---------------------------------------- Chapter One ----------------------------------------

The Prince of the city of Ajantha entered the House of Kemel, surrounded by his guards and retainers, but with very little fanfare. Two guards moved to block the doors behind them, while the rest fanned out to protect their Prince from any threat that might appear. They did not expect trouble, since while not well-loved, their prince *was* well-respected, but they were ever-vigilant in their duties.

The employees of the house immediately descended on him like a pack of dogs rolling over to bare their bellies and necks before the alpha dog. The Prince stared down his long hooked nose at the fawning mass, his lips curled into an expression of disgust. While he expected the respect and deference due to his position, he loathed obsequiousness. Unfortunately, it was something he encountered every day.

There was a sharp handclap, and the servants melted away, bowing -- and in more than one case almost crawling -- as they backed up. To turn their back on the Prince would have been a disrespect punishable by a flogging.

The overweight, richly-dressed man hurrying towards them was obviously Kemel, the owner of the establishment. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard. He was in need of some good, honest exercise, the Prince thought to himself with a sneer. Kemel spent to much time being waited on, obviously. The Prince, however, had been trained as a soldier in his youth and still sparred regularly to maintain an impressive build.

"My Prince, you honor my establishment with your glorious presence," the man said breathlessly as he came to a stop, bowing low in the flamboyant manner that was currently the rage in court.

"Indeed," the Prince said dryly. Of course he was honored; a Prince spent more money than a commoner. As well, saying that a Prince frequented your establishment was the best sort of advertising.

"How can we serve your royal self?" the man asked, bowing yet again, practically groveling. The Prince was tempted to just kill the worm, but unfortunately, he was supplier of the finest merchandise in the city. Merchandise that in this case was important enough to bring the Prince out in person instead of simply summoning the man to the palace.

"I need an... item. One that matches a very specific list of requirements."

The Prince glanced around, pointedly, at the small crowd of employees still watching intently from the corners of the room. It wasn't every day that someone of royal rank came to the House of Kemel, and they obviously hoped to find out why. There were plenty who would pay highly for such gossip.

Quickly understanding the meaning of the Prince's look, Kemel finally straightened up and waved his people away. "What are your requirements, Glory?"

"A slave. Noble-born, preferably. Attractive, naturally, between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Male."

"Bed companion?" Kemel asked, suddenly all business. His voice sharpened, and the Prince smiled. The slaver was not as foolish as he liked to pretend. Suddenly, he found himself almost respecting the man. Almost.

"Yes. But more importantly, a confidante, a companion."

"For yourself?"

"My son."

"We have a noblewoman from the north..."

"Male," he repeated. That surprised the slaver, he could see, but while he was willing to be... flexible on the other items, that was one requirement that he was not going to back down on.

Kemel was silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused as he considered the possibilities.

Finally he gestured towards a door. "Come with me, my Prince. I do not know if I can exactly match your requirements, but I do have one possibility." The Prince nodded for the man to proceed, even though it would mean turning his back on his Prince, and followed as the plump man lead the way. "He is a recent acquisition, from east of here. The grandson of a desert chieftain. His younger brother sold him to one of my agents when the old man died," the man said as he went.

"I take it that the older brother was to inherit?" It was an interesting way to dispose of a rival. Usually, he would expect the deposed brother to be killed to prevent him from coming back to try to reclaim his place.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. However, he is... unusual for his kind. An albino, but without the pink eyes. Because of that, he cannot not go out in sunlight. It would have been impossible for him to function as chieftain, despite his grandfather's wishes. He even stepped aside in favor of his brother, but if he stayed, it would have divided the tribe, according to my agent. That's why the younger brother sold him rather than kill him. It was necessary to get rid of him, but he didn't have the heart to harm the boy, even though there were those close to him that wanted the brother dead."

The Prince nodded. An entertaining tale. However, "A desert barbarian, even the heir of a chieftain, is hardly what I would call noble-born," he pointed out.

"He is actually quite well-schooled, my Prince. Literate and as well-read as a nomad can be. His grandfather indulged his scholarly leanings. He is very graceful as well, although with no training in the dance. However, he does have a bit of a temper when pushed. We planned to train him for a few more months to make him a little more docile before selling him. Also," the man added persuasively, "he is, as yet, a virgin."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "How old?"

"Just short of nineteen."

The Prince snorted softly. "I did not realize that you could reach that age and still be a virgin."

Kemel shrugged. "His strange looks made his people consider him possibly demon-sired. Between that and an overprotective grandfather..."

The Prince nodded. This could actually work to his advantage. A virgin might be more controllable. As well, someone who'd been a target of his own people before being cast out would be grateful for a place and protection. Yes, this one sounded like he had potential. "Show me him."

Kemel nodded and led the way to a narrow stairway. The Prince motioned one guard to follow, but indicated that the rest should remain behind. The captain looked upset, but nodded his obedience.

The stairway was steep and narrow, and led to an equally narrow hallway, lined with lacy panels on either side. The Prince stopped and looked through them.

To each side was a series of rooms. They were all quite simple, with a pile of cushions in one corner, a few objects for the occupants to entertain themselves with and the occasional mosaic or tapestry to add interest to dull, white-washed walls.

In the first room, an elegant woman with the slanted eyes and yellow skin of the far east reclined on her pile of cushions, playing a soft melody on a stringed instrument sitting on her lap. The tune was haunting and unlike any that the Prince had heard before. He watched her hands moved and could easily imagine them moving equally skillfully over an instrument of a different sort. His own instrument swelled at the thought, and he quickly controlled himself.

"They cannot see us through the screens," Kemel said softly as he led his client on. The Prince smiled, realizing the truth of the statement. If the occupants were to look up at just the right moment, all they would be able to see was a dim outline. As well, the screen would no doubt muffle their voices. It was a very clever arrangement.

Halfway down the hall, Kemel stopped and gestured towards the left. Stepping close to the screen, the Prince looked down into the room.

Like the other rooms he'd noticed in passing, this one was sparsely decorated. The only furniture -- if you could call it that -- was a pile of cushions that appeared to serve duty as both a seat and a bed. In a corner was a small covered chamber pot, amusingly made from fine silver, he noticed, amused. The outside wall was covered with a large tapestry that depicted an angel and a demon engaged in a battle that was more erotic than violent.

The slave was pacing his chamber, not impatiently, but more from boredom, the Prince thought. As Kemel had said, the young man showed great grace. If trained properly, he would be the finest of dancers. Or warriors. It might even be worth training him -- in secret, of course -- to be a bodyguard for his son as well, since no assassin would think a bedslave worth guarding against.

He wore mostly black; full pants with a high-necked tunic over it, glistening with black on black decoration. It served to emphasize the pallor of his skin, which was almost completely without color, like an albino. And his hair. It was white, but when the light hit it just right, it seemed to shimmer a light... pink? Darker near the roots. Whatever the cause, the result was beautiful and exotic, just like the boy.

"Yes," the Prince said, almost a sigh. "He does not look like a desert barbarian at all."

At the softly-spoken comment, the young man looked upwards, somehow having heard them. The Prince met his eyes and fought the urge to gasp. Albinos always had pink eyes, but this boy's eyes were a silver that almost glowed in the soft lamp-light. For a moment, he was sure that the boy could see him clearly. But them he turned away and dropped on his pile of black and silver pillows. He curled up on them in a way that would seem almost calculated to entice if he were not so obviously innocent.

The Prince smiled to himself. Perfect.

Staying silent, Kemel gestured the Prince to follow him to the end of the hallway, where a door led to the man's private offices.

The Prince sat, while Kemel, of course, remained standing. "You say he has a temper?"

"As the son of a chieftain, he is not accustomed to taking orders. When pushed, he pushes back. However, because of his brother's actions, he is also given to bouts of depression."

The Prince's satisfaction grew. Argumentative enough to challenge Nemir, but vulnerable enough to appeal to a young man's romantic and protective instincts.

"I will take him. My majordomo will collect him at sunset, since you said that he is sensitive to light. I trust that this will suffice?"

Kemel's eyes went wide as the Prince casually tossed him a small velvet bag. Inside were five gemstones of the highest quality. "It is far to much," he stammered, despite the greed in his eyes.

The Prince waved the comment away. "In return, I expect you to be discreet. Full details of the boy's origins are to be kept confidential. However, if anyone asks -- and I am sure they will -- I will name you as the source of the boy."

Kemel preened at the implied praise, as well as the promise. The name of his House on the lips of the Prince would bring him a great deal of new business.

"I will do as you ask," he said, bowing low. "The boy and his possessions will be ready when your majordomo arrived."

"Good."

Business concluded, the Prince got to his feet and allowed the slaver to lead him back down to the foyer. The easy part -- finding an appropriate slave for his son -- was complete.

More difficult would be getting the boy to *accept* his new slave.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Two ----------------------------------------

Nemir rode his stallion through the gates into the courtyard of his father's palace and allowed a groom to take the reins while he climbed down. Then he reclaimed the reins and led his mount towards the stables. Most nobles in his age group would have simply handed the beast over to the servants to tend to until the next time he wanted to ride, but Nemir was not typical. Like his father before him, he was trained as a soldier and he preferred to take care of his horse, his weapons and his armor himself.

The stables of the Prince of Ajantha were famed throughout the land for both its size and the quality of its beasts. Only the finest of thoroughbreds were fit for the royal stables. Thoroughbreds like Sirocco, Nemir's personal mount.

He led the blood red stallion into his box stall and set to removing the saddle and tack, setting the fine leather aside to clean later. Then he took up a scraper and went about removing the layer of sweat and desert sand that dulled the stallion's normally bright coat.

There was a barely polite cough from the stall's door. "What?" he barked, not stopping his grooming efforts or turning around.

"My Lord, the Prince has commanded your presence as soon as you returned to the Palace."

Nemir nodded, glancing at the messenger just long enough to see the man's expression of disdain. He recognized him as one of the minor nobles who infested his father's court, doing as little as possible while trying to curry favor with the Prince. "I will attend him as soon as I have cleaned from my journey."

"Forgive me, my Lord," the man said, not sounding sorry at all, "but the Prince requires your presence first. The dust of the road does not offend him." The man bowed and backed away, his expression clearly saying that it *did* offend *him*.

Nemir frowned, but carefully did not allow his displeasure to upset his stallion. His father might not care that he was still covered with the sweat and dust of several days' travel, but *he* did. After two weeks of inspecting the forts that guarded Ajantha's borders with adjoining princedoms, Nemir had been looking forward to a cool bath and perhaps some sleep before reporting to his father.

