brief moment of anger, quickly covered up, also did not
escape his father's notice, and the man's expression
softened. "I do understand your feelings, my son," he said.
"In this and everything else. When my own father summoned
me home to become Heir, I was miserable. I loathed the
court and the falseness I saw there. And when he informed
me that Konda was to be my shadow and all that entailed, I
felt betrayed. I felt that he did not trust me to behave as
a true Heir should."

He paused to take a sip of the heated spice-wine in his
goblet. A slave rushed forward to refill that small amount
consumed from a pitcher the moment he lowered the goblet,
then moved back again.

Nemir was astonished. His father had just put into words
exactly how he felt. "If that is so, why inflict the same
on me?" he asked, then flinched. His tone had sounded more
appropriate to a small child just denied a treat.

The corner of his father's mouth quirked up into a small,
private smile. "Because in the end, it was the right
choice. I learned this, as did my father and his father
before him and hopefully you will as well. A companion is
the one person we can be completely honest with and who
returns the favor in turn. Konda is my truest friend, most
honest advisor and staunchest ally in the face of those who
would use or destroy me. And if you allow it, in time Judas
will can be the same for you."

Then he chuckled softly. "Not that I would have believed
that at first, myself," he said wryly. "It was nearly a
month before I said anything to Konda other than a curt
order to which I neither expected nor wanted a response. It
was a year before I admitted first to myself, then to him,
that we could be friends. And even then, it was nearly
another year before I admitted that I was not made for
celibacy."

He met Nemir's eyes with a wicked grin that was quickly
smoothed over into the calm, dignified expression more
appropriate to a Prince. "I am glad to see that you are at
least a *little* less stubborn than I," he said. He glanced
over at Konda, his face lighting up for a moment. "And I
hope that when you reach my age, you will look back and say
that could have made no better choice for you. It is what I
would say to my father, were he alive."

Nemir sat silent, unable to think of a response. He had
learned more about his father in one conversation than he
had in all the years that had come before. Perhaps it was
because they'd spent little time together since he left to
become a soldier while still too young for such
discussions.

He looked over to Judas and found the young man sneaking a
glance. He saw consideration, confusion, sympathy, pride,
fear and a host of other emotions before Judas ducked his
head again, blushing faintly.

He looked back to his father and nodded in acceptance. "I
hope you are right," he said simply.

>>>~~~<<<

After the last of the food was cleared away, the
festivities began in earnest. The tables were removed and
the musicians who'd filled the air with gentle tones during
the meal were joined by more of their fellows and the music
picked up in tempo.

As well, more dancers appeared, this time less demure in
their movements. Nemir noted with distaste how some of the
court -- and not just the males -- reached out to fondle
the dancers as they passed by. There were not many, but he
made careful note of the ones who did. Morlan, he was
unsurprised to see, was included in that number.

There was little he could do about it at the moment,
though. There would always be those who considered their
birth to be justification for such behavior. It did not
matter if the object of their attentions was slave, free or
even another noble. As long as they were lower in status...

Nemir snorted in disgust and put down his goblet. He was
becoming intoxicated, he realized, and well on his way to
maudlin. True, he could do little to change the attitudes
of other. However, in time they would come to learn that
those who *acted* on those attitudes would find little
favor in his eyes. Perhaps then they would modify their
behavior, if only in public.

Still, it would be years before that happened. Nemir
sighed. "Come," he said to Judas who haunted his side as he
had all night. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas nodded obediently and silently followed him out onto
the terrace that overlooked the city. Nemir leaned against
the stone balustrade, looking out into the dark.

The city was dark, but he could see clearly in the light of
the nearly full moon. And even so, the city was not
completely without light. Here and there, he could see the
glow of lanterns through open windows, as well as the
cheerful glow of bonfires. Fireworks sent sparks of color
into the sky at periodic intervals. The celebrations, his
father had decided, were to spread well beyond the walls of
the palace.

