Jarem stood with hands behind his back, watching the salar go through a stack of reports in his study and entertained himself with an image of Deo di Amarra being thrown out the balcony to pass the time. The Khandoor was late, yet again, to the summon.

Such insolence, displayed too many times to count, should have ended with Jarem's fantasy being realized, and yet it hadn't. The salar had somehow developed an unprecedented amount of patience with the grotesquely wealthy merchant and royal advisor who seemed to be able to get away with anything in the Black Tower, including making Salar Muradi of Rasharwi wait.

The door creaked opened, and in walked Deo di Amarra, bringing with him the same air of grandeur a highly sought after performer might produce upon his initial entrance to a stage. A cloak of priceless grey wolf pelt swept across the black marble floor as he approached in slow, lazy steps toward the desk behind which the salar seated. Three large rings set with rare gems big enough to buy a small army adorned the fingers on both hands. Underneath the cloak, a deep blue tunic of finest Makena silk stitched with silver threads peeked out from the luxurious fur, completing the picture of a man who might be wealthier than the salar.

Which might very well be the case, Jarem thought bitterly. The Khandoor owned close to half the businesses in Rasharwi and probably had investments in more. The house of assassins he operated—not so secretly—happened to be the most expensive in the Salasar only the elites and the powerful could afford. Now, as a royal advisor to the salar, Jarem didn't want to imagine the number of bribes and favors that must have been going into his pockets. Deo di Amarra was a figure that could shift the balance of the peninsula if he wanted. Had changed it, actually, for a handful of Vilarian horses to make sure Prince Muradi ascended safely—and timely— to the throne. Jarem happened to know first hand which names had gone into that infamous Jar of Souls as a result of that transaction.

The Khandoor paused before the salar and bowed. To Jarem, the proud, elegant gestures found in its execution made the whole thing feel more a display of gratitude rather than an offering of obeisance. As always, he seemed to take pleasure in appraising the furniture and the decorations in the room while waiting to be addressed. If there was any amount of sweat breaking around the salar commonly found in most men who attended him, it didn't show.

"You're late," said Salar Muradi without looking up from the report.

Di Amarra dipped his head a little. A gesture so subtle it didn't move a strand of that eye-stinging red hair. The small, sardonic grin on his lips was also there, as usual, to irritate Jarem.

"Regrettably so, my lord," he replied unhurriedly. "I thought it wise to have a little chat with our heroic prince before I came. It took me a while to find a moment alone with him. The Prince Lasura is why I'm here, I presume?"

Jarem shot him a glare. "Have a care, di Amarra. Your presumption may contribute to your premature death if you keep this up."

Di Amarra turned, ran his gaze over him from head to toe and frowned. "The only thing that's going to give me a premature death, commander, is the sight of that dull, horse-dung green tunic you're wearing. It's sucking the life out of me as we speak."

Jarem raised a brow at another insult he'd gotten used to by then. Out of having to deal with it for the past two decades, of course—nothing else but sheer necessity would ever do the trick. "Does it now? Should have told me. I would have worn it sooner if I knew."

The salar looked up from the report then, a grin playing about his lips. "Horse-dung tunic aside," he said, leaning back on the velvet cushion, "let's hear the rest of your presumptions, shall we? Why do you think you're here, di Amarra?"

Jarem glanced at the Khandoor, searching for any sign of stress on that laid back, half-sobered expression and didn't find it. The question was a test of sorts. It was how the salar measured the competence of his men, and from which he would often draw a conclusion of whether one would exit the chamber through the door or the balcony. Most grown men shit their pants during the process. Di Amarra had been placed on it—every time he was summoned—and somehow never broken a sweat.

"The way I see it, my lord," Deo di Amarra mused, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully on the clean-shaven jawline, "you have three very large problems at present that require immediate attention, namely the prince, the birds, and the Rishis."

Tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, the corner of Salar Muradi's lips lifted into a more visible grin. "What about them?"

"Well, you gave the prince an eagle tonight, my lord, in front of the whole Tower, more or less."

Jarem, having been the one who suggested the idea, stepped in at the criticism. "It's not unusual for the salar to reward his men for their accomplishments, di Amarra."

"In diamonds and golds, commander." The words rang like steel being drawn out of its sheath, despite the intentional drag of the syllables. "Spotted eagles are gifts for kings and high chiefs. They have always been a symbol of leadership, of power. As of today, the only man in the peninsula besides the salar who owns a spotted eagle is Prince Lasura. If I were to elaborate on that, my lord," he turned back to the salar, catching his gaze as he did, "the only prince in the Tower of Shakshi blood."