Still, the Prince commanded his presence, so he would obey. He finished grooming Sirocco, then covered him with a light blanket. He picked up his saddlebags and tossed them over his shoulder, then headed for the palace, pausing only long enough to give orders to a stable boy on the feed for his horse and the cleaning of his tack. He would return later to make sure that his orders were followed properly.

The messenger was waiting for him outside the stable doors, his nose pinched with displeasure and a perfumed cloth raised to block the natural aromas of the stable. Nemir sneered at the man's pretentious clothing and attitude, but said nothing as the man led the way to his father's study.

He knew the way already, but obviously he was not trusted to follow orders, Nemir fumed silently as he walked down hallways tiled with marble. The walls on either side were covered with bright frescoes that showed the history of Ajantha in all its glory. He took some small pleasure in the trail of dirt that he knew he was leaving in his wake, even though the only ones who would suffer as a result were the servants who would have to clean the floors later.

The messenger stopped outside the carved and gold-leafed doors to the Prince's private study. He pushed the double doors opened and dropped to one knee. "Your Glory, the Lord Nemir," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he rose to his feet and backed away to allow Nemir past before shutting the doors.

Nemir bowed to the angle required. "My Prince," he said. He lifted his head to regard his father.

The Prince of Ajantha was dressed simply in a tunic and leather pants, like the retired soldier that he was. However, the pants were of the finest leather, dyed the deepest of black, and the tunic of rare silk, dyed the indigo blue of the house of Ajantha and covered with embroidery picked out in silver with inlaid gemstones that sparkled in the lamp-light.

And unlike most nobles of his age, the Prince was lean and well-muscled, thanks to daily practice with sword and bow. He also still rode like the soldier he'd been in his youth, the soldier his son now was. His hair was still a glossy black, cut short. His skin was unfashionably tanned and his face could never be considered more than distinctive with its sharp chin and prominent nose, narrow and hooked, looking like it would suit a hawk better.

The Prince did not look angry, which confused Nemir. While he did not recall doing anything that might have angered his father, he could think of no other reason why he would have been summoned without even being allowed the time to wash and change his clothing.

"Nemir," his father said with a small smile and nod. "I have news for you." His tone was warm, but with a note...

Nemir stiffened. While that did not seem threatening, his instincts said that he was not going to like the news. "I am yours to command, my Prince."

"The Prince of Mathan has been in contact with me." Mathan, Nemir knew, was one of the largest princedom's adjoining Ajantha, and one with which they had a long and antagonistic history. "He has a daughter."

Nemir's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared. "Father--"

"No," the Prince interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall the expected protests. "It was inevitable that you would need to marry, and equally inevitable that it would be for political reasons, as I did. Your duty as a future prince to this city requires it, and you *will* submit."

Then his expression softened. "However, the girl is only twelve, so you will have five more years of freedom before you must bind yourself to her and only her.

"But that does not mean complete freedom," he cautioned as Nemir breathed a slight sigh of relief. "You are my heir, which means you must take care. And above all, you must not endanger the line of succession. For the last eight years, you have been a soldier, devoting yourself to the way of the Warrior. Now it is time for you to learn the way of the Prince."

Nemir lowered his head in submission, not letting his anguish show. He had known that this day would come, but he had always told himself not yet. It seemed, however, that 'not yet' had become 'now.' "As you say, my Prince."

"There are those who would use you, my son. Now, more than ever. There have been rumors of discord among the nobles. They will seek favor with you, thinking you easy to manipulate." The Prince smiled at the outrage in his son's face. "They think wrong, of course. However..." His face hardened. "One thing becomes paramount now. The line of succession must be kept certain."

"I do not understand?" Nemir said, puzzled by his father's roundabout comments.

"As heir, you will be sought by many, including the daughters of those nobles who would manipulate you. They will attempt to draw you to their beds, to reach your ear. And if that does not work, they will seek to conceive a child that could be used against you. Or to replace you, if they can. That cannot be allowed."

The Prince tapped lightly on his desk made of imported ebony. "There can be no bastards to endanger the throne, therefore you will go to your marriage bed a virgin to women. If I discover that you have broken this rule, whether the girl is noble or slave or any rank between, *she* will suffer for your indiscretion."

He regarded his son with sympathy. "That does not mean that you need to be a virgin altogether. Indeed, I doubt that you are a virgin now." Nemir flushed, remembering nights where brother warriors shared bedrolls and more. No, no virgin he.

"However, that does not mean that the nobles of the court might not use their sons to control you either. So, I have dealt with that as well.

"When you return to your chambers, you will find a new slave waiting for you. He is foreign, but high born, from the desert tribes. You will train him as your valet. You will also train him to fight. He has a great deal of raw potential, I think. He will also be the only one to share your bed. He will be your constant companion until the day you go to the marriage altar."

Nemir opened his mouth, but could not find the words to express his anger. How could his father order *this*?

"And before you can protest, there is no changing my mind. You cannot dispose of the boy to suit you, I have told him that. At the end of five years, when you marry, he will be freed and the two of you will decide his place, here or elsewhere, then."

The Prince smiled softly. "And this need not be a punishment," he said. "If you embrace this wholeheartedly, this boy will be to you as Konda is to me."

That sharpened Nemir's gaze. Konda was his father's friend and closest confident, as well as captain of the palace guard. The Prince nodded. "When I was brought home to learn the arts of governance from *my* father, Konda was presented to me in the same way, although he was a new guard rather than a slave. And it was the same for my father and his grandfather before him. And so it will be for your son someday."

Nemir bowed his head. "I do not like it..." he said.

"But you will obey," his father finished for him, sympathetically. "Now, I suggest that you go meet your new companion. And Nemir?"

Nemir paused at the door. "Yes, my Prince?" he ground out.

"I trust you not to punish the boy for what is beyond his control."

Nemir nodded curtly, then stomped down the hallway, heading for the royal quarters.

His father had him in a position where he could do nothing. It was not in him to defy orders that would result in punishment for others, and he would not harm the slave, who was innocent in this.

However, that did *not* mean that he had to embrace the boy the way his father wanted. The boy could follow him around, if that was what was necessary, but he did not need to accept him or even acknowledge him. He certainly had not intention of training a slave in how to fight!

And as for his bed, it would remain cold if need be. He had no desire to take a slave to his bed simply because it was his only choice. He would remain celibate, if that was his only other choice.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Three ----------------------------------------

Judas stood back and watched as the palace servants prepared the suite for the return of their -- and now his - - master, trying very hard not to tremble as he prepared for the third major upheaval of his life. Trembling was a weakness, and weaknesses could be used against him. He'd been warned not to show any weakness to the Prince's son, by the Prince himself, no less.

The first upheaval in his life had been expected, and if anything, he was surprised that it had not occurred years earlier. It had started with the death of his grandfather, Chief of the Tribe of the Sands, and ending with his expulsion from the tribe.

His grandfather had been a proud man who had been forced to watch as each of his children had died before him, from illness, battle wounds, and, in one case, treachery, until of seven sons and daughters, only the youngest remained. He had doted on her as she grew up, and when the time had come, he had broken tradition and allowed her to choose her own husband, a handsome and daring young warrior of the tribe. When she had quickly become pregnant, the entire tribe had celebrated.

But less than a year later, they were grieving. First, the handsome young warrior had died in a raid on a rival tribe's herds. Then, a month later, the Chief's daughter had died birthing twin sons.

The younger, Jamal, had been everything a tribe could hope for: large and lusty, with dark hair, bright eyes and dusky skin.

Judas, on the other hand, had inspired fear and suspicion. His white skin started to burn the moment it was exposed to direct sunlight. His hair and eyes were colors never seen before in the tribe. And the birthmarks on his forearms reminded even the least superstitious among them of bat wings. As he grew, his height and slender build set him even further apart from his short and stocky brother. By the time of his grandfather's death, the majority of the tribe considered his at best an ill-omen, and at worst, demon-spawned.

But his grandfather had ignored the whispers. Perhaps he never heard them at all. Whatever the reason, he was determined that Judas, as eldest, would become Chief after him. Everyone knew that this was impossible, Judas included, but the elderly man had been insistent. However, on his death, Judas had immediately stepped aside in favor of his brother. His brother was not shackled by rumors and fears. Jamal was not forced to remain inside tents during the day. Jamal was a warrior, respected and loved by his people.

In other words, Jamal was everything that Judas was not.

But still the whispering continued, even after Jamal was acclaimed, and the whispers grew in numbers and volume until Judas had resigned himself to a seemingly inevitable death. Jamal was doing everything he could, but in the end, if he did not reject his brother, he risked the tribe turning on him as well.

It was into this volatile situation that the slaver arrived. The next day, when he left, he took Judas with him, carrying a small chest that had belonged to his mother containing all that was left to him in this world. Jamal had explained to him, tears rolling down his handsome face.

The slaver worked for a man named Kemel. This Kemel, he said, dealt in the finest merchandise. His slaves were bought by nobles seeking concubines that were beautiful and exotic, who lived pampered lives. The picture he painted was one of luxurious ease, and while Judas was skeptical, his brother saw this as his only chance to save his much loved brother.

And so he had come to the city of Ajantha and the House of Kemel. He'd quickly been evaluated as promising and placed in seclusion. For an extended period -- he was not sure how long, although certainly more than a month -- the only persons he'd seen were Kemel twice and the trainers he had assigned to Judas's training. He was drilled in the basics of dance, and he had been told that while he was graceful, it would be years before they considered him a *true* dancer. Similar evaluations had come from his music instructors. He could pluck a simple song on a guitar or harp, but not much more as yet.

Based on their words, he expected to spend months, if not years, being trained into what they wanted him to be, and he had resigned himself once more, this time to his new life. Perhaps he would even come to enjoy this new life, although for now, he missed the clean dry air of the desert and the constant hum of the voices of the tribe outside his tent.

But he hadn't been given time to adjust. He'd been waiting for the next of his trainers to come break the monotony of his day when Kemel had arrived, followed by a stranger. He'd been sold, he was informed with great pride. Sold to the Prince of the city, no less. Before he could grasp the news, he'd been hurried out of the establishment and into a carriage, carrying only his small wooden chest. The man in the carriage with him had remained silent during the short trip to the palace, and Judas had been too stunned to try to ask the questions running through his mind.

Once at the palace, he'd been brought into the presence of the Prince. Following the training that had been drilled into him in his first days at Kemel's, Judas had dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the cool marble tiles.

The Prince had ordered all others to leave, then had told Judas to sit up.

"I have bought you for my son," he had informed Judas. "You are to be his most constant companion until his wedding day. On that day, you will be freed and given more than enough wealth to support you the rest of your days should you choose to leave him. You will entertain him, listen to him, guard him. And you will be his only bed companion, if he so chooses. If he does not choose so, you will watch to make sure he takes no others to bed. But understand this. *I* own you. He cannot send you away, and if I learn that you have shirked in your duties, it is *I* who will punish you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Judas had replied, proud that there was no tremor in his voice.

