Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles) (11 page)

He strode through the palace halls with Hamar a pace behind. Hamar’s silence pleased him; Kuramos preferred to keep his own counsel, and Hamar had proven he knew when to seal his own lips.

As Kuramos had planned, two of his most fearsome-looking guards flanked the wide doorway of the private consultation room. He noted he was taller than either guard, and quashed a prideful twitch of his lips. They stood at attention as he neared, then turned in unison and led the way into the room of dark wood and imposing murals of the goddess and gods.

Five men seated on cushions sprang to their feet. Kuramos saw in a quick, raking glance that they were but hired messengers—terrified ones, at that. His lip curled in distaste at the discourtesy of those who had sent these lowly pawns, these mere
children
on this mission.

“O Great Sultan,” stammered the one on the farthest left, after a sweeping bow that had nose touching shins, “my master, the pasha Nabil, begs certain…information from you, if your Lordship deems him fit to receive it.”

Kuramos doubted very much that those words had been the verbatim commandment from the pasha, but messengers were well-trained in the art of diplomatic translation.

“And do
your
masters,” Kuramos said, glancing at the other men, “have the same wish?” Low murmurs indicated their affirmation.

It galled him to stand before men whose masters were too cowardly to seek audience themselves. But his presence—living, healthy, and intimidating—would be crucial to what would come next.

“I take it,” Kuramos drawled, closing in on the first messenger, “that Nabil would like to know the nature of the illness mentioned in My court today.”

The messenger, a good half a head shorter than Kuramos, quivered on his legs as his sultan neared. His gaze darted away, toward the innocuous carpet. “Y…Yes, O Lord.”

Kuramos found no pleasure in this bullying, but closed in on the messenger until the man seemed close to wetting himself.

Then he moved a few feet to the right, to the next messenger. “Does your master Akram,” and he flicked the insignia pinned to the man’s shoulder, “fear that this illness might be contagious?”

The messenger swallowed, gave a minute nod, and pinned his gaze on the hand the sultan had casually placed on his ever-present scimitar. Kuramos made sure his hot breaths wafted over the man, and prayed that Varene’s instinct was right.

The lives of these men depended on it. No physician in Kad would have dared give an answer based on instinct, but the sorceress from Teganne had done just that. Nor had he become ill, though he’d held Tahir in his arms, stayed by Dabir and then his wives’ bedsides for hours, visited each of the others who had taken to their pallets with the fevers. His own gut now told him to trust Varene’s.

He moved to the third man, whose head was already lowered, and spoke in a voice as quiet as a scimitar being unsheathed. “And do you believe I would be here among you,
infecting you
, if the illness were so?”

“N-no, O Lord.” The man collapsed to his knees and bowed his head to the rug.

“And you?” He gestured toward the fourth messenger, who merely followed his neighbor’s example, slithering to the floor in a quivering mass. Kuramos stepped to his prostrate form, settling one sandaled foot firmly beside the man’s outspread hands, and continued in silky tones. “I do hope the House of Chiman doesn’t wish for any harm to come to mine. That your master isn’t sniffing like a jackal, hoping to scavenge from my House’s dead carcass, hmm?”

The man emitted the faintest of moans in response.

Kuramos turned, finally, to the last man. “And Ubaid from the House of Faysal.”

“O Great Sultan,” Ubaid answered, and raised his gaze to the eyes of his sovereign.

Kuramos sensed the man’s composure. He was the only one of the five messengers who now possessed any. And as their gazes met, Kuramos knew he was seeing a man pure of faith. The only such man in the room.

“Ubaid, the family of your employer has long been allied to mine. Once,” he said with deliberate mildness, “there were even blood ties between us.” But inside, he gripped his own soul so it would not wail in remembrance of the losses. “It grieves me to see Faysal represented here, questioning me.”

“O Lord,” said Ubaid, with a steady gaze, “let be it known in the goddess’s heart that you have no cause to grieve. My master’s loyalties are true.”

Kuramos let one eyebrow rise. “Then tell your master that I will take care of my own house. And that he is to take care of his, until I have cause to direct him otherwise. I will be watching.”

Ubaid bowed low, clasping his hands together in obedience.

Kuramos turned and looked with deliberate scorn on the others. “Now return to your Houses and tell your masters I have spoken thus. BEGONE!” he roared. His guards beat the floor in unison, underscoring his command. Four men scrambled through the doorway like retreating spiders, while the fifth backed out with measured, respectful strides.

In the ensuing silence, Kuramos released his breath and allowed the tension to ease from his neck.
Naaz
, he prayed,
let this demonstration be enough to give my enemies doubt and quell their plans.

Then the sultan of Kad returned to his chamber and bowed once more on his prayer rug before the dagger of his ancestors, seeking absolution for his sins.

“S
ohad?” Varene called after his retreating form, but the physician’s assistant strode wordlessly from the men’s infirmary, his back stiff with accusation.

By Fate, what had happened? She’d merely been taking care of the bite wound when Sohad had glared like she’d hurled curses at his head.

She smoothed the undercook’s bandages and then hustled down the hall under the curious gazes of her ill patients. Sohad wasn’t in the main infirmary.

Damn.
She huffed out a breath; it fluttered the wisps of hair that had escaped from her ponytail.

Habit took over, and she returned to the men’s wing to wash her hands again. Her fingers were starting to chap and she wished for some lotion. She kept pots of it by each basin at home.

