It was too easy, Sarasef thought as he stepped inside the command center of his brother's new fortress, through the excessive decorations of its receiving hall, across the brand new Cakoran wool carpet he was staining with a mixture of blood and mud from his boots.

It felt like walking into a trap, one so well set up you could smell the bait from another town, find it suspicious, and then head right into it anyway for how irresistible the reward was. He'd been prepared for that, however, and had brought with him twelve hundred men in case he ran into a bigger fight than he'd anticipated. But Saracen's fortress had been half empty when he arrived, just as di Amarra had said. His men also had not been intercepted by the city guards, save for a few patrols, just as di Amarra had promised. Saracen's men had also surrendered quickly when he stormed the compound, just as di Amarra had predicted. Everything had gone smoothly and as planned, but if you knew anything about the Red Mamba, you'd know a gift from that snake could come concealed with blades or poison, or at a price at least twice of what he offered.

The price for this gift of information had already been given to him, in fact, which was for him to listen to Muradi's proposal. Muradi, who, apparently, wasn't dead, and would be trying to retake the throne.

Just listen, the Red Mamba had said. That, in itself, came with its own blades. Everyone knew the danger of listening to Muradi––another venomous creature in his own right, not to mention one who just won't die no matter what Fate dragged him through. He had listened to the exiled prince talk his way into his father's care as a young man. He'd listened to Ranveer Borkhan talk his way out of certain death with just the right arrangement of words. He'd listened to Salar Muradi of Rasharwi coax him into signing a treaty he didn't find fair. He was about to listen the man again, now with Deo di Amarra to back him.

He had thought about it for a night, and decided it was worth a gamble. For one thing, destroying him wasn't practical, or useful. For another, his conflict with Saracen must end, and this was a golden opportunity to end it.

The reward was irresistible, so irresistible it was worth both the risk of listening to Muradi and the shame of breaking an oath. He had promised the young Bharavi an alliance with the White Desert, and just listening to Muradi's proposal could be considered breaking his word. Then again, that alliance, as far as he was concerned, had yet to be sanctioned by Citara. It might never never happen.

After all, they had been enemies for centuries, and the Visarya might not have that big an influence to persuade the White Tower. The young Bharavi might not be that powerful a figure to bring about such change in the White Desert. There were hundreds of chosen ones in any town, anywhere. Most of them died young, sometimes from being discovered, other times from discovering they were the second choice of the fifth god in rank. Logic should still apply, even if you believed in gods and divine beings.

Sarasef didn't believe in any of those things. He believed in being on the winning side, and for that, one needed to be aware of where powerful people were heading. He'd decided listening to Muradi could be beneficial, and he wasn't completely helpless or unarmed. He did have the man's favorite son, or at least the power to bargain for the boy's life.

The risks were acceptable, so was the prospect of breaking an oath to survive. What wasn't acceptable was not getting the fight he'd been promised. He had come to deal with Saracen for control of the Rishi, had been prepared to kill his own brother with honor, with respect if necessary. Instead he'd been given a pitiful victory over men who seemed ready to surrender, and his brother was nowhere to be found.

Someone had done something to him, or something had changed since the last time they met.

He slammed the double door open, wasn't even sure if he wanted to find Saracen on the other side, wasn't sure either what he would do if he did, given his rage at the moment.

There was light in the room. The long table made for twenty had been set with several, fully-lit candelabras to accommodate a small feast of fruit, cheese, and wine, all arranged neatly on luxurious placemats. At the far end of the table, fingering the food at leisure, in silk nightclothes and a velvet robe trimmed with fur, was Deo di Amarra, who seemed to have been waiting for him.

"Welcome," he said. "I trust your journey hasn't been too taxing?"

It took him counting to ten to not pick up a chair and beat the man to death with it, which would translate to the end of his life and sufferings, or the beginning of a very painful death, depending on how one saw things. You didn't pick a physical fight with Deo di Amarra without preparing for a funeral, not even when he'd somewhat retired from that old profession to have a go at management. "Where," he said, grabbing his thrashing temper by the collar, "is Saracen?"

"Out," said di Amarra.

"Doing what?"

Di Amarra reached for the cheese, played with it, then popped a piece into his mouth. "You'll find out soon enough. Sit down. Have a drink with me. "

The snarling rage kicked itself free from his grip, and something else leaped in its place. Di Amarra snatched the plates and pitcher out of the way as his war hammer slammed against the table, didn't bother getting out of the chair to do it, didn't so much as move an inch as he did.

The plate and pitcher survived, the table did not. Deo glanced at the large crack that had rendered the priceless furniture literally priceless, then gave him a calm yet irritated expression of someone intensely bored. "Not on the wine, you inconsiderate bastard," he said placing the saved objects back down. "I'm wearing silk, in case you haven't noticed."