"Good." The Prince's voice had softened then. "It will not be too onerous a burden, I think. Nemir is a good man. But there are things you should know about him. He does not mind weakness in a person, so long as no show is made of it. Be everything you can and he will accept you. Pretend to be less than you are and he will despise you. Be honest with him in all respects, even if it is to disagree with him, and he will respect you.

"Now, Nemir is currently inspecting the border forts. When he returns, he will be taking up permanent residence here at the palace. He has been training as a soldier up until now. Now it is time for him to train as a Prince. Until his arrival, you will remain in his suite. You will not leave the suite except in his company. In the meantime, I will have books sent, since I understand that you read, as well as a wardrobe befitting the heir's companion."

He had paused and regarded Judas for a moment before smiling. "You will do quite well, I think. Do not disappoint me."

After that dismissal, Judas had been escorted to these rooms and had remained there. That had been the second upheaval in his life, leaving the tight, but comfortable confines of the House of Kemel from the palace of the Prince. Now, the third would come, the man to whom he was now bound for the next five years, regardless of the choices of *either* of them.

There was a disturbance in the halls, and all the servants dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Judas knelt as well, but remembering the Prince's warnings, he did not prostrate himself like the others, settling for just dropping his gaze to the floor as the door opened.

He kept his eyes down as he heard a muffled thud of something heavy hit the floor, then footsteps coming his way. He kept his eyes lowered but his back straight as a pair of scuffed and dirty boots came to a rest in front of him.

He waited, but the boots didn't move and their owner didn't speak. He did his best to remain calm, but his pride prickled at the deliberate insult. Finally, he refused to wait any longer for acknowledgement. He looked up.

Nemir, heir to the throne of Ajantha was a handsome man, but not exactly what he'd expected. He looked to be at most a year older than Judas. Like his father, he did not look much like nobility. His naturally dark skin was tanned even darker by sun and wind, and looked as tough as leather. There were creases around his eyes from squinting, and Judas could see the signs of calluses on his hands. His travel leathers were stained and covered with dust. Judas felt more than a little over-dressed in his black-on- black silk tunic and pants.

And Nemir reminded him painfully of his brother, cut from the same cloth.

"I don't want you here." Nemir's voice was deep and dry, with a hint of anger underneath. There was more there, but Judas couldn't interpret it. He was good at reading people, but not someone he'd just met, if you could even say that they'd *met*.

"Neither of us has much choice in the matter," he said softly.

"I can find my own lovers."

"If you do, I'll be the one who suffers for it." But the question was, did Nemir care? The young man's flinch reassured him.

"I don't want you in my bed." He was sounding belligerent now, suddenly seeming much younger than his years.

"I have a pallet," he replied, nodding at the thin mattress in the corner with its pillow and cover. A slave's bed, yet ironically more comfortable than any bed he slept on growing up in the desert.

Nemir stared at him for a long moment until Judas was fighting the urge to fidget, to strike back, then nodded. "Good. Just as long as we understand each other." Then he turned away, seeming to dismiss Judas from his mind, and headed over to grab his saddlebags from where he'd dropped them. Judas sat and watched as the man started to unpack, wondering what he was supposed to do now.

It was going to be a long five years.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Four ----------------------------------------

Nemir woke just before dawn, as was his wont, but not feeling rested for once. Normally, he slept like the dead but he hadn't the night before for a number of reasons.

First and foremost was the suffocating feeling of having been fenced in, both by the palace walls after years of sleeping in mostly tents or under the stars, and by society, which was now decreeing the path of the rest of his life. Growing up, he had reveled in the freedom he'd been allowed, if submitting to trainers and commanders could be called freedom, and he did. He'd know that one day that would end and he would be called on to fulfill the duties of heir, but he'd done his best to pretend otherwise. But now everything was being decided for him, from his marriage to his very companions.

And that led to the second reason that he had not been able to sleep properly: The slave boy his father had purchased for him. The boy was like nothing he'd ever seen before, and as a result, someone whose simple presence would draw attention to *him*. No doubt, that was why his father had chosen him, to ensure that Nemir learned to deal with that attention quickly. The boy's freakish height, more than a handspan taller than Nemir, who was not a small man, and the eerie hair and eye color even drew Nemir's eye, despite his best efforts to ignore him. The breathing coming from the pallet in the corner sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent bed chamber. And this was to be his constant companion and only allowed bed partner until the day he was joined to a wife he'd never met.

The lack of sleep had left Nemir feeling exhausted already, but he knew that there was no point in trying to sleep further. His lessons in the politics, diplomacy, literature and science that a prince needed to know would be starting immediately after the morning meal, so now was his best chance for some sword practice. He was *not* going to allow his skills to rust due to lack of use. He slipped from the bed and padded silently to the wardrobe for his practice leathers, not bothering with a robe to cover his nakedness.

A small gasp told him that the boy was awake, but Nemir refused to acknowledge him. He dressed quickly and headed for the door to the suite.

"Where are you going?" a soft voice asked. He wanted to ignore him, but basic courtesy would not allow it.

"To spar before breakfast," he said, reluctantly turning around.

The boy was sitting up on his pallet, wearing a dark nightshirt that covered his upper body but left his long legs bare to Nemir's eyes. He might have thought it an enticement to bedding if the boy was not so obviously innocent of guile.

"May I come with you?"

Nemir rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was a tagalong. "Don't you have other things you should do?" he asked sharply.

"No."

"Then *find* something!"

The boy seemed to slump in on himself, his silver eyes looking to his lap. "I am not allowed to leave the suite unless it is with you," he said softly.

"How long have you been here?" Nemir asked with a frown.

"Eight days." The boy still would not look up, and Nemir castigated himself for taking his anger out on him. The suite was spacious, with four large rooms -- the bedchamber, an office, the receiving room and a bathing chamber -- but the concept of being confined to them for even a day was painful to him.

"Fine," he said, and the boy's gaze finally flew up, surprise plain to see. "Well? Dress quickly! I won't wait long."

He waited impatiently as the boy dressed, all in black again. "Don't you have anything in a different color?" he asked, although he had to admit that the effect was striking. Probably deliberately so.

"It was all I was given," was the reply. A slave had no choice in what he wore, anymore than he had a choice in what he did.

Nemir sighed, unable to hold onto his anger in the face of the boy's simple acceptance. "We'll deal with that this afternoon," he said, heading for the door again, the boy following silently. Mentally, he cursed his father for doing this to him, then quickly retracted the curses, praying that the gods had ignored his foolishness.

It had been years since he'd lived in the palace on a regular basis, but the route to the practice yard was still burned in his memory. He'd lived in the same suite as a child, although his nurse had lived in the room that was now an office, and he'd spent much of his free time at the practice yard watching the guards train, fascinated by the grace and skill of their movements. His father had even come with him on occasion, and had been his first teacher, handing him a small wood practice sword when he was only five. His grandfather had still been alive then, and as merely heir, his father had had more time for his son. Nemir missed those days.

He took the final turn and passed through the open doorway into the yard that sat on the eastern side of the palace. The palace ran along two sides of the yard, with the guard barracks on the third side. The open end led towards the stables. Even though the sun was barely above the horizon, the palace side was bathed in brilliant sunshine. There were warriors already drilling, and Nemir felt at home for the first time since his return to Ajantha the day before. He took a deep breath and appreciated the scents of dirt and dust and the sweat of honest men doing honest work. This was probably the only place in the palace where he would find such scents.

He stepped forward, then paused when he realized that for the first time, his shadow was not following him. He turned and found the boy hugging the shadows. "What?" he snapped. "Afraid that they might tease you? Call you names?" he mocked.

"No." The boy's voice was low, but firm. Nemir frowned. Why had the boy asked to come with him if he wasn't willing to follow all the way? Perhaps he was afraid of getting dirty.

"Then what's the problem?"

The boy hesitated, then took a step forward, holding his left hand out so that it was in direct sunlight. In the light of day, the pale skin was almost translucent, blue veins easily seen beneath it. Nemir could even see the faint shadows of the fine bones beneath the surface. He stood there, silent, for a long moment. Nemir was about to snap at him again when he noticed what was happening *to* that hand. Immediately, he pushed the boy back into the shadows, grabbing his hand. The back of it was burnt red and he could see small blisters forming already.

Nemir had been burnt by fire in the past, and he knew that the boy had to be in great pain, but he did not make a sound, simply biting his lower lip until Nemir thought it would bleed. The fortitude necessary to stay silent impressed him, against his will.

"Does this always happen?" he asked, horrified. The boy nodded.

Nemir considered postponing his practice session, but was reluctant to do so. "Can you wait until later for some salve for that?" The boy nodded, and he couldn't help feeling a grudging respect. "All right."

He led the boy down the hallway and around the corner into the open corridor that ran along the south side of the yard. A series of arches provided a view of the men sparring. In the evening, the nobles of the court would watch the guards fight in matches, betting on the outcomes, but this early in the day, the corridor was empty. And facing north, as it was, it was deep in shadow and would remain so the entire day.

"Stay here, boy," he ordered, then hopped over the low wall that separated the packed earth of the yard from the marble of the corridor. "As soon as I'm finished, I'll get you some burn salve before the morning meal."

"Judas."

"What?" The single word, spoken softly but firmly, caught him off-guard.

"My name is Judas, not 'boy.'"

He grimaced, but said, "Fine. Wait here, *Judas*."

As he strode over to the equipment racks for a practice sword, he found himself angry again, seemingly without reason. As he started to stretch, he finally realized why.

The boy had a name. A nameless slave could be ignored. *Judas* could not. He glanced over to where the boy was waiting, a pale, ghost-like shadow out of the light of the sun. His burnt hand was held cradled against his chest, pale against the stark black of his tunic, but all of his attention was focused on Nemir. Nemir had never been the subject of such intense and personal scrutiny that he could remember. Ignoring him for the five years until his marriage was going to be more difficult than he had expected.

Nemir turned away again and concentrated on stretching his hamstrings, then moved to the upper body muscles. When he was as limber as he was going to get, he selected a practice sword and moved out to a bare patch of earth and started the opening movements of the sword dance.

And yet... his eyes kept turning south, to the boy, wondering just how he'd come to be here. High-born, his father had said, and yet also a slave. Soft and untrained in the arts of war, yet able to bear pain without protest. Born in the desert, where men lived in tents, yet unable to withstand the light of the sun. So many contradictions in one person. He was a puzzle, and Nemir had never been able to leave a puzzle lie.