And in the distance, he could hear the sounds of pipes and
singing, reminding him of nights spent around the campfire
out in the desert. Nemir breathed deeply, enjoying the
fresh air, free of the incense and perfumes inside,
pretending for a moment that he *was* out in the desert.
Then he set aside those fantasies and turned to look at
Judas.

The boy was standing next to him, back straight and eyes
fixed longingly on the desert dunes, barely visible in the
distance beyond the city walls, and Nemir realized that he
was not the only one who longed for the freedom of the
sands outside the city. The moonlight glittered
suspiciously on the boy's cheeks, but when he turned back
to Nemir a moment later, his eyes were dry.

Then his eyes widened in shock and he threw himself at
Nemir, knocking him to the ground, accompanied by the
unmistakable sound of metal hitting stone.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Eleven
----------------------------------------

As the evening wore on, Judas tried to decided which was
worse, being ignored by the majority of the people in the
room after a single appraising look or *not* being ignored
after that initial appraisal. He was not used to being the
target of such lustful looks. He found more and more that
he wished that he could return to the suite he now shared
with Nemir to wash away the invisible grime that he seemed
to feel covering him.

Finally, he resorted to keeping his eyes down and tried not
to feel the touch of all those eyes. However, with nothing
to distract except the bits of food that Nemir was able to
slip him, he could not help listening to the conversation
between Heir and Prince.

From the sound of things, while he'd been promised his
freedom at the end of his five years, once Nemir was safely
wed, the Prince seemed to expect that both he and Nemir
would want him to remain as his companion. Judas did not
know how he would feel when that time came, but he
comforted himself with the knowledge that he had time
before he and Nemir would have to decide on the path of his
future.

The one question that he did not like to consider was where
he would go and what he would do if he *did* leave.

Based on his first brief meeting with the Prince and the
conversation he was now listening to, he found the Prince a
man worthy of respect and very reminiscent of his
grandfather in many ways. He struck Judas as being
scrupulously fair. And while he would not want to be on the
man's bad side, he found that he actually liked Konda.

But in the court they were the exceptions. Most of the
people reminded him of the arrogant young warriors of his
own tribe. The ones who believed themselves invincible and
immortal, deserving the best of everything that the tribe
had to offer in return for their prowess in the raids and
defense of the tribe. His grandfather had kept them in line
when he was alive, along with the older and wiser warriors,
but now..

Judas held back a sigh. He loved his brother dearly, but if
Jamal had any serious failings it was his willingness to
listen to his friends before the advice of older and wiser
men. Flattery and companionship could easily lead Jamal
along paths that could be disastrous.

Still, he was not without hope. Judas knew that several of
those bravos had urged his brother to dispose of him in a
more permanent way even *before* their grandfather's death.
That Jamal had refused and found another path suggested
that he was still his own man. However, Judas would
probably never know for sure what direction Jamal would
lead the tribe in.

"Come," Nemir said suddenly, snapping Judas from his
reverie. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas followed gratefully as Nemir lead them out onto the
terrace. Surprisingly, they found themselves alone there.

Out in the clear night air, Judas closed his eyes and took
a deep breath. It was the first time he'd been outside,
unconfined, since he'd been turned over to the slavers.
He'd gone from the slaver wagon to the House of Kemel, then
the palace in a carriage. His time spent waiting for Nemir
during his sparring session that morning had been the
closest he'd come to being outdoors in weeks. This was even
better, though, and he planned to enjoy this chance.

He lifted his face to the light of the full moon, and for a
moment, he pretended that he was back home, standing
outside his tent. The murmur of conversation through the
open doors to the banquet hall and the distant sound of
singing combined to mimic the night sounds of the tribe's
camp. Unfortunately, the ripe smell of the city interfered
with the illusion.

Sighing, Judas opened his eyes again and looked out over
the roofline of the city. In the distance, he could make
out the walls that surrounded the city and beyond them,
barely visible, he could see the desert dunes.

They stood in silence for a while, Judas feasting his eyes
until he realized that there were tears running down his
cheeks. He blinked furiously for a moment to clear his
eyes, then turned away. There was little point in torturing
himself with a past that was no longer part of his world.

