The cup flew halfway across the room with its content and landed with a loud clank on the marble floor. It bounced twice and rolled over to rest in front of Deo di Amarra's right foot. The royal advisor, now right-hand man of the future salar, took a slow, discriminating step to the side to save his expensive bear pelt robe from the path of the spilled wine. He looked down at his cream and gold tunic and frowned over the drop of red that ruined it, then up at the prince regent.

Azram, realizing the magnitude of his mistake, quickly pulled back the hand that threw the cup, placing it behind his back along with the other, as if doing so would destroy the evidence of his tantrum. Still breathing heavily, he clamped his mouth shut, trying his best not to apologize and undermine his own authority. Imran didn't blame him for wanting to, not when the man he may have just pissed off was Deo di Amarra.

One needed to remember, after all, that the very throne Azram was sitting on had been vacated for him due to its previous owner having done just that, and that history tended to repeat itself when the latter generations neglected to give it the attention. For the very least, Azram seemed to be heeding it, if a little too excessively.

"It's been a month," complained Azram, carefully. "If he's dead, shouldn't someone find the body by now?"

That someone meant him, of course, Imran thought and decided to remain silent. Only a stupid man would rise to the occasion when not addressed directly. It was, nonetheless, his responsibility as the Commander of the Royal Army to be looking for the salar, dead or alive. The wrong man to appoint the task to, surely, given where his loyalty lay, but Azram, being only regent, lacked the authority to change the last salar's official decree except in an event of absolute necessity. Imran imagined he could have been discreetly killed to accommodate such necessity––and would have been––had di Amarra not insisted to the prince that he be kept alive. Why, he had yet to find out. They were definitely not on the same side, and there was always a good reason behind everything the Khandoor did.

"It would be best," said di Amarra, crisply, "that you do not voice such an opinion out loud, my lord prince. There are always ears in the Tower, and whether or not you become salar depends on the people of Rasharwi not knowing that you had a hand in his demise." A ringed hand rose over his chest, brushing briskly over the stain on his tunic twice as though it had been dust, not wine. "And in pleasing your high-level officials at court, of course."

Azram, at that moment, looked like a boy who needed to kick a dog in front of his peers but was too afraid of the beast to take the challenge. He stared at di Amarra, his chest seemingly filled to the last inch with words of insult looking for release. The prince, somehow, managed to swallow them all down and heroically deflated.

"I will have the power to deal with all of them when I am salar," said the prince regent, struggling to fit a milder tone to a heated tongue. "The sooner that happens, the more secure the Salasar will be."

"Which is why Commander Sa'id's head is out there, along with your soldiers who have been sent out to look for him. What can be done is being done. There are other things to do, my lord regent, besides looking for your father," said di Amarra.

It was a brilliant plan, Imran hated to admit. Whether or not izr Sa'id had meant that much to Salar Muradi, the late commander had requested––and been offered––an honorable death in public. Putting his head on display as the man responsible for the tragic event not only shifted the blame from Azram, but it could infuriate Salar Muradi enough to drive him out of hiding. The former salar, as merciless as he seemed, was before all else a man of his word. Di Amarra knew this and had decided on the best possible way to bait him out of hiding.

"And if he doesn't turn up? What then?" Azram slapped the stack of reports on the table. His hand paused in midair before he repeated the action when di Amarra cleared his throat. "I need the power to put the provinces back in line, or in two years there won't be a Salasar for me to rule."

There probably won't be if something wasn't done about the situation, Imran agreed. Three provinces, namely Cakora, Harathi, and Khandoor, had decided to be mutually late on tributes that should have been sent weeks ago. The first test, of course, to measure the power and prowess of their new ruler before more dangerous plans were formed. Rasharwi itself was unstable with its citizens still questioning over what had happened to their salar. Samarra, being governed by the former salahari's family, was already trying to push for more privileges from Azram's new position, which, if given, would tip the balance of power in the Salasar and in turn, piss off the rest of the provinces further, giving them more reasons to rebel.