Then a guard approached him and offered to spar, so Nemir forced away all thoughts of his unwanted and unusual companion, retreating in the familiar, comforting dance of the sword.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Five ----------------------------------------

Judas watched as Nemir bowed formally to another man dressed in the simple leathers of a soldier or a guard. They moved gracefully into set positions, dull metal practice swords held ready, and stopped.

A moment later they were in motion and Judas could see why so many referred to sword-fighting as a dance. He also understood why his teachers at the house of Kemel had told him that he needed years of training before he would be considered a true dancer. The ease of the two men as they moved together, in concert and conflict at the same time, showed long years of training, and Judas felt a flash of jealousy. The same jealousy that he'd lived with all his life, the jealousy of those who could go out in the sunshine and do these things without fear.

His hand still throbbed where he held it to his chest protectively. He ignored the pain, he and it being old friends. As a child, he'd left the safety of his tent several time, each time convinced that the Gods must have taken pity on him. Each time he'd been wrong. By the time he'd reached his manhood, he'd come to understand that the Gods were never going release him from his curse.

But even though he'd given up on testing the limits of his curse, it was impossible for him to avoid the sun always. The tribe traveled from oasis to oasis with the herds, and he'd had to travel on horseback, swathed in robes to hide him from the sun. Unfortunately, a stray gust of wind might blow up his sleeves, or sweep back his face covering, and he'd be burnt before he could rearrange his clothing. He'd learned long ago to accept the pain and thereby ignore it.

As he watched the two men battle, he began to see a different side to Nemir. It took him a while to realize what the change was, since he'd only known the young man for less than a day, but it finally struck him: Nemir wasn't angry. From the moment he'd looked up into the handsome face of the Prince's son, he'd seen nothing but anger.

The anger hadn't been aimed at him, though. At least not personally. He was angry at Judas not as a person but as a concept. Judas could even understand it, a little. Nemir hadn't asked to be saddled with a slave ordered to dog his every step. He hadn't asked to be ordered to take that slave and *only* that slave to his bed.

The thought of that made Judas shiver. He had no illusions about whether or not Nemir would do so, despite the man's protests. After all, Nemir was young and in his prime, a time when his sexual energies would be at their peak. Judas knew that sooner or later, Nemir would want sexual satisfaction. Self-pleasuring was not very satisfying, he knew from personal experience, and Nemir would either turn to him or someone else.

Judas was not sure which possibility scared him more. His appearance meant that he was the only person in his tribe to reach his age of majority still a virgin, something he'd long resigned himself to, and during the brief time he'd spent at the House of Kemel being trained, the bed-arts was the one realm he'd not had any instruction in. He'd quickly learned that this was because a virgin commanded much higher prices. Nobles liked to... train their bed slaves to their own tastes, whatever those might be. As a result, he had no concept of what Nemir might want of him.

If Nemir took someone else to his bed, he would not have to worry about that, but he would have to worry about *his* punishment would be. It had been made very clear to him that he was responsible for making sure that the Prince's son did not compromise himself, although he was not sure just what he could do to stop that. He had no illusions that if Nemir *did* go against his father's orders, the Prince would find out. Even in Nemir's quarters, Judas had never been alone during the time leading up to the master's return. Palace servants were everywhere and they saw everything. Nothing that Nemir -- or Judas -- did would remain a secret. It did not bother Judas. Living in tents all his life, surrounded by the constant attention of a tribe, he was used to the scrutiny of others. However, he did not think Nemir was as used to the attention, and he prayed that the man would learn soon.

At least Nemir seemed to be an honorable man, not inclined to punish as slave for existing, and he doubted that Nemir would deliberately bring punishment down on his head either. The only real question was what might result from action not properly thought through.

"And what have we here?"

The unexpected voice made Judas whirl around. Other than the Prince and Nemir, no one had addressed him since his arrival at the palace. He'd been ignored by the servants as if he were just a part of the furnishings in Nemir's suite. He was not sure whether or not he should respond to the comment.

He was even more unsure when he saw who had addressed him. He'd never seen the man, of course, but he was obviously noble-born. He wore ornate robes that proclaimed to the world that he'd never had to dirty his hands with work or even his own defense, since they would have hampered any attempt to do either.

Instead, a guardsman in a bright -- but far less hampering -- uniform was a discreet distance away, watching Judas for any signs that he was a threat, and Judas would wager that a dozen or more servants waited on the man's every whim.

Which begged the question: Why was he *here*?

"Noble one," Judas said, bowing to the exact degree he'd been taught.

The man walked a slow circuit around Judas. It was disconcerting to be examined this way, like a fine beast or costly statue being considered for purchase.

The man came to a stop in front of Judas. The smile on his face seemed open and friendly, but Judas could see that it did not reach his eyes. "You would be the heir's new... companion," he said in a tone that verged on insulting.

"Yes, noble one," Judas replied, determined not to look foolish in front of the man. He still wondered what the man wanted.

"And a most unusual one at that," the man murmured, reaching out and not quite touching Judas's hair. There was a flash of an expression on his face that was equal parts calculating and covetous. Then it smoothed away to bland interest once more. And beneath it all, there was no sign that he truly saw Judas as a person. Another might not have noticed that, but it was a look that Judas knew all to well from the members of his tribe who thought of him as demon- spawn, when they dared to look at him at all.

The man's eyes, which were still looking him up and down, came to rest on his damaged hand, still held to his chest protectively. "But you're injured!" he cried in apparent horror.

Judas resisted the urge to hide his burnt hand behind his back. At the reminder, it set to throbbing, and a glance down showed that the skin was starting to crack and peel. "It is nothing," he said softly.

"I disagree, poor boy. Come, let me take you to the healers."

"That is not necessary, I assure you," Judas protested, glancing towards the practice yard. The man's eyes followed his gaze to where Nemir was still sparring, oblivious to what was happening in the shadowed corridor adjacent.

"I'm sure that the heir would not object to you seeing the healers immediately," the man said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Judas's shoulder. "After all, a burn that severe must be excruciatingly painful."

As if on cue, Judas's hand started to throb even more than before, and he had to fight back a cry of pain. He wanted to step away from the man, but the instructions drilled into him by his teachers at Kemel's told him that it would be considered a deadly insult.

"Fair morning to you, Lord Morlan," Nemir said from the low wall that separated the corridor from the practice yard. His hair was matted and his skin glowed in the morning sunlight with the sweat of his exercise. Judas had not noticed him ending his spar or coming over to join them.

Immediately, the man -- Lord Morlan -- stepped away from Judas. He breathed a well-hidden sigh of relief and relaxed. The pain in his hand started to subside again.

"My lord heir," Morlan said, bowing in a way that verged on obsequiousness. Or insult. "I was just suggesting to your... companion that I take him to the healers, since he seems in great need of their services.

Nemir glanced at him and he shivered, wondering if he would be in trouble for someone else's actions. It did not seem fair, but that was the lot of a slave, he knew.

Then Nemir turned his attention back to the lord. "That is most kind of you, but also unnecessary. I will see to it myself as soon as I have scraped the sweat from my skin."

"It would be no bother--" Morlan started to say, but Nemir cut him off.

"I will see to it."

Obviously recognizing the steel in Nemir's bland voice, Morlan bowed again. "As you wish, my lord heir."

Nemir nodded and waited, pointedly, until the man excused himself and left, the guard following behind with n amused look. Then he turned back to Judas. "You should be more careful to whom you speak," he said icily.

Judas stiffened in outrage. "I am a *slave*," he spat. "I do not have a *choice* in the matter." The voice of reason told him that speaking this way was a mistake, that he did not want to antagonize the man he was going to have to live with for at least five years, but his pride overrode self- preservation. Slave, he might be, but he still had his pride.

Pride of the desert met the pride of a prince and soldier. Met and clashed through their glares. The sound of steel clashing from the practice yard was the perfect complement to the battle of wills.

Surprisingly, it was Nemir who broke eye contact first. "Give me a moment to cleanse myself. Then we'll go to the healers to see to your hand," he said, then quickly headed away, going to where he'd left his tunic.

Judas watched him go, his anger washing away as if it had never been. He waited, confused, as Nemir used a soft leather strap to scrape the sweat from his skin and wondered.

Had he just won a battle or lost?

---------------------------------------- Chapter Six ----------------------------------------

As he used the leather scraper to remove the sweat from his skin, Nemir tried to recapture the calm he'd felt while sparring with the guard. That feeling was elusive, though. He despised Lord Morlan under the best of circumstances, and finding him trying to ingratiate himself with Judas was beyond belief. The man had gall!

Nemir set aside the scraper and picked up a handful of sweet-sand from the barrel at the cleaning station and used it to scrub himself. He could have waited until he returned to his suite and have a water bath -- a luxury beyond the means of all but the richest in the small desert-bound city-state -- but after years as a soldier, the sand was comforting in its familiarity. Once it had absorbed the last of his sweat, he took up the fine brush hanging from the barrel and used it to remove the last of the sand from his body, leaving behind only the gentle scent that gave the sweet-sand its name.

As clean and refreshed as he could be, Nemir pulled his breeches back on, then his tunic. He ran his fingers through his hair and considered the length. It could use a trimming, and not with a knife this time. No matter what his own preferences might be, he did not want to reflect badly on his father. Reluctantly, he added a visit to the palace barber to his mental list of things that must be done before the evening meal. He groaned at the thought of that event: he would be on display as the heir returned home, the focus of eyes and plots.

The tailor would be another stop, since his old formal robes were too small for him. He also needed to arrange for something other than black for Judas to wear. Something especially nice, he decided, to make up for his harsh words earlier. He should not have taken out his anger at Lord Morlan on Judas. The boy was right: as a slave, he had no choice in the matter.

Still, he would have to warn him to be wary of the man, and others too.

But first, he needed to take the boy to the healers, he thought guiltily. If he'd known how much worse the hand would get, he would have done so immediately instead of indulging him in a spar that wasn't *really* necessary. A lesson that his own needs would not always come first from now on, he decided.

He glanced around for his vest and found it dangling from the hand of the guard he had been sparring with. "I believe this is yours," the smiling man said.

"Thank you," Nemir replied, taking the vest and putting it on.

"Will you be by later?" the man asked, and there was no mistaking the invitation in his eyes or his smile.

He was a handsome man, perhaps five years older than Nemir. His skin was tough as leather and darkly tanned from sun and wind and sand. He had handled the practice sword with the authority of long experience, and Nemir felt a shiver of desire, remembering what sword calluses felt like sliding over his body, his manhood.

But he sighed and shook his head. "Perhaps, but not for *that* sort of sword dance," he said regretfully.

The man's gaze slid over to where Judas was waiting patiently, and his smile turned wry. "I suppose if I had that for my bed, I'd not be wandering either. Still, if you change your mind, ask for Jorak. And the more the merrier," he added with a merry wink.

