Sometimes Elissa Shahar could feel very alone in the shophet’s palace. Her children were growing, her husband was dead—in her sleep she cursed Adibaal for leaving her so suddenly—and she managed the general running of the palace. Yet amidst the constant flow of the new and familiar faces that made up the palace staff, she could feel alone.
Today was not one of those times.
The great hall of the palace bristled with noblemen and their retainers and slaves alike. A massive fire roared in the hearth at the far side of the hall, basking them with light and heat. On either side of the hearth, two long reliefs depicting the celestials stood mighty, their marble forms illuminated by the flames. The Moon stood in tandem with the Stars, holding up a thick tome. On the other side, the Sun and the World stood side by side upholding a large globe. The scent of roasted lamb and fire pepper and roast vegetables hung over the room.
Torches lined the walls, between white banners bearing a red upside down equilateral triangle; beneath which was a red dot. The flag of Yarikhad.
From the dais, sat elevated above the rest of the hall, she watched the merchant princes, noblemen, and anyone who meant anything in the entire city feast, drink, and laugh to their heart's content. The joyous atmosphere was much the same on the dais amidst the royal family. Except for Adahnys, whose ivory face gave nothing away, forever looking at everyone and everything with its same gormless expression. I should get him one that smiles, she thought, remembering how much his father smiled.
It would be rather fitting considering how many gifts he’d received. If ever anyone could be spoiled in a room full of Yarikhad’s wealthiest citizens, it was the shophet. Tiger-skin cloaks, jade statues of giggling fat men, a Trondic battleaxe inscribed with queer, clumsily drawn runes, but caught any light brilliantly. Farzad Zadeh had given him an ancient scroll, its dry parchment inscribed with symbols of an unknown language, thought to be able to work magic, should the reader be able to decipher the symbols. A silly fairytale, Elissa thought, and Adahnys seemed to silently agree with that assessment when he had accepted the gift. Had any man believed such a scroll could work magic, unknown language or not, they’d have kept it, she knew.
The worst gift came from Melqart Hiram. He chose a more sentimental gift. A small marble bust of the Orisian plebeian Vero Corvus. Known to history as the man who destroyed the old Kingdom of Orisium. The small, finely carved white sculpture depicted Vero wrapped up in a toga, holding up the new constitution of Orisium in his left hand, while a sparrow rested on his right. “I procured this artefact at great personal cost, your highness,” Melqart said, then the round man leaned closer to her son. “We stole it from a wealthy Orisian brat who now rests at the bottom of the Chenean, and now it's yours. A symbol of their pride to rest in your halls! A minor victory for what they did to our kingdom oh so long ago, is it not?” Elissa remembered how his jowls jiggled as he guffawed.
Could a man be so bold, arrogant, ignorant, stupid, or cocksure? Elissa couldn’t decide which he was. If only she could have had his fat throat slit open right there and then to dare threaten her son like that. The threat to their family and their position was clear as daylight, considering the tension she heard of in the supreme council earlier today. Or could he really be so stupid as to come bearing such a symbolic gift and have them think nothing of it? The merchant prince also offered Adahnys an Araetian pleasure slave. Slender and petite and naked, except for the loose pink cloth she wore that covered nothing important, to which her son refused.
Elissa would not let the affront slide. She got up and calmly walked to the far side of the hall where Melqart was hassling one of the serving slaves. She caught him in a quiet corner, where their voices were drowned out by the chatter of the hall.
The merchant prince noticed her before she spoke and held his arms out in a welcoming gesture. “My lady, Elissa—”
“What in the gods’ name do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, skipping the false pleasantries.
Creases formed above his brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your gift to my son. You think its meaning was lost on me?”
Melqart Hiram chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not sure what you’re implying. The sculpture was a fine work of art, and I thought the shophet would appreciate it. We all know he is a scholarly man. It’s a piece of recent history for him.”
Elissa frowned, stepping closer to him. The wine oozed from his breath. “And I know you are a scholarly man as well. You did not become the wealthiest man in this room by being ignorant, and your tablets litter the great library like bird shit at the port.”
“Are you trying to flatter or offend me?” He sipped wine from his golden goblet.
“The sculpture was Vero,” Elissa said, straightening her gown. “That plebeian who murdered his own king and destroyed the crown of Orisium.”
“I’m aware.”