He lifted the hammer once more, this time aiming at the desired target. Who gives a shit about funeral preparations? "WHERE is Saracen?"

The words bounced off the walls and ceiling, then disappeared like screaming children at the sight of unforgiving parents. On the table, over the fruit plate, Deo di Amarra's hand paused over a grape, threatening to pluck it off the stem at the twitch of his hammer.

"Don't," hissed di Amarra, "start something you can't finish." The grape, he realized, was of a perfect size to choke a man to death with, given one had the right knowledge and enough practice for the job. "Sit down before you hurt yourself. Your quarrel is not with me."

He measured the two steps between them, realized it would take the smaller man less time to cross it with a fruit than he could with a war hammer, decided death by produce would shame his ancestors, and brought both the hammer and the rage back down.

Sarasef took the seat close enough to reach for the food and wine, but far enough to evade the reach of di Amarra's arm should a need arise. The hand relaxed once more and moved from the grapes toward the cheese, which could probably still choke him to death if a master assassin wanted to do it. Killing with dairy would also make the man a legend, and he had no desire to die making someone else famous. He said, carefully this time, "Tell me what you've done."

Deo di Amarra shrugged and poured him a serving of wine. "I've done nothing. This was Muradi's idea. Saracen should be with him inside the Barai. He's gone to take it tonight and to free Niroza. Your brother went after him."

A quick, right to the point answer that told him why the fortress was half empty, but one that failed miserably to soothe his irritation. "You lured him out to hunt Muradi, knowing I've come here to fight him." It made him a coward, taking back control this way. Someone would pay for that.

"I told you," di Amarra replied, "Ranveer's idea, not mine."

Ranveer. He sipped the wine, which helped a little. "He's using that name again now?"

"Not after tonight." Di Amarra raised his golden goblet, turned it left and right to admire the craftsmanship. "By now he should have the Barai, and would be reinstated as Salar immediately. At least within the compound."

"Or dead, by my brother's hand."

"I wouldn't put money on that."

"I might."

"Have some faith, my friend."

"In a Salar who's lost his throne?"

Di Amarra smiled. "In my most favorite pawn."

Sarasef took another sip of wine, thinking. A pawn, he'd said. "You told me this was his idea."

"I did."

"Yet you're sitting here as his messenger, helping him gain power at the cost of yours by betraying Azram."

"Have I," the tone was light, like the hand he was cutting the cheese with, "betrayed Azram? As far as he's concerned, I'm here on official business to check on Saracen. You were the one barging in here unauthorized while your old friend and former ally was attacking the Barai. Which story do you think he'd believe? That I've given up my fortune to help a Salar I kicked off the throne, or that you've joined Ranveer to fight your brother, and are now holding me hostage?"

Sarasef's breath hitched at the revelation. There it was, the trap he'd smelled but hadn't been able to guess. The lie, if Azram were to believe it, would make him an obstacle for the son and an ally of the father before he even listened to the man's proposal, unless... "I do have a letter from you inviting me here."

"A letter written in Cakoran ink. The finest these days disappears in about twelve hours," said Di Amarra. "The one being sent to Rasharwi regarding my hostage situation was not, fortunately. It would likely reach Azram tomorrow, written and signed by his father, of course."

Of course, Sarasef thought in a mixture of awe and a sudden need to beat something to death. The letter would have already been written, prepared, and handed to a messenger before he even set foot at the gate of this fortress. He wasn't even here to negotiate. His wrists had been bound from the day di Amarra's tip had arrived. "You scheming son of a bitch."

"I told you," said di Amarra. "His idea, not mine."

It did sound like the man's idea, which wouldn't make it the first time Muradi had used this tactic to win battles, or to avoid one altogether. But having known the man as both Salar of Rasharwi and Ranveer, he had a feeling––a hunch––that the trap might not have been set exclusively for him.

"I'm curious," he said, keeping an eye on di Amarra's hands, feeling a trace of excitement as he pried something open to ease his own pain, "as to how you expect to move forward from here. You're now being held hostage, and for that deception you've lost your power, your freedom to move, and your control of the future which now rests on Ranveer's hands and what he chooses to do next. Have you ever asked yourself, Deo..." He decided to push the knife a litter deeper, to see if it'd hit a hidden target. "...if you really gave him the throne twenty years ago, or if he made you?"

A small pause, which was important.

"Does it matter?" said di Amarra, calmly, but you could hear a hint of uncertainty between the syllables if you knew him well enough. "As long as I get what I want in the end?"

"If," Sarasef said, sipping wine, "you do get what you want in the end. Moving a man and controlling him are two different things, Deo." There was a point to not specifying which man here. A warning of sorts. "How exactly do you propose to keep him in line?"

If di Amarra took the hint, it didn't show. He took the last sip of his wine, refilled it, and rose to his feet. "Come," said the Red Mamba. "I'll show you."

***