Nemir couldn't help smiling as the man walked away. The simple, bawdy humor of the common guard had finally succeeded in restoring his good humor, and his only regret at that point was that he would not be able to take him up on the offer.

Having regained his balance, Nemir headed over to Judas. "The healers have their center this way," he said, gesturing down the hallway in the opposite direction from the way they'd come earlier. "They aren't far, since many of their charges come due to training accidents here or at the stables. Being close is more convenient for those who have to carry an injured person to them. They do keep a healer stationed in the court proper, just in case of assassination attempts, illness or a case of vapors, but it is mainly a ceremonial duty, and one not much liked."

Nemir kept up the travelogue as he led the way, carefully concealing his amusement. Judas seemed thrown completely off-guard by his change in mood. Well, if he was going to be around for the next five years, he had better learn to deal with it. Nemir held grudges for a long time, but his furies were intense and burnt out quickly.

There were only two turns before the hallway opened directly into the large room that was home to the palace healers. A fountain sat gurgling pleasantly in the middle of the room; an unexpected luxury. There were those who protested the waste, but the fountain remained. It actually had a practical purpose; providing water for cleansing of wounds or healer's hands.

However, he had forgotten the large skylight in the ceiling that filled the space with sunshine. Judas shrank back against the wall, avoiding the large pools of light. An elderly healer dressed in his traditional white robes came over as Nemir tried to figure out a way to protect Judas from further burns. "Do you have an injury, my lord?" The man asked. Nemir wasn't sure if the man somehow knew who he was or if he just called everyone as 'my lord.'

"My companion has an extreme sensitivity to sunlight and has burnt his hand as a result."

The healer recognized the problem immediately. "Come with me," he said. He led them around the perimeter of the room where there were still shadows until they reached a door. On the other side of the door, they found a windowless office with books and scrolls and tablets on every flat surface, storage cases along the walls except where broken by hangings that depicted plants valuable to healers. He lit two oil lamps hanging from the ceiling by chains, allowing a warm glow to illuminate the room.

"Now, let me see your hand," the man said, his gray hair and deeply lined face adding the wait of command to the mildly spoken request.

Obediently, Judas held out his hand. The man examined it closely, but did not touch it. The skin was an angry red, contrasting vividly with Judas's natural pallor. The skin was peeling, and Nemir knew that it had to be painful, but Judas showed no sign of it. Grudgingly, Nemir had to recognize the strength of will necessary to keep from showing the pain.

"I must say, I am impressed," the healer said with a definite tinge of disapproval in his voice. "The last time I saw a burn this bad was during the aftermath of the Hamajii fires. However, it is small and localized, so easier to treat. Wait here."

"Hamajii fires?" Judas asked after the healer had bustled out of the room.

"Hamajii is one of the poorer quarters of the city," Nemir explained. "More than twenty years before I was born, a fire razed the entire quarter. My grandfather sent even the palace healers to treat the injured and ease the dying, although many of his court thought that was a mistake."

"Do you?"

Nemir bristled at the question, but quickly realized that there was no accusation in the question, just an open request for information. "No, I don't. A Prince is prince to *all* his subjects, not just those with money. Rumor had it, though, that the fires were deliberately set on the orders of someone high-born. No proof was ever found to support those charges, though." Nemir sighed and shook his head. "There are still those who believe that the quarter should never have been rebuilt." He didn't bother to hide his disgust at that attitude.

Judas nodded in response, but remained impassive. Nemir was finding it difficult to read the boy's expression, but before he could probe for more of a reaction, the healer returned, carrying a glass jar filled with a whitish substance and stoppered with a wood plug. "Here we go," he said, placing the jar on the desk -- or more accurately, on top of a pile of books sitting on the desk -- and removed the stopper. Immediately, the smell of dust was overwhelmed by the sharp scent of herbs.

He scooped up two fingers worth of the salve and gestured for Judas to hold out his hand again. The salve was quickly spread over the burn on the back of his hand, then worked into the skin with gentle strokes. Almost immediately, Judas's expression eased and Nemir realized just how much strain had been there: he had not recognized it until it was gone. Still, he would know it the next time he saw it, he told himself.

"There," the healer said, replacing the stopper on the jar, then using a cloth to clean the excess off his fingers. He picked up the jar and handed it to Judas, who took it awkwardly, one-handed. "Reapply once a day until there is a layer of new skin that is no longer tender to the touch. Then put the jar away until the next time." He smiled ruefully. "With a... disability such as yours, I'm sure that there *will* be a next time."

"Thank you, noble one," Judas said, bowing his head.

The healer waved off the gesture with a snort. "My name is Kale, not 'noble one.' Save the titles for the court fops who think they deserve such titles." He shot a pointed look at Nemir. "I am a healer, and that title means far more to me. It is my duty and my vocation. Now, come to me if you need anything." The smile turned impish. "In fact, return even if you do not need to. If we aren't busy, I would enjoy the chance to talk with you. It's been years since I last had the chance to speak to a member of the tribes, and it would be nice to hear some new stories to go with the old."

Judas glanced to Nemir, who was quick to say, "I'm sure there will be many such chances, Healer Kale." He was already planning to speak to his father about lifting the restriction that prevented Judas from leaving his quarters except in his company.

"Good. Right now, however, I do have duties to attend to. I'm sure that you would prefer not to leave through that sun-filled room." He moved over to one of the wall hangings and pushed it aside to reveal a small doorway opening into a dark corridor. "Turn right and it will lead to an alcove in the main corridor," he said, then winked. "And please, do not spread that information around. I like to sneak out unnoticed from time to time."

Nemir couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped. He also couldn't stop the small flash of jealousy: he did not think he would be allowed the same sort of escape from his own duties. Still, he did not begrudge the man his own back door. "Thank you," he said, then led Judas into the dark space, made darker when the hanging fell into place behind them.

The hallway was narrow and dark, with an old musty smell that said the palace slaves did not know of its existence. No one had cleaned there in decades, at least. Nemir wondered how many *other* such passages were secreted around the palace and who knew of them. He resolved to search his suite carefully for any signs of hidden passages. They could be useful to him, but they could also be a danger if anyone else knew of them.

"How did he know I was of the tribes?" Judas said softly in a puzzled voice.

Nemir smiled, unnoticed in the near-total darkness. "Your accent is an obvious sign. And even if you had remained completely silent, palace gossip would have told him." He decided that this was as good a time as any to acquaint his new shadow with the less than pleasant facts of palace life. "The palace is a breeding ground for rumor and intrigue," he said seriously. "Within a day of your arrival, your name, origin and purpose would have been known to any who cared to, and your connection to me means that nearly everyone did."

Up ahead, he could see the patchy glow of light shining through a lattice, indicating the end of the passage, so he contented himself for the time with one last warning. "Guard your tongue well. It can mean the difference between life and death."

---------------------------------------- Chapter Seven ----------------------------------------

Judas followed Nemir back to the suite in silence. He kept trying to memorize the twists and turns of the corridors, but finally had to concede defeat. All his life, he'd lived in nomadic camps where all you needed to remember was the design of each family's tent. Even his time at Kemel's hadn't prepared him for the maze-like interior of the Prince's palace. He'd never even seen a structure that exuded age and complexity like this one.

Equally confusing was the man he followed. He'd only known Nemir for a day, and the man had gone through so many mood changes that he despaired ever understanding him. Learning the twisted pathways of the palace seemed a far more achievable goal, even if he *was* ordered attached to the man's side.

Among the tribes, life was too harsh to allow any form of deception. Everyone was open about their thoughts and feelings. Even if they concealed them, out of courtesy to another, they never *lied* about them. Nemir, he would have to learn to deal with by trial and error. And after his encounter with Lord Morlan, he was beginning to feel like he'd been dropped unarmed into a pit of sand vipers.

Thankfully, they reached the suite without encountering anyone other than a few servants or slaves who had simply bowed silently as he and Nemir passed.

Still, he breathed a deep sigh of relief as the door shut behind them. After the morning, the rooms of the suite now said 'safety' to him. For a moment he thought that he might never leave them willingly again, but pride stiffened his spine, telling him that hiding from his new world was not an option.

"My lord heir," a new voice said. The stranger rose from the chair in the reception room where he'd been sitting. He was tall and slender, but well-muscled. He moved like one of the desert cats that had followed Judas's tribe's camp. His hair was steel-grey, contrasted vividly by thick, black eyebrows. The shape of his nose echoed the beak of a raptor and his dark eyes seemed to see everything. Judas felt like a small mouse under the eye of a predator when that sharp gaze turned his way.

"Konda!" Nemir said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "I was not expecting you."

"Actually, you were," the man, his solemn expression transforming into a wide smile.

Nemir blinked, looking confused. Then his expression cleared. "I beg your pardon. I had not expected you to be my teacher in this."

"Who better, Nemmie? Since I was not born to the court life, I see it somewhat more clearly. And my position allows me to see *all* of the maneuverings, not just a small piece. You must be Judas," he suddenly said, turning towards him.

Judas jumped slightly at unexpectedly being addressed. He bowed his head as he had been taught and answered, "Yes, noble one."

Konda laughed. "Not quite. And certainly, there is no need for ceremony between us. "He took Judas's hand between his own and smiled down at him kindly. "I know, right now, all of this is new and confusing for you, but that will pass. However, if you ever need advice about being companion to a royal heir, come to me and I will pass on the fruits of my own experiences." He winked, and Judas started again.

He glanced at Nemir, wondering if this was one of those people he needed to guard his tongue around, even thought the diminutive name he'd used for the heir implied a fond familiarity.

Nemir groaned and rolled his eyes. "Don't worry," he said when he finally noticed Judas's expression. "Konda was my father's shadow, like you are mine. Or so I was told for the first time yesterday. However, I wonder if it is wise for *me* to let the two of you exchange stories?"

"Now why would that be, Nemmie? Just because I know all kinds of embarrassing stories about your childhood?"

"Exactly."

Judas kept looking from one to the other, head reeling. He was pretty sure that they were teasing each other, but wasn't sure where he fit into the picture. Finally, he nervously pulled his hand away from the other man and took a step back.

"Now, I assume you went sparring this morning, so in all likelihood, neither of you has eaten yet," the man said, pretending not to notice as Judas moved away. "So I took the liberty of ordering a meal. We can eat as I start your lessons in politics and diplomacy."

Judas took this as an indication that he should take his leave, so he headed for the doorway to the sleeping chamber, but Konda's voice stopped him. "Sit, Judas," he said in a voice accustomed to command, and waited until Judas obediently settled on a stool off to the side of the room. "These lessons will be of value to you as well," he continued in a gentler voice. "You have not been exposed to this sort of society before, and your new position, even as a temporary slave, will put you at the center of it. You need to know what I have to teach as much as -- if not more than -- Nemir."