She sighed. “Don’t be coy with me. We both know it was a warning for what occurred in the council chamber today. Or was it a threat?” Merchant princes were as proud as any monarch, and her son had offended them. It wasn’t often they were told no by a sixteen-year-old boy with scaleskin.
He laughed now. “You dwell on such things too much. If it offends you and the shophet, I will take it back. Or smash it. I care not.”
“You serve the crown,” Elissa said. “My son is the living embodiment of the Celestials in this world. The supreme council would do well to remember that.”
Melqart’s mocking smile faded for just a moment, and he set his goblet on the tray of a passing slave girl. “I serve Yarikhad and its people, my lady.”
“To serve the crown is to serve Yarikhad,” Elissa snapped.
The merchant prince looked deep into her eyes. “It was on a very similar issue that Vero killed his king. Good night, my lady.” He placed a hand gently on her shoulder and walked away.
A ball tightened in her throat, leaving her lost for words as the richest man in Yarikhad returned to his seat. “How dare you!” she hissed. But he didn’t hear it, no one did. Once, she could have had his tongue out for that, but those days were long over. The worst thing was that Melqart and the rest of the supreme council knew it. Disappointed, defeated, she returned to the dais. She would have to tell her son of this, but that could wait. No need to sour his name day celebrations further.
“Pleasant chat?” the shophet said when she sat down.
She glanced at him, then took a drink from her refilled cup. “Just exchanging gossip.”
“What did he say?” His milk white eyes pierced the shadow of his mask, looking carefully at her.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” Elissa set her cup down. “I told him to get you a better gift next time he’s hosted in our halls.”
“Oh, the sculpture? I quite liked it.” Adahnys chuckled. “I prefer the smaller gifts. I can put them in my chambers. It’s the absurdly large statues or chests full of trinkets that annoy me.”
Her daughter leaned over, listening in. “He got me a painted alabaster scarab from Menedemia for my name day, said to belong to the ancient Pharaoh Amonkhet. I think he likes little things like that,” Izavel Shahar said.
“Those aren’t the only little things he likes,” Elissa sneered, watching him with the slave girls across the hall. “You’d be wise to keep away from him.”
Elissa’s spirits were lifted at the sight of Maharbaal Dagon pushing through the two front doors of the hall, strutting down the packed rows of tables. His dark leather boots clattered off the black-veined marble floor.
“Is that uncle?” Adahnys said, raising his head from his fist.
Izavel shot up from her seat, her eyes searching like a hawk. “Where?”
Elissa beamed and got up from her seat, not waiting for him to make it to the dais. “Brother! You came!” She gave him a warm hug.
“Sweet sister,” he said, flashing a white smile. His thick, black curly hair came down past his shoulders, almost blending with his black beard. His brown eyes shone like polished mahogany under the torchlight in stark contrast to his light skin. “I hope I have not arrived too late.”
“I’m pleased you arrived at all,” Elissa exclaimed. “I know how busy you can get. I’m sure the children will be grateful too.”
“An admiral has little time to do anything but look at charts and inspect ships, I’m afraid.” He smiled and looked over toward the dais. “The children you say? All I see are strong men and women!” Maharbaal marched up the marble steps to greet his nephew, the shophet.
“I received word you had set sail from Gran Lodes,” Adahnys said, slurping wine from a thin, hollowed out wooden straw that poked under his mask. “Though I had not thought to see you here. I am glad the winds were favourable to you.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“The winds!” Maharbaal boomed, laughing. “T’was not the winds that brought me, young Adahnys, but the strength and determination of our oarsmen. For are the Yariki not the finest sailors in the world?” He plucked a red crab claw from a nearby plate, prying it open with a splintering crack, and devoured it.
The shophet chuckled. “That we are. I am honoured by your presence, uncle.”
“I’m so happy to see you, uncle Maharbaal!” Izavel beamed, swinging her golden goblet around for a slave to refill with fruity amber wine.
“You too, my dear. I could not miss your brother’s name day now, could I? Not the one name day that makes you a man. Which reminds me! I do not come empty handed.” Maharbaal unearthed a leather-bound book from inside his black robes and cleared some space on the table in front of Adahnys, placing the book down.
COMMENTARIES ON THE ILLIOCID WARS, BY MENEDEMUS I.
“Since I know how you can get buried in your books,” Maharbaal said. “Though with your regency at an end, perhaps you don’t have so much time for reading, no?”
Adahnys jumped from his seat like a trapdoor spider to a wandering cricket. His face gave not even a smidge of his excitement away. It never gives anything away, Elissa thought, but she knew he was more fond of this gift than any other he had received the entire night, including hers.