Jarem swallowed, took a glance at the salar whose expression still hadn't changed, and tried to set something straight before it did. "He is also a son of the salar who's being given a gift by his father."

"A son born to a mother of Shakshi origin taken as one of the prisoners from the Vilarhiti, commander Sa'id. Prisoners we have been putting on auction as slaves and whores in the Salasar for centuries. The only status they'd ever held in Rasharwi were at your feet or in your bed, not standing in the throne room with a spotted fucking eagle on his shoulder. You can make a whore out of someone's wife and it would end with a duel, but put a slave above the master, commander, and you'll have yourself a rebellion."

"You will watch your tongue in the presence of the Salar of Rasharwi, di Amarra!" 

"I'll watch yours, Commander Sa'id." A harshness to the words, made worse by the scraping sound his wolf pelt made against the stone floor as he turned toward Jarem. "He won't be for long if you keep feeding him advice as horrifying as your sense of fashion."

Jarem opened his mouth to respond, and snapped it shut at a raised finger from the salar.

"You believe this translates to me favoring Shakshis over Rashais?" The salar asked thoughtfully.

"In my words or Commander Sa'id's court-sweetened, milk-diluted tongue, my lord?"

Deceitful, manipulative, arrogant son of a — Jarem stopped himself before voicing that out loud.

"In as few words as fucking possible, Deo."

Di Amarra nodded, smiled at the permission and the deliberate use of his first name—a signal that all formalities were to be dropped without being penalized. They talked like that sometimes during practice duels. The Khandoor was, after all, a master assassin and one of the best swordsmen in Rasharwi. The salar never passed on that kind of opportunity to sharpen his skills.

"Then yes, my lord, it does." Di Amarra nodded. "You do favor your Shakshi wife over your Rashai ones—that is not a secret—and where a man puts his cock usually reflects his character. It's been almost two decades and you haven't sent another army into the White Desert. To the public at large, you gave eight thousand Shakshi captives from her homeland a fenced off sanctuary and declared them untouchable. Word on the street is, in as few words as possible and foregoing court-obligated fairy dust sprinkles, 'the Shakshi witch's got the salar by the balls.'"

Jarem sucked in a breath at that, took a glance at the salar and didn't find what he'd anticipated. 

"And you've just confirmed the witchcraft by offering a spotted eagle to her son. Tomorrow they'll be betting on Prince Lasura being made heir to the throne, and if that idea were to spread, well, every Shakshi slave owner and whorehouse in the Salasar will have something to say about it and precautions are going to be put into action. You'll be facing an internal war before you even march into White Desert, my lord, or as soon as your army crosses the gate of Sabha."

"That is absurd!" A complete nonsense, in fact, in Jarem's opinion. "Prince Lasura is the son of a prisoner of war. Everyone knows he has no right to the throne. You're making a fuss out of nothing more than gossips and half-drunk conversations behind closed doors."

"Am I?" A sharp edge to his tone now, despite the mocking lightness of that voice. "Empires are built on gossips and whispers behind closed doors, commander. They have also been sacked for less." He turned back to the salar, a jeweled hand sweeping out to address the surrounding. "Your very own empire has been built on nothing more than whispers and talks between the three people in this room and another man who now guards it, my lord. You, as a former prisoner of Sabha, the son of a mother charged with and executed for adultery, are a living example of how fragile laws and traditions can be with regards to who ascends to the throne. This is a serious threat, my lord, make no mistake about it. The spark is already there, waiting for someone to throw in the hay."

An ugly beast, tossed carelessly into the middle of the room for all to see, Jarem thought, holding his breath in anticipation as he observed the salar, waiting for some kind of lightning to strike on the Khandoor. Questioning him about Zahara and the prince was already pushing the limits, but the subject of his mother was something nobody in their right mind would ever bring up. He half expected the man to be thrown out of the balcony in the next few minutes, but there had been no change in the salar's flat, unreadable expression as he listened, not even a twitch of an eye.

"I had no idea you care so much about my rule," the salar said with an unreasonable calm and a chuckle to boot. "Have I really been away long enough for you to grow some loyalty, Deo?"