Judas nodded, the explanation being quite true. Perhaps, if he'd been given this instruction earlier, he would have been better prepared for the incident with Lord Morlan.

He folded his hands in his lap, noting as he did so that the pain in his burnt had was almost completely gone and the skin already showed the early signs of healing, much sooner than he would have expected. The jar of the salve was sitting on the table near the door, where he'd placed on their arrival, and he made a mental note to store it away safely. He'd never come across a salve as effective on his easily-damaged skin.

Then Konda began to speak and he focused all of his attention on the man.

>>>~~~<<<

Breakfast had come and gone, as had lunch, before Konda decided that he'd passed on enough information to allow Nemir to acquit himself in a way that would not embarrass his father that evening. By that time, Judas was beginning to think longingly of the simpler life of both the desert and Kemel's house. Even the maneuvering for position among his grandfather's warriors was like the games children played compared to the poisonous plots of the Prince's court. And yet neither Konda nor Nemir seemed to consider it anything less than expected.

But finally, Konda took his leave. Judas felt as if his head would burst if they had continued any further, and he despaired of ever learning everything he would need to survive the next five years.

Palace slaves cleared away all the traces of the meal as Nemir started to pace, muttering to himself. "Why couldn't I have been born a simple soldier?" he asked the empty air. "Or a farmer? At least there, the only manure I would have to deal with would be spread on the fields."

A slave approached and waited to be acknowledged. "My lord Heir," she said, bowing low. "The royal tailor is here."

Nemir groaned, then looked over to Judas. "The next step of the torture. Formal robes for tonight."

Judas wasn't sure what to say in reply, so he kept silent. When in doubt, remain silent he'd already learned. He was beginning to think that it was the most important lesson he would learn.

The tailor turned out to be a man so lean than he was almost skeletal. He came accompanied by a stream of slaves and assistants carrying bolts of fabric and boxes of pins, as well as sample robes, no doubt to determine size and choose style. He was obviously confident of his position, since he directed his people to set up without waiting for permission, then ordered Nemir to strip to his breeches.

Judas watched in bemusement as Nemir allowed himself to be pushed and prodded, posed and draped with pin-filled cloth, with nothing more than the occasional roll of his eyes and comments that were frustrated, but at the same time, perfectly courteous. That puzzled Judas until one comment that was a little too caustic was answered with a carelessly placed pin and a heart-felt apology for drawing blood.

Finally, Nemir was allowed to step down off the low stool he'd been standing on so that the drape of his robes could be perfected and change back into his own clothing. Then, with a grin that could only be described as evil, he gestured to Judas. "Your turn," he said.

Judas went blank. "Me?" he asked in confusion.

"Of course, you. After all, you need something appropriate to wear tonight."

"Wear to what?" he asked.

Nemir's smile widened. "You are my companion, are you not? If I have to go to the court banquet, so do you. Or would you prefer to hide here?"

Actually, Judas thought to himself, he would. But the near- glee on Nemir's face roused his pride again. Without a word, he stripped to his own breeches, as Nemir had, and stepped up onto the stool, back straight.

Nemir's expression seemed pleased, although he still wasn't sure he was reading it correctly, and he turned to the tailor. "Anything but black," he said, almost pleadingly. "All the clothing he was supplied with before my return is unrelieved black. It makes him look like a priest. Or a ghost."

The tailor walked around him slowly as his assistants waited for orders. Judas blushed under the intense scrutiny. "Remove those," the man said with a frown, gesturing to the wrappings Judas had kept on his forearms. "They will interfere with the measurements."

Judas's eyes went wide. He raised his arms to his chest, holding them protectively close. After the first day, not even his keepers at Kemel's had interfered with the wrappings.

"What is it?" Nemir asked, the sarcasm back, but somehow his tone was also soft. "Hideous scars? Deformities? It does not matter."

Judas met his eyes, pleading silently, but there was no give. Reluctantly, he undid the long bandages wrapping his arms and let them drop.

Several of the slaves, and even a couple of the assistants, backed away with gasps that made him wince. He'd heard them before, as a child, from visiting tribesmen. Between that and the whispers of his own tribe, he'd quickly learned to keep the markings covered.

Nemir, on the other hand, stepped closer, close enough to reach out and touch Judas. "Are those natural?" he asked, only honest curiosity in his voice. "Or are they tattoos?"

Judas resisted the urge to hide his arms and the damning birthmarks there. On his forearms were black marks that closely resembled batwings. "I was born with them," he said softly, looking at his feet. The marks were yet another of the unusual things about him that had convinced his tribe that he had to be demon-sired.

"Interesting. I was thinking perhaps dark blue."

Judas looked up in confusion, but Nemir had already turned away and was talking to the tailor about colors and styles. The glances sent his way showed nothing of the fear and hate he was too used to.

Once more, Nemir had both surprised and confused him. Would he even understand the man?

---------------------------------------- Chapter Eight ----------------------------------------

Nemir discussed styles and colors with the royal tailor while keeping one eye on his new slave. Judas was standing on the stool, obediently holding his arms out and turning as the assistant tailors indicated, looking almost pathetically confused and out of place. Nemir had no doubt that the boy had never been in a similar situation before and a small, cruel part of him found it entertaining.

The rest of him found himself pitying the boy. So far that day, he'd learned that the boy was handicapped in a way that would have killed most tribesmen, that he had a quick and agile mind that he seemed almost afraid to reveal and that he'd been completely cut off from his own people because of their petty prejudices and superstitions.

That, combined with his almost ethereal appearance, was making him a fascinating puzzle, which he found extremely annoying. He had not time to be distracted by puzzles. At least not yet. However, he had more than enough time to look forward to in the future to unraveling all the boy's secrets.

And strangely enough, he *was* looking forward to it.

But for now he satisfied himself with watching the boy try to stop from fidgeting. It was a pity that he'd not had the same training as Nemir. A pity for Judas, that is, as Nemir suppressed a wince as one of the assistants 'accidentally' jabbed the boy with a pin when he shifted his weight without permission.

While he'd never considered it that way, Nemir's training as a soldier was going to prove useful in the court. The first example of that had been his own lack of fidgeting. A soldier had to be able to keep watch silently, not making any move that might attract the attention of an enemy. Nemir had once had to hold the same position from sunrise to sunset, observed by his commander to make sure that he did not shift or even relieve himself. It had been a long and frustrating day, but he'd held, passing the trial. He'd never expected that to be useful for a fitting, but he'd been able to hold still while keeping his mind occupied.

Judas, it was obvious, was not prepared for that.

As well, the banquet that night would stretch his observational skills. He'd always sneered at the petty machinations of the noble-born, but his first lesson with Konda had shown him just how little he knew and how what he did not know could endanger him. Konda had force-fed him the basics, and he prayed that he would remember them when he needed that knowledge. Still, he had not been able to hide his disgust, which had earned him a lecture in parting not to take things too lightly. These were the people he must deal with from this point on. People that he would have to rule.

Judas, on the other hand, had shown an almost horrified fascination when he had not been able to hide his feelings. He'd stayed silent, at first, but Konda had encouraged him to speak up, and while his questions had betrayed his complete innocence, they'd also proved how quickly he learned and how adept he was at piecing together fragments of knowledge into a whole. Despite his own greater familiarity with the people and events discussed, although not too much more familiar, Nemir would have to work hard at these lessons to remain ahead of Judas in what was already becoming a contest in his mind.

"Enough," the tailor finally barked, waving his assistants aside. "My lord heir," he said, turning to Nemir with a bow. "We will have robes for the two of you ready before sunset. The others we discussed will be delivered as they are finished."

"My thanks," Nemir said with an nod. He did not offer the man money, nor would it have been accepted. The Prince supported him more than adequately, and tailors fought for the chance to work at the palace, where the finest of materials were provided for them to work with and the members of the court encouraged them to greater and greater heights of creativity. And when they chose to leave, they could command amazing fees to reproduce that magic for those not lucky enough to have the services of the court tailors.

The man and his entourage packed with amazing speed, considering how far the tools of their trade had spread across the room. After they left, Nemir nodded to one of the palace runners. "Tell the barber that we will need his services before the dinner hour," he told the young girl. She nodded, and headed off at speed.

Nemir turned to his companion and smiled at the boy's stunned expression. "Get some rest," he said, his tone almost gentle. "There is time for some sleep before we need to prepare for the banquet."

Judas looked uncertain, but Nemir did not wait for him. Stripping off the clothing he'd barely gotten back on after his own fitting, he headed for his bed. He normally would not sleep in the middle of the day, but the evening's festivities would no doubt go late, so he fell back on soldier training which told him to get his rest while he had the chance.

After a moment, Judas followed. Already in his bed with only the gauzy bed-curtains between himself and the world due to the high mid-day heat, Nemir watched through slitted eyes as Judas unlocked the chest he had next to his pallet and carefully put the jar the healer had given him inside and relocked it. Nemir wondered what else was inside and how a slave, however recently so, had been allowed to keep a locked space.

Yet another puzzle to ponder.

>>>~~~<<<

The heat of the mid-afternoon was oppressive, even deep inside the palace made of stone, and Nemir woke bathed in sweat and almost panting for breath. He'd slept for several hours, which should be enough to sustain him through the evening, so he decided to get up. The barber would be coming shortly, along with the robes for the evening, so he would just have enough time to bathe first.

Judas's pallet was empty, the blanket that would be necessary once the sun went down folded up neatly at the end with the thin pillow carefully positioned on top of it. The locked chest was placed between the pillow and the wall. Nemir eyed it speculatively for a moment, but decided to let it go for the time being.

In the reception room, he found Judas curled up on a cushion reading one of the books that Konda had left for them, so absorbed that he didn't notice the looks that the two servants tidying up the room unnecessarily were sending his way. Their expressions cleared to blank masks the moment they noticed Nemir and they dropped to their knees, but Nemir had seen the mixture of hate, fear and lust that had been there. He glared and nodded for them to leave, which they did quickly. Judas hadn't stirred the entire time, except to turn the pages of the leather-bound history of the city.

Nemir couldn't help smiling at the expression of intense concentration on the boy's face, the crease between his nearly invisible brows as he obviously tried to puzzle out the archaic language of the old book. "You don't have to read it all today," he said softly.

Judas nearly jumped out of his own skin before controlling himself. "I'm sure Lord Konda will want his book back."

Nemir shrugged. "If he does, my father has a large library we can borrow from. In fact, I expect that the volume you are holding came from that library. It can stay here until we finish it and are ready to move to the next."