At home.
Where everything was where she wanted it. Where people behaved logically. Where she had a well-respected position among people who appreciated her skills and loved her.

She gripped the marble edges of the bowl, wondering what she’d be doing now if she were back in Teganne.
Mourning Findar. And trying to find a way to distract myself from missing him.
She choked out a laugh that was half-sob.
Be careful what you wish for, Varene. You often get it.

She returned to the main room. Someone was waiting, but it wasn’t Sohad.

A petite woman garbed in the palace colors glanced timorously around the room, hands clasped at her waist. When she saw Varene, she dropped her gaze to the floor and spoke. “You must be the Royal Healer. My name is Priya. I’m here to serve you.”

Startled, Varene drew closer. “I’m pleased to meet you. But… in what way are you supposed to serve me?”

The woman blushed, giving Varene a momentary pause.

“I’m your handmaiden, here to assist you in whatever way you need. I…also have some small,” she waggled her fingers slightly, still avoiding Varene’s eyes, “very small, skills with healing. The Staff Mistress felt I’d be a suitable aid for you.”

“I see. Well, I’m sure—”

Sohad walked through the doorway, a mixture of guilt and defiance on his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak and caught sight of Priya, who’d turned her face to the door. His jaws snapped shut, then opened slightly.

When Varene looked at Priya, the servant’s feet had inched closer together as if leaning upon one another for comfort.

Interesting. “Priya, have you met Sohad, the Assistant Physician?”

“No, my lady.” Priya’s brown gaze darted up to Sohad like a skittish mouse and ducked back down again. “I’m…pleased to meet you.”

Varene noticed the parroting of the same words she’d said to Priya. The maidservant seemed rather flustered.

“As am I,” Sohad said, “to meet you.” His own gaze darted toward Priya, then away at the wall, the floor, and landed on Varene.

Hmm. Even more interesting. Varene cleared her throat. “Priya, you mentioned you have healing experience?”

“Just…just small things, my lady.” She gestured self-deprecatingly. “Wrapping sprains, cleaning minor wounds. Tending to an aunt in labor.”

“I’m sure you were a help to her, and I’ll be glad to have you here.” Varene gave her an encouraging nod, and the woman managed a shy smile in response, though the skin between her brows remained creased with uncertainty.

“Actually,” Varene said, “there’s something you could do for me right away. Would you mind getting orange sherbet for one of the patients? Even better, bring sherbet for all of them, since the cold will help their throats and give them sustenance. Even that sourmouth Nipun. Let’s see, that means four servings, and—Sohad, since I haven’t seen them yet, how many ill women are in the infirmary?”

“Just one,” he said, after a pause. “But Priya can’t take the sherbet to the men herself, of course.”

Varene looked at him blankly. “Why not?”

Sohad seemed scandalized. “She’s a woman—she can’t go in there!”

Varene’s brow cocked. “
I’m
a woman, and I went in.”

“Well, yes, but…but…” he spluttered.

“Absurd. If she’s been sent here to help, she should be free to help in whatever way she’s needed. Haven’t the male physicians been seeing and treating
all
the patients, regardless of gender? As have I?”

“A male servant should serve the men,” Sohad said with a stubborn glint in his eye.

“I don’t see one here, do you?” Varene crossed her arms. “I need to examine the remaining patients now, and I think your own skills and knowledge would be better suited to helping me find a cure than by running to find some male servant.”

“Priya could get one.”

“Ah…” Priya said in a meek voice. “It might not be quite as simple as that.”

Varene glanced at the maidservant. “Why not?”

Poor Priya looked like she’d rather be cowering under a rock. “The Staff Mistress is…er…reluctant to risk her workers. Because of the sickness here.”

“Yes, there’s fear, I’m sure. But she sent you, yes? Surely she’d send more if asked.”

“The sultan himself requested that you be sent help, so Mistress Chaaya obeyed. But I…” She blushed again. “I’m not one of her favorite people.”

Leaning forward, Varene stared at Priya. “You mean to tell me that she wouldn’t mind if something happens to you?” When the servant nodded, Varene almost choked on the ire balling in her chest. “And why does Mistress Chaaya dislike you so much?” More to the point, how could anyone treat a woman as debris?

“My father…” Now Priya’s cheeks blazed like twin sunsets. “Years ago, my father revoked his betrothal to her.”

“And she’s made
you
liable for it?”

Priya gave only a miserable blink in answer.

Varene scrubbed a hand across her face, then counted to seven to calm herself.
One, Mother Fate. Two, Mother Fate. Three, Mother Fate. Four…

“You have my empathies, Priya.”
But there’s no time to dwell on grudges. Focus.
“And clearly I’ll need to inform Mistress Chaaya that it’s doubtful the illness spreads from person to person in the way she believes. Or hopes.” She reached behind her to pull the confining band from her ponytail and re-gather her hair. That kept her from going off to find the Staff Mistress and choking the life from her spiteful body. “For now, let’s please not argue about gender. Priya, are you willing to find some sherbet and serve it to the men? Men, ha. Two of them are just boys.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman unclasped her hands and let them fall to her sides. After a fortifying swallow, she raised her gaze to Varene’s.

So there might be some courage behind Priya’s big brown eyes after all. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to take care of it, then. Sohad, let’s continue with our examinations.”

He and Varene stared at each other. Tension stiffened her shoulders; Sohad still hadn’t explained his previous exodus, and now she’d overruled him on a matter of infirmary etiquette.