Here’s what happens when a princess decides to leave the city. She and her handmaidens wake up in a leisurely way. They drink their tea and eat their steamed buns and freshen their breath with dainty herbs. They dress in a languid fashion, laying out one set of robes after another, commenting on pattern and weave, running the material between their fingers. They joke a little. If some bravo has penetrated the defenses of the women’s quarters, they flirt with him. Then they go and visit the king at breakfast. They amuse him with quips and stories. A jocular king might enjoy this. Poritifahr the Fourth meets their entertainments with his lips pinched, as if he’s been eating sour fruit. Regardless, it is their duty to be pretty and fluttery and show that they have wit as well as beauty.
I was once promoted to the King’s Guard for an entire week, after some bad meat had been consumed in their barracks. With the heroes of the king’s guard vomiting and sick with diarrhea, they had to look around for suitable substitutes, and my captain recommended me for the post. I’ve never told Andraescav this, as I know that he would pester me to repeat the story, and there isn’t really a story at all. Poritifahr was very young, then, barely out of his boyhood, but he was already purse-lipped and cautious in all things. At that time there had been a flirtatious quality to the way that the princesses and their handmaidens tried to amuse him. But he guarded himself against them, and I have to admit that this was wisdom. No use falling in love when you know that you’ll have to marry some Hasra Katemzandi for the good of the kingdom. And he did marry a Katemzandi, although that was several years after my week in the King’s Guard. She was as bright and haughty as any Daturi, and she bore him two sons. Then she died, much to his relief. I liked his younger son. I found him amusing. He liked dancing and poetry and had a way of studying your face that both flattered you and made you uncomfortable. He always remembered my name. Poritifahr’s older son was a problem.
Prince Dasuekoh was much enamored by his bandit forbears. The Sarangbaus had come out of the Singing Woods a few centuries before and conquered Rahasabahst after several generations of heroic fame had softened the people up for their rulership. Nolio, my younger son, tells me that it is the great strategy of kings to present themselves as heroes. It is said of the King of Basokume that he can cure shingles with his breath. Perhaps he has bad halitosis, and the shingles simply run away. But my son says that it’s clever to convince the people that you have such powers. Our conqueror, King Ahtraeyed Sarangbau, was a noted bully and a bastard, which is why he descended on Rahasabahst and told the peace-loving people that they could no longer elect their leaders by lot, or hold their assemblies on Jehaijae Hill. But he was decent enough to die quickly after all the conquering was done, and his son, Ahtraeyed the Second, was much wiser, and realized that he wouldn’t have to do much governing if the people governed themselves. So the assemblies began again, although now you had to pay for your lottery ticket, so the poor and the indigent were kept from participating in the sortition. The wisdom of beggars forever passed from our councils.
Guess which ancestor Prince Dasuekoh admired the most. Not the wise and prudent son. It was the father, Ahtraeyed the First, founder of the line, who haunted the dreams of his royal descendent. His example gave Dasuekoh a wonderful excuse. He could wander about the city, pushing people around, and claim that he was simply living out the traditions of his ancestors. His father tolerated it to a point. But by the time our story begins, Old Poritifahr had had enough, and had banished his eldest son from court. Dasuekoh had moved back into the hills, back to Kaikoelahtu, the bandit fort that his ancestor had used as the base for his marauding. After seventeen generations it was more of a palace than a fort. But never mind. Dasuekoh made himself quite at home and sported there with his mistress and his lackeys. It was his poor wife, Princess Iyedraeka of Raensapal, who set everything in motion on the day of the coup by deciding to visit the shrine.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Now, you might be wondering why that fool Andraescav didn’t take all of his misplaced adoration and lay it at Daseukoh’s feet. After all, Daseukoh was also handsome, muscular, and mildly intelligent. The reason is simple. My lieutenant had decided that he was in love with Princess Iyedraeka, and he didn’t like the way that her husband treated her. I was with him when he first saw her and fell in love. It was on a market day, and the good princess had decided that she wanted to go and look at some bangles that had arrived from Lacermae. So we assembled our forces and trudged around the base of the palace compound to Iyedraeka’s house, where we were kept cooling our heels in the courtyard. It was a nice house. She liked birds, and the courtyard was full of gilded cages. They sang sweetly and flitted about their cages, and I liked the way their little heads moved. I thought that they would make good guards, with their darting looks and worried attention. Andraescav wasn’t a lieutenant yet, at that time. He had barely started growing his mustaches. And he was very admiring of me, in a way that I neither liked nor encouraged. He followed me about as I walked among the cages, while the other guardsmen had the dignity to stand still and look bored.
“Birds imprint on their mothers when they’re born,” I told him.
He blinked in confusion. “Like printer’s blocks?”
“Yes,” I said, indulging an occasional passion for whimsy, “their mothers stamp their plumage onto them with their feet.”
Someone laughed. We looked up. Princess Iyedraeka had come out onto the balcony. She was young, then, and newly married. Newly arrived in Rahasabahst, as a matter of fact. She thought everything was wondrous, and her wonder made us all look at our city through new eyes. It is true that the canals can be very pretty, and that the bridges over them drip flowers from long vines. And that the porcelain tiles on the facades of the houses are very decorative. And that our steamed buns are quite delicious, and our honey cakes have very delicate flavors. A new princess can inspire a passion for self-love in the kingdom that she’s brought to, and that self-love very quickly becomes love of her. Why wouldn’t you love the person who gives you the gift of seeing yourself as delightful? It’s fair to say that everyone was in love with her at that time. Andraescav kept the habit even after everyone else grew bored of Iyedraeka and forgot her.
He saw her looking down at us, and he fell to his knees. His handsome face tilted up at her, and he self-consciously bulged out his muscles beneath his robes. I rolled my eyes, and the princess caught me doing so. She seemed to decide that I was being unkind, for she floated down the stairs and into the courtyard and stood before Andraescav and took his face in her hands.
“You honor me with your tears,” she said, and wiped them away with her thumbs. Then she looked worried. She could see, I think, his absolute passion for her. It had been birthed in that moment, and as he gazed up at her, his lips quivering, she glanced at me.
“Imprinting,” I said. I’m not certain if Andraescav heard me. I turned away and barked out an order, and the princess was released from his presence as he scurried to find his place in the column. The princess’s handmaidens gathered with her in the space between the cages. Her expression was troubled, and she hesitated before giving the order to depart. Then, very quickly and instinctually, she opened one of the cage doors. The little bird inside was blue and green and very quick. It hopped to the edge of the door and then flitted up into the air. She gave Andraescav a very direct and instructive look. But he didn’t take the lesson. He was too busy telling himself how much he loved her.