His attention on his immediate surroundings once more,
Judas found Nemir watching him with an expression that
looked suspiciously like sympathy. Judas's pride flared,
and he was about to tell the Heir what he could do with his
unwanted sympathy when a movement seen out of the corner of
his eye caught his attention. Turning his head slightly, he
saw the movement again, drawing his eye to a building near
the palace, no doubt home to one of the nobles inside.

Standing on the rooftop was a man, lifting something to his
shoulder. Judas's eyes went wide as he realized that it was
a crossbow.

There wasn't time to shout a warning, so he threw himself
at Nemir, knocking the shorter man to the ground. It seemed
as though he could feel the passage of the deadly
projectile as it passed over his head, through the space
that had been occupied by the Heir only a moment before.

Nemir truly was a soldier. As soon as he hit the tiles, he
rolled so that he was on top of Judas, shielding him. A
moment later, he pushed up, making sure that their
attacker's line of fire was blocked by the stone
balustrade. He looked cautiously over the top in the
direction that the crossbow had been fired from, then stood
up. "Whoever it was, hr is gone now," he said, offering his
hand to help Judas to his feet.

Judas was not quite so confident, but he was not going to
show fear. He took the hand and the assistance, his eyes
roving, looking for the next threat to appear.

Nothing.

And amazingly, the assassination attempt on the terrace
seemed to have gone unnoticed by either the guards below or
the nobles inside. Music, conversation and much too polite
laughter spilled through the open doorway, but there were
no cries of shock. Judas glared in the direction of the
doorway, wondering what was so wrong with those inside that
they had not noticed that their newly returned Heir had
nearly been killed.

Nemir shook his head, still holding onto Judas's hand as if
to restrain him. "We are out of sight of the door," he said
softly, "and there was not enough noise to attract
attention. I would prefer that it stayed that way."

Judas shook his head in disbelief. "Someone tried to *kill*
you," he protested, but not loudly enough to attract
attention, although he was not sure why. "Shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't I summon the guards? Order a house by house
search?" Nemir suggested, the corner of his mouth quirking
up at Judas's annoyance. "Our would-be assassin will be
long gone with no witnesses to describe him, I am sure. The
only result of raising the alarm would be to say that I am
vulnerable." He bent over to pick up the spent bolt from
where it lay on the tiles slipped it into some pocket
inside his robe.

Judas just stared at him. "You *are* vulnerable."

Nemir sighed. "We are all vulnerable," he said sadly. "My
grandfather died at the hands of assassins and there are
rumors concerning my mother's death." Then his eyes went
intense, focused on Judas. "But now I have you to watch my
back." The expression Nemir's eyes made Judas's breath
catch in his throat. Oh how he wished that he could read
the young man better. "You will watch my back, won't you?"

Judas swallowed. "Yes," he said, barely above a whisper. He
would. There was something about Nemir that drew him,
fascinated him, and he did not want him to die before
getting to know him better. As well, he did not want to
know what the Prince would do if he let the Heir die but
survived himself. He swayed in place, his gaze locked to
Nemir's

"Nemir? Are you out here?"

At the unexpected voice they nearly flew apart, both
looking towards the open doorway. Judas could feel his face
heating up. A quick glance at Nemir found him to be
outwardly composed, however he seemed to be breathing a
little more heavily than even the near miss would warrant.
Then he turned his attention back to the slim figure back-
lit by the lamps inside.

The figure stepped out onto the terrace, hesitantly at
first, then with more confidence, resolving into a young
woman the same age -- or near to -- as himself and Nemir.

She was nearly as slim as a boy, with a subtle figure, but
none would ever mistake her for one. Her long hair hung
loose, falling in a straight curtain to her waist, held
back from her face by jeweled combs. Her garment was a
simple wrapped gown that left her smooth shoulders bare,
but the deep red silk was obviously expensive and
complimented her complexion perfectly. Judas also noted
that the color was a near perfect match to that of Nemir's
own red tunic.