It was a problem they had to deal with before all else––one that had taken Salar Muradi years to succeed following the battle of the Vilarhiti and the change of salar that happened shortly after. The army now may not be as weakened as back then, but the prince regent was also not half the man his father was. It, therefore, fell on Deo di Amarra's shoulders to get the task done, but at what price? At what cost?

"You do have the power to deal with this, my lord," said di Amarra, gliding across the floor with his robe trailing royally behind toward the prince regent's desk to pour himself a cup of wine––without permission. "Not all wars need to be fought with an army. In fact, given enough money, some planning, and good negotiation tactics, there need not even be one."

The prince sipped his own wine and nodded. "How do you propose we do this, then?"

Di Amarra walked over to the table painted with the map of the peninsula, taking his time. He paused and looked at the prince as he reached it, and waited. Azram, without giving it thought long enough to take offense, obediently relocated himself to stand next to his advisor.

On the table with figures of men, ships, and miniature buildings already positioned by the former salar, Deo di Amarra picked up a handful of figures from a container. He placed a figure of a man on each province on the map. "The provinces, my lord, are controlled by its governors. They are men. Men who live for power, wealth, and the security of their status. Give them those––or illusions of those––and freedom or independence will mean very little, if not be entirely forgotten over time."

"I see." Azram rubbed his chin as he stared at the map, making an effort to appear thoughtful. "Stability, wealth, and security." Repeating words always worked, of course, to pretend one knew something about the topic.

Di Amarra breathed, or sighed, depending on how one chose to see it. For his own sake, Azram would have had no choice but to see it as the first. "You bind them to us, my lord." He placed four more figures down on the map where Rasharwi was. "Bring in their sons, give each a position at court, offer them sole ownership of land and housing, here, in Rasharwi, as a gesture of good faith. Offer them the illusion that they have one of their own holding some power in Rasharwi. Demand tribute, exactly as before, but also offer them an opportunity to do business here and accumulate more wealth for their families. People who benefit from the prosperity of the Salasar will not bring it harm, that, I can assure you."

"A position at court has always belonged to Rashais, di Amarra. There are reasons for that." Imran, at this point, could no longer listen quietly. An outsider's influence at court was dangerous. It could lead to bribery, power imbalance, conflicts between provinces that originated at court, vulnerabilities of the Salasar leaking out, among hundreds other things. Even di Amarra himself, as a Khandoor, could only be appointed as an advisor to the salar––a position of influence without power to make decisions or to command––and even so, he had been closely watched and kept on a short leash while Salar Muradi ruled.

"Every salar in the past had also strictly prohibited sole ownership of land and businesses in the capital. Rasharwi is small despite its prosperity and wealth. It must remain under the control of Rashais or we will lose it all in the long run. My lord," Imran said and turned to the prince, "if you do this, you will be forced to allow sole ownership of land and business in Rasharwi. Our own people will soon be at the mercy of entrepreneurs from elsewhere that we have no control over and possibly driven out of their own land. It may solve one problem, but it's also the start of a larger one. Your father––"

"Is dead or on a run," said di Amarra, his yellow-green eyes flashed as they cut Imran's words short. "Would he deal with this differently? Yes, Commander Imran, he would have, but that was a different man, a military man, a conqueror whose decades of legacy had been built on such reputations. He had won battles no salar had ever come close to achieving, had spent his life terrorizing the entire peninsula into submission by constantly keeping them in check." He turned to the prince, not allowing a second for Imran to retort. "My lord, with all due respect, you do not yet hold such power. You do not even have full control of the power to rule. We must make do with what we have on hand and survive the best we can with it before you can build your own legacy instead of living off your father's. The Salasar is yours, it will be rightfully yours in two years or less. This is your chance to start your own era and shape it into something of your name by doing exactly what no salar had ever done, including Salar Muradi of Rasharwi, however great he was."

