RAHIM FOLLOWED A page through a long corridor in the east wing of the palace, his woven sandals tapping a sharp rhythm against the mosaic tiles beneath his feet. Sunlight streamed in through windows set deep into the walls, washing the jeweled colors of the tiles with gold.
It had been three days since he’d arrived at the palace, and he’d spent his time doing what he did best: listening. Gathering information.
Planning.
The king was doing poorly. The poison he unknowingly swallowed twice a day dulled his senses and sent tremors through his body. It wouldn’t take much to finish what the poison had started, but the FaSaa’il didn’t want to make a move until the coronation ceremony, something the king seemed reluctant to schedule. They reasoned that if the king willingly abdicated to Rahim, anyone left who’d known the real prince would have no recourse but to accept Rahim as their ruler. If the king suddenly died, leaving Rahim the crown, and someone raised questions about the new ruler’s parentage, the aristocrats loyal to the current king could claim he was murdered and cause problems for the FaSaa’il’s bid for power.
Fariq ran the palace, and by extension Akram, while the king was indisposed, but even then, the king tried to keep his cousin’s authority on a short leash by refusing to just hand over the royal signet ring and allow Fariq to deal with all correspondence to ambassadors, magistrates, and aristocrats in the king’s place. Not that Fariq hadn’t found ways to get things done without the royal seal, but it made any true grab for power difficult.
The palace staff seemed evenly divided between those who showed genuine love and concern for the king and those who spied on him and were quick to do Fariq’s bidding when the king’s back was turned.
Which meant those same servants would be spying on Rahim, reporting his every move to Fariq and the FaSaa’il. No doubt the other half of the servants would also be watching him closely to make sure he truly was as dutiful to the king as a son ought to be.
Neither of them would find fault with him. He would walk the line between faction puppet and honorable prince until he was ready to strike.
“In here, Your Highness,” the page said as she stopped before a thick door of carved teakwood.
Rahim nodded his thanks and swept into a room filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. Dust motes danced in the sunlight as he strode forward to take his seat at the long oval table that rested in the center of the library. Fariq sat at the head of the table. The five FaSaa’il members Rahim had met a month ago at Lord Borak’s behest were seated on either side of him, along with a man who hadn’t been at the original meeting. Rahim took a seat at the end opposite Fariq.
As soon as he was settled, Lord Borak leaned forward and caught his eye. “You’re looking every inch the prince, my boy.”
My boy. As if Rahim was nothing more than a trained dog who reflected well on his master. As if they weren’t all here because Rahim had been smart enough to see his opportunity and take it.
Schooling his expression into one of bland respect and obedience, Rahim inclined his head and said, “I am the prince, my lord.”
Lord Borak laughed and clapped his hands. “Excellent. Didn’t I tell you he could pull it off?” He looked around the table, but Fariq rapped his knuckles against the wood, and Lord Borak fell silent.
“The king suspects nothing,” Fariq said, “and his health continues to fail. I’m certain our prince can convince him to set a coronation date shortly so that we don’t need to worry about rumors or rebellion once Rahim is on the throne. My cousin has always been prone to put the needs of Akram above his own, so that’s the approach you use.” Fariq looked at Rahim. “Tell him you’re concerned about his health and want to ensure a peaceful transfer of power just in case.”
“I’ve tried,” Rahim said. “He isn’t yet willing to move forward.”
“I didn’t instruct you to do that.” Fariq’s eyes narrowed as he glared suspiciously at his son.
A heavy silence fell across the table as the aristocrats shifted uneasily in their seats.
Rahim pressed his palms together and touched his fingertips to his forehead in a show of obeisance. “You told me it was important that the coronation was scheduled quickly. I thought that meant I should take steps to make that happen. My apologies if I misunderstood.”
Fariq paused for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t misunderstand what needs to happen, but from this point forward, you don’t make a move that I haven’t authorized. Is that clear?”
“Of course.” Rahim smiled through gritted teeth.
The FaSaa’il drew a collective breath and the mood in the room lightened.
“Now let’s discuss the rumors about the king’s health and how to combat the loyalists who are certain I must be behind it,” Fariq said. “We can’t have anyone taking issue with the upcoming transfer of power. I’d also like a list of all families with children who attended Milisatria. Those who can’t be turned to our side must be eliminated before our prince can make a public appearance. That might raise some questions, so I’ll also want a list of other influential families who can be bribed into being loyal to us.”
Rahim opened his mouth to suggest that they deal with the Milisatria families in a way that wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions at all, but Fariq whipped a hand into the air.
“You just sit and listen. When we’re ready for you to speak, we’ll tell you what to say.”
Fools, all of them. So sure the puppet they were using to take Akram’s throne didn’t have teeth of his own.
Rage was a fire churning through Rahim’s blood as he folded his hands in front of him, assumed an expression of boredom, and fantasized about driving a sword through the heart of every person seated at the table.