He recognized her from earlier, of course. He'd carefully
examined everyone in the room, looking to apply what Konda
had started teaching them that morning. She'd been seated
two-thirds of the way down the hall, indicating a lowly
status in the court. She'd also seemed to show no interest
in the dais, keeping her attention on those seated around
her, but now she was smiling brightly at Nemir. "Oh Nemir.
I thought you were never going to return!"

She nearly threw herself at Nemir, wrapping her arms around
him and kissing him on the cheek. Judas's back went rigid
with shock and he wondered what he was supposed to do. He
was supposed to ensure that no woman became too 'close' to
the Heir, but there was little he could do at that moment
short of pulling her away physically.

Fortunately, after a moment of surprise, Nemir was the one
to disentangle himself from the girl. He pulled away until
she was at arm's length and carefully examined her face, a
puzzled frown on his own.

She waited patiently until his expression changed to one of
surprise. "Layla?" he said in a tone of delighted
disbelief.

"Who else would I be, pray tell?" she said archly, holding
out her arms in a way that invited -- and received -- an
inspection of *more* than just her face. Judas's stomach
began to churn. She seemed far too familiar with the Heir
for his comfort.

"You've changed," Nemir said, his admiration clear.

"So have you. When last I saw you, I was the taller and
able to defeat you in a wrestling match. When the nurses
were not around, that is," she added with a smile. "Nearly
ten years have brought a lot of changes to us both.

"I suppose they have. Judas!" Nemir turned and gestured for
him to step forward. "Layla, this is my companion, Judas.
Judas, I would have you meet Layla, my favorite cousin. Her
mother came with her sister as chaperone when she traveled
to Ajantha to wed my father."

"And she fell in love with a noble of the court and chose
to stay," Layla finished for him, regarding him with an
expression that was slightly confused.

Then she seemed to dismiss him, as so many others had that
evening, and turned back to Nemir. "I want to know
everything about what you have been doing since you left to
be a runner for the guard. We've heard tales of your
exploits. You've become quite the heroic figure."

Nemir seemed pleasantly embarrassed, unlike earlier when
he'd simply been embarrassed, and Judas's disquiet grew.
"Such stories rarely have much to do with the truth," he
said. "They exaggerate, if not out and out lie."

"Perhaps. Then you will have to tell me the truth and let
me decide for myself."

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and steered
him back towards the door and the banquet hall inside.
Judas followed behind them, both relieved that Nemir was
going inside where the danger, if no less real, was less
immediate, and disturbed by the presence of the young
woman. Although he tried to convince himself that a
childhood friend, especially so closely related, was not a
danger, he could not help worrying.

A worry that would continue for the next five years, he
thought to himself wryly.

----------------------------------------
Chapter Twelve
----------------------------------------

Looking back, the banquet had been a mixture of contrasts.
The boredom of sitting around watching others talk about
things that were of no interest to him and the heart-
pounding rush of excitement when someone tried to kill him,
leaving him feeling more alive than he had since his return
home. Facing a court filled with people he disliked, like
Morlan, compared to the pleasure of being with those more
pleasant, like Judas and Layla.

Meeting Layla again had been an unexpected joy. As
children, they had been inseparable. They'd taken their
lessons together. Layla had later accompanied him to his
early weapons training, despite the objections of her
nurse, although she'd merely watched, not participated.

He'd nearly forgotten her in the years he'd been away. When
he *had* thought of her, he'd assumed that she would be
married, perhaps even a mother by the time he returned to
the city. Instead she'd become an elegant and confident
young woman determined to make her own way. She was an
artist now, she'd told him. She'd faced down opposition and
persisted until she found a teacher willing to take her on
as a student. He remembered that strength of will well.
Naturally, she had her suitors, drawn by her obvious
beauty, but she'd chosen to stay on the path she'd picked.