Imran drew a breath, clenched his hands into fists as he kept his anger in check. One look at Azram and the way his eyes lit up by the time the speech had ended told him this was a battle he couldn't win. Di Amarra knew how badly Azram needed to come out of Muradi's shadow, he knew exactly how much resentment the young prince harbored toward his father, and had cleverly used it to move things to his advantage. Such a law, if passed, would give the Khandoor the opportunity to gain sole ownership of all the businesses and lands he currently had investments in in Rasharwi, offering him control of the Salasar's commerce and economy on a large scale. The plan could quell the uprising of the provinces, yes, but it would mean giving him immense power on top of the influence he already had. Should that be allowed to happen––and it was about to––there would be no taking back power from this man whose alliance, for all Imran knew, could shift overnight.

Or might have never been with the Salasar from the beginning.

A spine-chilling thought, that. Has anyone ever been able to dig up his past, I wonder? Imran made a mental note to add it to the list of his top priorities.

"My lord," said Imran. "Prince Nareen and Raoul are already engaged to the daughters of the governors of Khandoor and Cakora. Why not bring the girls to be raised here in Rasharwi? Give them a permanent place in the Tower, shower them with honor and gifts, or whatever it takes to show we're willing to play nice. The marriage contracts had been put in place to tie them to us from the start. Shouldn't that be enough?"

"It should be, commander," said di Amarra, "if daughters ever hold enough value for their fathers to change the course of war. With sons, lands, and a running business or two, we have a lot to squeeze." Turning to the prince, di Amarra pushed the four figures recently placed on Rasharwi together. "We can do a lot more than squeeze, my lord, once you have rightfully taken the throne. The lands and businesses are on our soil. They won't go anywhere." A flick of his finger, and the four figures all toppled, scattered on the map. "In the unfortunate case that something happens to them."

It was the end of the discussion, according to the look on Azram's face and the smile that appeared soon afterward. The new law would pass and Azram would do exactly as he was told. Imran looked at the wooden figures that had fallen, and wondered if the prince noticed there were four, not three.

"There is, however, one more issue that needs to be addressed." Di Amarra headed back to the desk to fill his cup. "The White Desert is mobilizing, my lord. The Visarya, to be exact. They are using this opportunity to round up the khagans. Once they have enough force, I expect them to attack Sabha or try to take back the Vilarhiti."

Azram shook his head. "The khagans have never united. Not to that extent."

"They have a trueblood oracle and a girl born with a prophecy to end the war. A bharavi, for that matter." Di Amarra sipped his wine, calmly. "Now, they also have Sarasef. This is the Visarya we are talking about, my lord. A khagan of influence and one of the most powerful in the White Desert. If the bharavi marries well, we may be looking at two most influential khagans and their allies––on top of Sarasef––who would try to attack us before you take the throne. That is a problem."

The biggest problem, if that were to happen. The thought alone had been giving Imran nightmares the moment he'd learned of that information. Salar Muradi had been ready to go to war. The army was ready, as well as the fleet of ships he'd been preparing to attack Makena at the same time to cut off supplies to the White Desert. The task now fell on Azram who'd never been to war or commanded an army for any small task, on top of him not having full command of the Salasar. They couldn't attack the White Desert now given the circumstances, but giving the Visarya two years to organize could cost them more than a chance to conquer the Shakshis. It could cost them the Salasar itself.

The decision to have overthrown Salar Muradi now, of all time, was the worst thing Azram had done for the Salasar. To think that an entire empire could fall over one wrong turn, one selfish thought, one son turning out to be one's biggest enemy. And whose fault was it? Salar Muradi's as a father? Azram's as a son? Zahara's for having clouded the salar's vision?

Or Deo di Amarra's for having made it possible?

"We do have Saracen, do we not?" Azram wasn't smiling now. He looked like he was about to be sick.