Judas flinched at that, although he wasn't sure why. "I'm sorry. Did you want it first?" He closed the book carefully and held it out. Nemir blinked, wondering why the boy seemed so nervous. Or more nervous than before.

"There are four volumes here to read," he said, rubbing at the dried sweat that was itching on the back of his neck. "I'm sure I can find enough to keep me occupied while you read that one. Besides, I read it when I was a child, so all I would be doing is refreshing my memory."

Judas nodded and returned the book to his lap, although he didn't open it again.

The silence was starting to be awkward. "There's just enough time to bathe before the barber arrives," Nemir said finally. "Would you assist me?"

That brought on a flinch again, and he quickly realized why this time, but Judas quickly got to his feet before he could reassure him that his virtue was safe. Nemir sighed and waited for the boy to flee the room in a panic, but he just headed for the bathing chamber with a determined expression on his face. Nemir followed, feeling more than a little frustrated. While Judas was his for the taking, as a slave, and despite his resolutions, he was not sure he could stay celibate for five years, he had no intention of molesting the boy. He wasn't ready to completely give in to his father's plans, and he certainly was not going to bed an unwilling partner.

Inside the tiled and slightly cooler room, he found Judas, already nude, filling the sunken tub. Pipes carried the lukewarm water from the central cistern that serviced the entire palace.

Deciding that actions spoke louder than words, Nemir stripped and stepped down into the deep tub. He picked up a sea sponge, transported across the desert by merchant caravans, and started to soap himself. Sweet sand was fine for everyday use, but soap and water was necessary before presenting himself to the court.

Judas was standing, fidgeting ever so slightly, watching in silence as Nemir bathed. Once he'd soaped and rinsed every part that he could reach, Nemir turned and held out the sponge. "I cannot do my own back," he said simply.

Judas took the sponge and soap and gingerly put it to use. "A little harder," Nemir prompted, then groaned with pleasure as the scrubbing intensified. He hung his head forward and let Judas continue with his task until every part of his back tingled. At that point, he pulled away and crouched down until the water reached his neck.

Standing up again, the soap all gone, he took up a handful of a softer, milder soap and scrubbed it through his hair. He cursed softly as a bit of soap made his eyes sting.

At that point he heard a splash and felt the water move around a second body. Then he felt finger moving into his hair. "Cover your eyes," Judas said softly from behind him.

Not replying, he rinsed the suds from his hands, then used them to shield his eyes. Judas's fingers quickly worked the soap through his hair, then urged him to duck under the water to remove the suds.

His task done, Judas moved back and started to climb out of the tub. Nemir reached out and grabbed his wrist. There was a flash of fear in his eyes, but it vanished quickly. "You need to bathe to," Nemir pointed out. "Will you allow me to wash your back as well?"

Judas stared at him for a moment, then nodded, almost shyly.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Nine ----------------------------------------

Judas held still as Nemir scooped up a handful of the soft soap from a bowl set on the sunken tub's edge and worked it into a lather against his back. Then the sponge he'd used on Nemir was used by the man to scrub *his* back.

He'd never had his back scrubbed before and he found that he liked the feeling. Now he understood why the other man had groaned in pleasure, and found himself leaning back into the scrubbing, his eyes closing as he enjoyed the sensation. Nemir chuckled, but there was no derision in the sound, so Judas decided to ignore him.

When his back was clean, Nemir used his hands to lift water to rinse the rest of the soap away. Judas expected him to climb out of the bath at that point, but instead, the heir tugged at his arm to turn him around and started washing his chest and arms as well.

"Stay close to me tonight," Nemir said, his eyes on his self-appointed task. "There are those who will try to trick you into saying something that will reflect badly, so just stay silent if you have any doubts."

Nemir took up a handful of the other soap and lifted his hands. "Close your eyes," he ordered, then started to work the soap into Judas's hair. Judas had to fight to keep from gasping; the massage of fingers against his scalp felt even better than the scrape of the sponge against his skin. "Actually, staying silent might be a good idea. The nobles of the court have all been raised to ignore the servants. If you stay silent, they may say things in your hearing that they would not say in mine. Rinse now."

Judas pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger and dipped below the surface of the water. When he surfaced, he pushed his sodden hair back and blinked the water from his eyes. When they cleared, he found Nemir staring at him with an intent expression.

They were standing in the deep tub almost chest to chest. A little startled by the expression of Nemir's face, he dropped his eyes a little and found himself becoming fascinated by the way the man's breathing made the muscles of his chest expand and contract. Once more, he could not help comparing his own slender frame to Nemir's stocky, firmly muscled one.

After the silence stretched up, his gaze returned to Nemir's face and saw that the man was swaying towards him, lips slightly parted and eyelids drooping sleepily. Judas's heart started to pound as he realized that Nemir was about to kiss him.

Then Nemir's eyes flew open and he stepped backwards, looking almost shocked. "I trust you can finish your lower body?" he said, climbing out of the tub, looking at anything *but* Judas.

"Yes," Judas said softly, his heart rate slowing again.

"Don't take too long. The barber will be here soon."

With that, Nemir nearly fled the room. Judas watched him go, confused, and wondered if he was relieved or disappointed that Nemir had not followed through on his apparent intentions.

>>>~~~<<<

By the time he'd finished his bath and dried off, he could hear voices in the outer chamber. He used one of the waiting bath sheets to dry himself, then put his breeches back on.

When he exited the bathing chamber, he found Nemir sitting on the stool he'd so recently been standing on with a man holding a knife standing behind him. His eyes went wide and he rushed forward to grab the arm holding the knife as it descended towards the heir's unprotected throat.

The armed man spun and his forearm connected soundly with Judas's jaw, sending him sprawling. "How dare you!" the man blustered, then kicked out, landing a solid blow on Judas's ribs, driving the air from his chest.

His foot was drawing back for a second blow when an ice- cold voice stopped him. "Stop."

To Judas's amazement, the man did just that. "My lord--" he started to say, but Nemir cut him off.

"Do not touch him. Are you alright, boy?"

Judas nodded, pushing himself upright to a seated position. His side ached, but there was no damage, although he would certainly have a mark in time. If anything, the use of the name 'boy' hurt more. "He had a knife," he said softly, looking back and forth between the two men in confusion.

Surprise flashed across Nemir's face, then he chuckled. "He is a barber. How else would he shave me?"

At that point, Judas finally noticed the remains of a lather on Nemir's face. Earlier, the man had sported a closely trimmed beard. Now his face was bare of any facial hair. As well, Nemir's hair was of a shorter and more even length. Embarrassed, he dropped his eyes. "I apologize, my lord," he whispered, his face burning.

"There is nothing to apologize for," Nemir said, squatting in front of him, ignoring the spluttered protest from the barber. "Better that you err on the side of caution."

"He should be punished," the barber said angrily. "Slaves do not attack free men!"

Nemir twisted around to glare at the man. "I will not punish him for trying to protect me, even if there was nothing to protect me from. Or do you believe I should not *be* protected?"

"Of course not, my lord heir. But protection is the province of the guards, and he is a *slave*. Slaves should not be allowed to act above their station."

Nemir rose to his feet, his face dark with anger. "Enough. You have finished your task, so go."

"My..."

"Silence! Or do you believe that it is the province of barbers to lecture nobles?"

The older man stiffened, then bowed. "Of course not, my lord heir." But his gaze was still hot and angry on Judas as he left the suite.

Nemir sighed, then turned back to Judas. "So much for having your hair trimmed."

"I am sorry..."

"Don't be, Judas. I will not fault you for trying to protect me, although you might be more circumspect about it in the future. In the meantime, do you know how to shave another person?"

Judas blinked at the sudden change of subject. "I used to shave my brother."

"Good." Nemir went into the bedchamber, then came out carrying a small, but obviously very sharp dagger. "Since you interrupted my shave, you can finish it."

He handed the dagger to Judas, then sat down and lifted his chin expectantly. Judas stared at him in shock. They'd known each other for only a day and Nemir trusted him -- a *slave* -- at his throat with a knife? He touched the edge with the pad of his thumb and winced as the skin parted easily.

Nemir was watching him, one eyebrow raised in an amused challenge. That amusement was enough to provoke him into motion. He stepped forward, took Nemir's chin in his hand and started to carefully scrape the last of the beard from the man's face.

The activity made him very nervous, although he controlled it so that his hands would not shake while the razor-sharp blade was at Nemir's throat. Remembering his own reaction to such a sight, he could only imagine what a guard might think seeing a slave with a dagger pressed against the heir's flesh.

Fortunately, there were no interruptions before he finished his task. He cleaned the blade against his breeches, then handed it to Nemir before heading to the bath chamber to soak a cloth in water to use to wipe the last soap and hair from the man's face.

Once that was done, Nemir ran a hand over his chin. "Very nice," he said. "I prefer a beard, but as long as I need to be shaved, I believe I will let you do it." Judas couldn't help smiling at the compliment.

At that point there was a knock at the entrance. At Nemir's nod, Judas went to the door and opened it. "Yes?"

It was one of the tailor's assistants. She had bundles of cloth slung over one arm. "The robes," she said, nodding to her burden.

Judas stood back and let her enter. "The master tailor told me to see that they fit properly," she said, setting the clothing down over the back of a chair. Then she stood back and settled into a waiting posture.

Nemir strode over to the chair and separated the clothing into two piles. One, he handed to Judas. "Dress," he ordered, then unashamedly stripped himself. Judas could not mistake the flash of interest on the young woman's face and deliberately placed himself between her and Nemir. Not that he was jealous of that interest, of course. He was simply performing his duty of ensuring that the heir remained chaste until his wedding.

The clothing he held were far simpler than the outfit Nemir was dressing in, but it was also richer than any he'd ever worn. The breeches were white, as was the shirt with loose sleeves that gathered at his wrists, making the fabric billow. The soft boots sent to go with the outfit were dark blue and almost fit. Considering the length of time they had, he was surprised that they found anything that would fit his long, narrow feet, and while the fit was not perfect, it was a pleasant change from the slippers he'd been wearing since leaving his tribe.

And for over it all was a knee-length tunic made from a heavy fabric died a deep blue that reminded him of the desert sky after the sun had set but before the light had completely faded. It had wide shoulders that hung like short sleeves over the longer sleeves of his shirt. The edges of the sleeves, hem and neckline were embroidered with a very simple design of silver and a deep pink that almost matched the roots of his hair.

"Let me see," Nemir said, coming over to stand in front of him. Judas held still as the man adjusted the hang of the tunic and looked him up and down. Nemir smiled and nodded. "Much better than black," he said in a satisfied tone.