"Is that why her position in the court is not as...
elevated?" Judas asked the next day while they ate lunch
before their lessons. It had been nearly dawn by the time
they'd reached their beds, so Nemir had chosen not to go to
the practice yard that morning, although he had no
intention of letting that happen too frequently.

"In part, I'm sure," Nemir replied, setting aside the rind
of the fruit slice he'd been eating. He picked up a cloth
and wiped away the juice running down his chin before
continuing. "Also her parentage."

Judas frowned as he tore off a chunk of bread from the
loaf. "But she is your cousin. How can her parentage be an
issue?"

"Her mother and mine were sisters, as I told you," Nemir
said, reaching for a slice of cold meat. "However, while my
mother was the daughter of a wife -- first wife, in fact --
hers was the daughter of a concubine, a woman from the
north taken in raids and sold to our grandfather. She came
to Ajantha as my mother's servant, although they were dear
friends."

He paused to eat a little more, then continued. "It was
that friendship that allowed her to marry as well as she
did. However, her husband was only a minor member of the
court. As a result, most of Layla's status *does* come from
being a blood relation, but it will only take her so far."

"I see," Judas said, although his expression told Nemir how
foreign he found the concept. "So by being seen with you at
the banquet last night..." he said as he considered what
he'd been told.

"She becomes the focus of those higher than herself, which
will help her find a patron for her art," Nemir finished.
It had not escaped his notice how she'd maneuvered them
inside so that she could be seen on his arm for an extended
length of time and it did not bother him either. He
remembered her fondly from his childhood and was more than
willing to help her. As well, she was a far more pleasant
conversationalist than most of those who'd wanted to speak
with him and he told Judas so.

The boy did not look overly pleased by that. Nemir had to
hold back his laughter; with any other, Nemir might have
accused them of jealousy, however, he knew that this was
not the case with Judas. No, his objections would no doubt
come from his orders to make sure that Nemir did not break
his promise to his father not to take a mistress or risk a
bastard.

However, there was no danger of that with Layla. He was
about to say as much when the conversation was interrupted
by the arrival of Konda. While Nemir could choose to pass
on his spar for a day, these lessons would continue every
day until his father and Konda decided they were finished.

"So now you have seen the court," Konda said without
preamble, sitting down at the table with them and pouring a
goblet of ale from their pitcher. "Do you have any
observations?"

Nemir snorted. "My observations would not be fit for polite
company," he said, remembering the behavior he'd seen the
night before and the cutting comments that he was still not
sure whether or not he'd been intended to hear.

Konda laughed. "I believe that goes without saying," he
said, then sobered. "However, you would do wise to keep
that reaction to yourself. The Prince may rule, but he does
so only with the support of his court. Several have tried
to go against the will of the court in the past and paid
the price. Assassinations have happened."

"And it nearly happened again last night," Judas said with
a stubborn expressing, making Nemir groan. He had not
wanted anyone else to know about that yet, but Judas
obviously felt differently. While he could understand the
boy's reasoning, he still wished that the boy had kept his
mouth shut.

Konda immediately stiffened and shot an angry look at
Nemir. "And why am I hearing this for the first time now?"
he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

If there was one thing Nemir disliked more being second-
guessed, it was having to justify his actions. "Considering
the timing, I felt that informing the entire court that
someone had tried to kill the Heir the day of his elevation
would have been... inadvisable. There was little chance of
catching the would-be assassin at the time. Besides, at the
distance, he did not have a hope of succeeding." This was
blatantly false, but he hoped that Judas would at least
back him up in *this*.

He did, but even Nemir did not find his assurances
believable. Certainly, Konda's expression said how little
faith *he* put in the words. However, he seemed willing to
let it be for the time being. "What *can* you tell me about
it?" he said in an acid tone.

Nemir nodded to Judas, since he was the one who'd see the
assassin. "It was a man on a rooftop," he said reluctantly.
"I saw a small flash of moonlight on metal and a sense of
movement, and when I looked, I saw a man with a crossbow. I
knocked the heir to the ground." He glanced back and forth
between the two men watching him. "I know that wasn't
exactly appropriate..."