“I always have time to read,” the shophet said, dragging his uncle’s gift across the table so he could get a closer look at it. He was very careful when opening the pages, careful not to rip the parchment, though he caressed the hard leather cover with his gloved hands like a man to his wife. “Menedemus The Chosen One… I’ve been trying to get a copy of the commentaries to the library for months. They are so rare. How did you come upon this?”
Maharbaal twirled his moustache. “The navy stops and searches many vessels suspected of piracy and smuggling. Sometimes we come upon interesting items…” He winked at the shophet. Adahnys chuckled.
“Thank you, uncle. I am truly grateful.” Adahnys bowed his head. “I will study it with great care. Please, join us for a drink. We have many vintages out for the occasion.”
Her brother snagged a strip of pink lamb meat seasoned with mint with his knife. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, Adahnys. I only wanted to wish you well and see the rest of the family. Work leaves me with little time.” He shook his head. “Piracy on the rise. Orisian war galleys sailing into our waters often enough to make my hairs stand. Testing us with their impudence—bah! Look at me rambling about this on your name day. I’ll hold my tongue now.”
It made Elissa’s hairs stand as well. I like it not, these grim tidings. She felt as though she were on an island surrounded by crocodiles.
“Please stay, uncle!” Izavel said.
“A few more moments, just for you, my beautiful niece.” Maharbaal made his way around the dais to give Izavel Shahar a big hug, ruffling up her midnight-black hair like she was still a child. The princess looked delightful tonight, in white robes striped with black and green to bring out the brilliant jade in her eyes. A silver circlet sat atop her head, studded with jade and sapphire and rubies. She had looked so much like Adahnys when they were both children, before the scaleskin took him. Robbing him of those lush green eyes and his dashing black hair. “Where is that husband of yours tonight? Does he treat you well? And where is that foolish son of mine?”
“They went off somewhere together,” Izavel remarked, forking an olive from an oil-filled tray. “Drinking with the soldiers perhaps. They love pretending to be soldiers.”
“Don’t we all,” her uncle responded.
Elissa got up once more. “I’ll go find them. They best see you before you vanish at sea for the next year.”
“I won’t forgive them if they don’t.” Maharbaal grinned, and took a seat next to Izavel. “I would embrace you too, my shophet, but I don’t want the whole hall thinking I’ll give them scaleskin. We’ll hug like brothers on a battlefield when the ignorant eyes look away, and bid each other farewell properly. Now Izavel, my darling, tell me of your exploits!”
The children laughed at his remark as Elissa Shahar walked off to find her daughter’s husband and her nephew. Maharbaal could always cheer the children up. And it warmed her heart knowing he was among the few brave enough to still touch Adahnys. The nature of the shophet’s affliction was a strange one. It made all people distance themselves from him, and yet Elissa did not think scaleskin spread to everyone around him. How after so long could she or Izavel not have caught it? Granted, she still kept her distance more often than not. Scaleskin was an ugly thing, and presented itself worse in some than it did in others. Her son certainly got the short end of the staff.
But Maharbaal Dagon never feared. Even since the day Batonam Taal discovered the scaleskin on Adahnys, her brother merely said, “Well, I have played and let him beat me with a stick before it was seen on him, and yet I am still fine. I think I will be fine now.” Elissa always appreciated that about her brother. She knew how much it would mean to Adahnys. He was far braver than her.
Elissa roamed the tables as noblemen and soldiers and merchants clattered their cups, drowned themselves with wine, groped almost every slave that walked by, and ripped meat from the roasted beef and lamb. She exchanged glares with Melqart Hiram as he gorged on a lamb rib covered in fire pepper, laughing with his men. Grease dripped onto his long beard and ran down his fingers. The pleasure slave he had offered to her son now sat on his lap, holding his wine and feeding him grapes in between his bites of meat.
She thought only of a pig as she walked past him. A pig hungry for more than just food and wealth. A shudder crawled over her skin at the thought.
Near the back of the hall was her nephew, Hanno Dagon. Drinking and jesting with slaves and lower merchants, and the staff of the nobles. He looked every bit like a shophet himself. With his bush of black hair, sharp jaw, a handsome face, and a broad frame. Hanno stood taller than most men, and could hold his own in a fight more often than not, much like his father. Elissa wondered if that is what Adahnys may have looked like if not for his scaleskin.