Di Amarra frowned. "Love, loyalty, and faith are products of the heart, my lord. They are the most dangerous, unpredictable, and mind-clouding tools successful rulers never rely on," he said lazily. "Greed and ambition, however, are much more reliable. Feed a hungry dog like a pig, and you can count on them to serve and protect the hand that does so for life. I happen to be," he bowed, pressing a palm to his heart, "both greedy and ambitious, my lord. Your safety and the stability of your empire are making me rich, and I don't intend to be poor anytime soon."

Despite the absurdity of it all, the salar smiled, might have even been pleased by the answer. "Fair enough. Go on. What about the birds?"

Di Amarra adjusted his cloak, brushing a thumb lazily along the luxurious fur. "What you choose to do with the remaining one has a consequence of rather large proportions, my lord. You can either kill it or offer it to the right person, which cannot be someone in the Tower or you'll create another cold war in your court and a high demand for murder that would make me a very, very wealthy man this season, which, I can imagine, Commander Sa'id would strongly disapprove."

That, he definitely would, Jarem thought, resisting the urge to rise to the occasion. 

The salar nodded. "And the Rishis?"

"The failed assassination of Sarasef needs to be addressed immediately, my lord. The Rishi is now split into two. They'll clash soon. Allow that to happen, and no matter who survives, the Rishi will lose half its men, meaning we lose half the warriors who know how to fight and take the White Desert. Should Sarasef die, your contract with the Rishi will have to be renegotiated, and the last thing I heard, Saracen intends to ask for a piece of the Salasar. An area south of Suma all the way to the coast, to be precise."

This, however, needed an explanation immediately. "How," Jarem said, making sure the words were heard by the salar, "did you come by that information?"

Di Amarra smiled, and for suddenly the air seemed to turn toxic. "Because I sold him the poison myself, izr Sa'id," Di Amarra replied. "We shared a few drinks. You'd be surprised how a few pinches of Yarra roots and a little of something else could do to loosen a man's tongue."

"You made a transaction that could affect the Salasar without consulting the members of this court?" The man needed to be thrown out the balcony before the day was over, according to Jarem.

Di Amarra shrugged. "I'm a businessman, Commander Sa'id, first and foremost. If you want to stop a transaction, you will have to outbid my buyer. It has, however," he turned to the salar, inclining his head a little, "allowed me to offer you this piece of information, as a token of my gratitude toward my highest bidder at present. The question is, who would you rather deal with, my lord, Sarasef or Saracen?"

Salar Muradi, grinning widely now and appearing more curious than angry at the Khandoor, leaned a little forward in his chair. "And who would you rather deal with, di Amarra?"

"Saracen is an arrogant, ignorant fool. He would never last more than six months leading the Rishi, my lord. Then again, an imbecile is easier to deal with than a proud, intelligent man, which is, of course, Sarasef."

The same, almost exact words from the salar with regards to Saracen, Jarem recalled. In a way, he could see why Deo di Amarra was still alive. The two of them were similar in their thinking process and level of intelligence, as much as he hated to admit it.

"I'd say," he continued, "if the Rishi is to be destroyed, I'd go with Saracen. If I want to continue using them, I'd support Sarasef but keep a very close eye on him. Which brings me to the conclusion that the best course of action is to send Prince Lasura away from the Tower with the two birds, offer one to Sarasef as a gesture of good faith and to get rid of it. Let him keep both the prince and the bird for leverage as you move in your army to take care of Saracen, and at the same time, keep Sarasef in check. The problem is getting a proud, careful man like Sarasef to take the offered hand, and that," he paused, bright emerald eyes sprinkled with a bharavi's yellow locked with the salar's lapis lazuli blue, "is where I come in. How are my presumptions so far, my lord?"

The salar kept his grin, rose from behind the desk and walked around it to fill three golden goblets with wine, handing one to di Amarra, another to Jarem.

"Your presumptions are brilliant, as always. However," the salar raised the cup in approval, took a slow sip from it, "that's not the reason why you're here."

Here comes the lightning, Jarem thought, allowing himself to grin openly now.

Di Amarra stilled at that, the iconic grin on his face fading slowly into a thoughtful expression.

Jarem stepped forward at a gesture from the salar, reaching into the pocket of his robe to produce a letter, crisply folded and stamped with the royal seal. "You have been charged with aiding an escape of a slave convicted for murder. Your trial will be a week from now. Until then, you are to remain here as a prisoner of the Tower to await your sentence. That is the reason you are here."

***