"You have given him the army your father sent for Sarasef, yes, but you need to put Saracen to good use while he can be used, my lord."

"He is preparing to attack Sarasef with the army," said the prince. "It would prevent Sarasef from joining the White Desert if he succeeds."

"Saracen would do that on his own. He wants to take the Rishi from his brother. That was the whole point of the conflict––a sibling war. Once it's done we'll no longer be of use to him. They are mercenaries, my lord. This, we must never forget."

Azram, who, by that point, had given up trying to pretend he knew what to do, sighed and threw his hand in the air. "Well, what do you have in mind?"

Di Amarra smiled. "Give Saracen supplies, a proper base to operate from, whatever he needs. We do what we always do." he said. "Raid the White Desert, my lord. Weaken them from the inside out. Pitch the khagans against each other, and they won't be able to mobilize against you."

***

The dark cell reeked of sweat, piss, and shit. Paired with the taste of blood in his mouth, it gave him a feeling for a moment that he was back at Sabha. Only Sabha was never empty, or quiet. After all, that prison was where they kept everything from the newly captured slaves, to the scums of the sewers, to criminals who'd crossed the line before they grew a proper beard. To princes, fucked up or innocent.

The stench would have been tenfold at Sabha, and more fragrant with some rotting dead rats next to the puke someone who'd tried to eat them left behind. There was always someone trying to eat these things. The guards didn't really make sure they were fed. They tossed you leftover crap, and then let you kill each other for it. On a good day, that is.

Ghaul smiled at that memory and spat on the stone floor, frowning at the amount of blood that came out. The cut inside of his mouth was still bleeding pretty badly. So was the one on the side of his head where they'd knocked him unconscious. With what, he couldn't tell. He was fighting ten men before he'd blacked out. You didn't think about who fucked you over with what and from where when that happened. There usually wasn't time.

This prison, wherever it was, had been cleaned regularly and only occasionally occupied. It looked like someone's elaborate, hidden underground dungeon made for personal use––where its owner might keep prisoners no one should know about.

Which made no sense, given what he'd been caught doing and in whose custody he should have been held, once caught.

For the sake of simplicity (and Ghaul had always liked things simple), he wished they'd thrown him back into Sabha to await interrogation. They'd do that to find out where the salar was, and had it been Sabha, he would have known how to escape such a fate by accidentally dying one way or another before they started working on him. It would come to that, in any case, before they got the whereabouts of his master.

This prison, however, was something he had never seen (and he had seen a lot of prisons accompanying the salar). The bars––as thick as a young boy's arm––were well constructed to the point of excess. There were no weaknesses, no bad joints, no defects anywhere he could see. The locks were the best of its kind, and like new, which meant they were replaced regularly. The walls, ceiling, and floor were lined with large slabs of granite––impossible to dig through or break without a proper tool. The cells he could see all seemed to be somewhat different but with one thing in common: they were all made to hold someone who knew exactly how to break out of prison. Perhaps, even, to test whether someone could break out of them.

He could only think of one man who might want to build such a place, or could, and had the means to afford this luxury. But why was he brought here and not to Sabha or the Tower prison? Why the secrecy?

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor to his left. Ghaul recognized it in an instant. He had, after all, spent decades listening to it coming down the hallway in front of the salar's study.

If only his ankles and wrists hadn't been cuffed and restrained by chains thick enough to hold an elephant, he might have been able to find a way to kill the traitorous prick. Or for the very least try.

The footsteps came to a pause in front of his cell. Black lambskin leather boots polished to the last inch peeked out to greet him from the priceless pelt of a long robe that dragged along the floor. The salar had three of those robes. This man, he had lost count of such things some time in the past twenty years.

A ringed hand came up, holding a large ring with half a dozen keys hanging from it. The keys made a clinking sound as bright as bells as the hand moved.

"So," said Deo di Amarra, "how would you like to see your master on the throne again?"

***