“Hanno,” Elissa snapped, turning him away from a young slave woman he was distracting from her duties of keeping the guests refreshed. “Your father is here, come and greet him before he has to leave.”
“And you,” she hissed at the slave, who now looked like a deer in front of a wolf. “Get back to work before I have you whipped.”
The slave girl dashed away, going to fetch another flagon of wine. Hanno gazed at her longingly and sighed. “Aunt, I was busy.”
“You have all the time in the world for slaves. Your father is only here briefly. And where is Kamni?” Elissa asked. Hanno pointed over to a table not far from them, where her daughter’s husband sat with his feet up on the table, laughing at a soldier’s jape. A stubby, toadish looking man. He hailed from the Saberi dynasty—a powerful, influential family. And they needed powerful, influential friends.
She walked over to Kamni, tugging slightly on his long headcap which draped over his shoulders like a head of silky black hair, though it covered a scalp of balding, short thin hair, she knew. “Kamni.”
The young man turned, his smile twisting into a frown.
“My brother is here,” Elissa said. “He would be honoured if you would greet him, lest his duties take him on another long voyage when he next sets sail.”
“Of course,” Kamni Saberi exclaimed, shooting up off the chair, almost standing to attention. “And here I was just speaking of joining the navy. I am long overdue to be the captain of my own ship.”
What her step son lacked in stature or physical attribute, he made up for in ambition, she gave him that. If only Hanno had such a mindset. Instead her nephew seemed to only have eyes for women, and slave girls at that. He could at least pursue a noblewoman…
“Well you can ask him when you go and honour him with your presence,” Elissa said.
“The honour is mine. I always have time for the Grand Admiral.” And with that, Kamni slammed his goblet onto the table and marched off to the dais.
A headache crept into Elissa’s skull. Whether it was the wine, the constant noise, or the fact she hosted a hall full of men she detested and filthy slaves she did not know. Having already seen her brother, she retreated to the palace gardens for a moment to clear her head. In some bushes just by the fountain, came fast moans of pleasure. Scowling, Elissa marched over, and saw a nobleman, insignificant because she didn’t recognise his face immediately, taking a slave from behind.
“These are the palace gardens, you insolent whelp!” Elissa screamed, slapping the man over the back of the head. The slave boy gasped in surprise, his cheeks going red.
The nobleman hurriedly pulled his trousers up. “Apologies, my lady! We were trying to be quick—”
She slapped him again. “AWAY WITH YOU!” And the nobleman ran off. “I’ll deal with you later. Get out of my sight!” she said to the slave boy, who hurried off without colour in his face.
Arrogant little worm… she thought, gasping as she took a seat by the fountain. They had even ruined the peaceful tranquillity of the gardens for her. One time she could have had the man flayed for such an affront, but now… Now we are toothless. Powerless to dispense justice in my own home. These nobles… how they strutted around the streets now, around the palace.
“Leaving the festivities so soon?” Maharbaal Dagon said behind her.
“I just… I just needed some fresh air.” She sighed. “Some peace. The gardens clear my head.” They were beautiful. A botanical work of art, like a green labyrinth of neatly trimmed hedges, vibrant flowers, and ivy coated pillars amidst fine marble sculptures depicting chiselled, muscular men and graceful slim women.
“Some peace would do us all good,” her brother said, gazing at the calm water trickling from the fountain.
“I have a bad feeling about all this,” Elissa said, chewing her sleeve.
“As do I.” Her brother nodded. “The boldness of these merchant princes, the Orisians testing us…”
“They don’t respect my son, these councillors. The scaleskin, they think him frail, weak. It’s a banner around which they can rally.” She knew how they spoke behind her son’s back. The names they whispered in the shadows.
“He’s a wise young man,” Maharbaal said, putting an arm over her shoulder. “He will deal with them.”
“He needs your help,” Elissa whispered, a ball tightening in her throat.
“The shophet will always have his family around him.”
“Stay in Yarikhad a while,” she said. “Take a seat on the supreme council.”
“You know I can’t—”
“Please,” she begged. “We need you, we need everyone we can get.”
Her brother frowned. “He’s not a boy anymore. He can look out for himself.”
“But his affliction…” her head fell into her hands. “They will tear him down. Then they’ll come for us.”
Maharbaal looked around the gardens a while, lit by the dim lunar light beaming from the crescent moon in the night sky, then turned around. “I will see what I can do.” And with that, he marched off into the darkness of the garden, lost amidst the shadows.