Both Nemir and Konda snorted. "Anything that keeps Nemmie
alive is appropriate," Konda said, ignoring how Nemir's
eyes rolled at the use of the diminutive. "Any crime can
be forgiven if committed for that purpose." Then he turned
back to Nemir, all business. "Which rooftop and did the
bolt reach the palace?"

Nemir described the building, then reluctantly admitted
that he had the bolt that had been fired at him. Konda
immediately insisted that he produce it. He grimaced and
headed for the sleeping chamber. He'd been too tired to
find a good spot for it where the servants wouldn't find it
so he'd tucked it into the space between the mattress and
the wall where it would remain undisturbed while he slept.

The tip was bent where it had hit hard stone, but it still
was sharp enough to draw blood when he touched it. He
headed back to the sitting room and handed it over to
Konda. He did not like giving it up, but his father trusted
Konda so he supposed that he should as well. Still, trust
did not come easy to him.

Konda examined every detail of the bolt, turning it this
way and that. He reached the pattern of paint banding the
shaft of the bolt and grunted. "This is from the stores of
the Palace Guard," he finally said, setting the bolt down
on the table. Nemir stared at in disbelief.

"Are you sure?" he asked, reaching out and rolling it over.

"Yes. The Guard use a very distinctive pattern on the
shafts of their bolts and their arrows. Their swords also
use a design not used anywhere else."

"So the assassin was one of the guard?" Judas asked in a
horrified voice. Nemir could understand that: The Guard had
access to all parts of the palace and were tasked with
protecting the Prince and the Court. If one of them was a
traitor, it would cause chaos. However, that was not the
only possible explanation.

"It could also be someone who has gained access to the
armory," Nemir said. "Or a guard could have been bribed to
provide bolts to an outsider, or even a drawing of the
banding pattern so that a fake could be made."

"Only the Captain of the Guard and his lieutenants have
access to the armory," Konda said.

"Perhaps so," Nemir replied, remembering the surprise of
the hidden passage from the chief healer's office. "But the
guard do receive them. As well, I doubt that the captain
paints each bolt's banding himself. No, the bolt does not
necessarily point a finger of accusation. In fact, that
might be exactly what it is intended to do." Judas looked
confused, but Nemir just felt tired. These sorts of plots
within plots were why he preferred the Desert Guard.

"So there is not way to find the man using that?" Judas
asked, disappointed.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter how the bolt was obtained
it needed to be done by someone inside the palace. As well,
to bribe a guard or an arms maker would require a great deal
of money. If that person can be located, that will lead us
to the assassin's employer."

"Well put," Konda said with an approving nod. "You would
make an excellent investigator. I will talk to the Captain
about whether any of his people have been acting in a
suspicious manner or if any materials have gone missing
recently."

"Are you sure that he can be trusted?" Nemir asked. He knew
that suggesting that the Captain of the Palace Guard might
be a traitor was taking a suspicious nature to new depths,
but such an early move against him inspired paranoia.

"I think so." Konda smiled fondly. "He is my brother, after
all."

There was little that could be said in reply, so Nemir held
his tongue. Instead, he picked up the bolt again and
glanced at Konda. When there was no protest, he took it
back to his sleeping chamber and looked around for a safe
place to store it.

Now that he was rested, the answer was obvious. His weapons
chest sat against the wall next to the cabinet that held
his clothing. He unlocked it and set the bolt inside, next
to the bolts for his own crossbow. Comparing them, he could
easily see the differences between the Palace Guard and
Desert Guard designs.

That done, he returned to the main room where he found
Konda and Judas in hushed, earnest conversation. He stopped
and frowned. He did not know why the sight bothered him,
but it did.

"Now that that little surprise has been taken care of,
let's return to the subject of last night's banquet," Konda
said, straightening up. He made no mention of what the two
of them had been talking about, and Nemir found himself
reluctant to ask.

Nemir sat down and resigned himself to a long afternoon.

END PART ONE