Naturally, Nemir's outfit was much more luxurious while being similar in design. His breeches were of a dark brown velvet and his ivory-colored shirt was of silk instead of the plain linen that made Judas's. The boots were his own, shined to a high gloss, and the dark red tunic was open down the front and sides, held together with gold laces. The ornate embroidery was also gold, with rubies sewn in until he almost shimmered in the light of the room's lamps.

The tailor's assistant walked around each of them, checking the hang of the cloth and every seam. Two loose threads were snapped off, then she stepped away, looking pleased. "The fit is proper," she said. "Do you like the design?"

Nemir ran his hands down the front of his tunic, smoothing a tiny wrinkle, and nodded. "Very impressive, especially considering the speed of execution. I am extremely pleased." He smiled and the young woman nearly glowed at the praise.

However, if she was expecting a more personal thanks, she was disappointed. Nemir escorted her to the door and sent her on her way with another smile, but nothing more.

Then he turned back to the room and headed for the sleeping chamber. Knowing that they needed to leave soon, Judas waited where he was, a little confused at the delay.

Nemir emerged again with a gaudy, jeweled dagger tucked into the top of his boot and strapping another, more functional looking dagger to his thigh, just under his tunic where it would not be obvious but would be easily reached. The first was obvious just for show, distracting watchers from noticing his other weapon.

He paused and looked at Judas. "Your hair is a mess," he said bluntly. "Sit."

Judas sat down on the stool, wondering if Nemir intended to cut *his* hair. Instead, a towel was placed around his shoulders to keep his finery from getting any wetter and a comb started tugging at his hair determinedly and not very gently. Luckily, his hair was very fine and the tangles were soon gone, but before he could say anything, it was tugged at again.

Finally, Nemir stepped back. "Stand up. Let me see."

Judas stood, his head feeling strangely unbalanced. He reached back and felt the heavy plait that now fell halfway down his back, along his spine. Only the hair around his face had been left loose. He'd never braided his hair before, and it felt... different.

Nemir nodded with obvious satisfaction, then headed for the door again. "Time to go, Judas," he said, pulling the door open.

And like a lamb to the slaughter, Judas followed.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Ten ----------------------------------------

The banquet was exactly as Nemir had expected: long, tedious and more than a little embarrassing. Nemir disliked being the center of attention and on this night, he could not avoid it. Worse, he knew that it was not just for the one night; it was from now until the day he died.

But he was pleasant and respectful, not wanting to spoil the night for his father. While the Prince understood and, to a degree, shared his son's feelings, his pride in the young man was obvious to all. This was his first opportunity to present his son to the court as a man. Under the circumstances, any father could be forgiven.

Thankfully, with the setting of the sun, the desert air had cooled considerably. As a result, he was nearly comfortable as the Prince proclaimed that his son, having proved himself a man on the fields of battle had returned to take his place at his father's side as aide and heir. In addition, Nemir's betrothal to the first daughter of the Prince of Mathan was announced.

For Nemir, the most embarrassing point of the evening, and one that he had not expected, was the moment when everyone in the room except his father had knelt to acknowledge his elevation from heir-presumptive to Heir. He'd had to fight to keep from fidgeting until the crowd had stood once more.

The formalities finally over, the court moved to their seats in the banquet hall. The placements of the seat spoke volumes for the status of the members of the court with the most powerful seated closest to the dais.

The dais was where the Prince sat, raised up so that he could see the entire room and so that all could see him. Konda, as his chief guard, despite being past the prime of youth, had his place standing behind his Prince's reclining couch.

The Prince's chief wife would normally take the couch next to his, but since the death of Nemir's mother more than five years earlier, the Prince had not elevated any of his concubines to that position, Instead, Nemir took that place as the reason for the night's festivities. And while normally a slave would not attend at all, except as a server, Judas was seated on a cushion on the floor at his feet. While this was highly unusual, no one would question it, since the Prince had expressed no disapproval.

Talk began as the servers arrived, setting out the platters of food. In the corner, a group of musicians provided musical accompaniment to a dancer who weaved her way around the room, hips swaying and filmy garments floating in the breeze from the windows.

"So, Konda tells me that he expects you to learn quickly," the Prince said, leaning close so that they could not be overheard.

Nemir picked up a round, flat-bread and filled the center with some of the heavily spiced meat and potatoes from a bowl before answering. "I do not like politics," he said tersely before rolling the bread and taking a bite.

His father chuckled. "Beware of anyone who *does* like politics," he advised, exchanging glances with Konda. Knowing now the truth of their relationship, Nemir wondered how he could have missed seeing it before. There was an easy intimacy there that told him that they were more than just Prince and guard.

"Those who love politics and the games involved play to benefit themselves," Konda said in agreement. "And for them, betrayal is a way of life. Treat the game as an exercise in war and tactics. Learn it well, but avoid the blood-lust that makes it an addiction."

Nemir nodded, then glanced down at Judas. The boy was hunched over to minimize his exposure to the room, and while his eyes were fixed on the colorful tiles of the floor, the tilt of his head said that he was listening to every word.

Noting that the boy's position behind his couch shielded him from most eyes, Nemir surreptitiously cut a wedge of the sharp, golden cheese and passed it and a flat-bread to him. The boy had not eaten since midday, and since the banquet would go late into the night, it would not be fair to make him wait until morning to eat again.

When he looked back to his father, he saw an approving smile on the man's face -- and a slightly smug one on Konda's -- and could not suppress a flash of anger. While he loved his father dearly and found Judas less of an irritation than he'd expected he did not like being manipulated. Not even when it was to supposed to be for his own good.

The brief moment of anger, quickly covered up, also did not escape his father's notice, and the man's expression softened. "I do understand your feelings, my son," he said. "In this and everything else. When my own father summoned me home to become Heir, I was miserable. I loathed the court and the falseness I saw there. And when he informed me that Konda was to be my shadow and all that entailed, I felt betrayed. I felt that he did not trust me to behave as a true Heir should."

He paused to take a sip of the heated spice-wine in his goblet. A slave rushed forward to refill that small amount consumed from a pitcher the moment he lowered the goblet, then moved back again.

Nemir was astonished. His father had just put into words exactly how he felt. "If that is so, why inflict the same on me?" he asked, then flinched. His tone had sounded more appropriate to a small child just denied a treat.

The corner of his father's mouth quirked up into a small, private smile. "Because in the end, it was the right choice. I learned this, as did my father and his father before him and hopefully you will as well. A companion is the one person we can be completely honest with and who returns the favor in turn. Konda is my truest friend, most honest advisor and staunchest ally in the face of those who would use or destroy me. And if you allow it, in time Judas will can be the same for you."

Then he chuckled softly. "Not that I would have believed that at first, myself," he said wryly. "It was nearly a month before I said anything to Konda other than a curt order to which I neither expected nor wanted a response. It was a year before I admitted first to myself, then to him, that we could be friends. And even then, it was nearly another year before I admitted that I was not made for celibacy."

He met Nemir's eyes with a wicked grin that was quickly smoothed over into the calm, dignified expression more appropriate to a Prince. "I am glad to see that you are at least a *little* less stubborn than I," he said. He glanced over at Konda, his face lighting up for a moment. "And I hope that when you reach my age, you will look back and say that could have made no better choice for you. It is what I would say to my father, were he alive."

Nemir sat silent, unable to think of a response. He had learned more about his father in one conversation than he had in all the years that had come before. Perhaps it was because they'd spent little time together since he left to become a soldier while still too young for such discussions.

He looked over to Judas and found the young man sneaking a glance. He saw consideration, confusion, sympathy, pride, fear and a host of other emotions before Judas ducked his head again, blushing faintly.

He looked back to his father and nodded in acceptance. "I hope you are right," he said simply.

>>>~~~<<<

After the last of the food was cleared away, the festivities began in earnest. The tables were removed and the musicians who'd filled the air with gentle tones during the meal were joined by more of their fellows and the music picked up in tempo.

As well, more dancers appeared, this time less demure in their movements. Nemir noted with distaste how some of the court -- and not just the males -- reached out to fondle the dancers as they passed by. There were not many, but he made careful note of the ones who did. Morlan, he was unsurprised to see, was included in that number.

There was little he could do about it at the moment, though. There would always be those who considered their birth to be justification for such behavior. It did not matter if the object of their attentions was slave, free or even another noble. As long as they were lower in status...

Nemir snorted in disgust and put down his goblet. He was becoming intoxicated, he realized, and well on his way to maudlin. True, he could do little to change the attitudes of other. However, in time they would come to learn that those who *acted* on those attitudes would find little favor in his eyes. Perhaps then they would modify their behavior, if only in public.

Still, it would be years before that happened. Nemir sighed. "Come," he said to Judas who haunted his side as he had all night. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas nodded obediently and silently followed him out onto the terrace that overlooked the city. Nemir leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out into the dark.

The city was dark, but he could see clearly in the light of the nearly full moon. And even so, the city was not completely without light. Here and there, he could see the glow of lanterns through open windows, as well as the cheerful glow of bonfires. Fireworks sent sparks of color into the sky at periodic intervals. The celebrations, his father had decided, were to spread well beyond the walls of the palace.

And in the distance, he could hear the sounds of pipes and singing, reminding him of nights spent around the campfire out in the desert. Nemir breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air, free of the incense and perfumes inside, pretending for a moment that he *was* out in the desert. Then he set aside those fantasies and turned to look at Judas.

The boy was standing next to him, back straight and eyes fixed longingly on the desert dunes, barely visible in the distance beyond the city walls, and Nemir realized that he was not the only one who longed for the freedom of the sands outside the city. The moonlight glittered suspiciously on the boy's cheeks, but when he turned back to Nemir a moment later, his eyes were dry.

Then his eyes widened in shock and he threw himself at Nemir, knocking him to the ground, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of metal hitting stone.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Eleven ----------------------------------------

As the evening wore on, Judas tried to decided which was worse, being ignored by the majority of the people in the room after a single appraising look or *not* being ignored after that initial appraisal. He was not used to being the target of such lustful looks. He found more and more that he wished that he could return to the suite he now shared with Nemir to wash away the invisible grime that he seemed to feel covering him.

Finally, he resorted to keeping his eyes down and tried not to feel the touch of all those eyes. However, with nothing to distract except the bits of food that Nemir was able to slip him, he could not help listening to the conversation between Heir and Prince.

From the sound of things, while he'd been promised his freedom at the end of his five years, once Nemir was safely wed, the Prince seemed to expect that both he and Nemir would want him to remain as his companion. Judas did not know how he would feel when that time came, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had time before he and Nemir would have to decide on the path of his future.

The one question that he did not like to consider was where he would go and what he would do if he *did* leave.

Based on his first brief meeting with the Prince and the conversation he was now listening to, he found the Prince a man worthy of respect and very reminiscent of his grandfather in many ways. He struck Judas as being scrupulously fair. And while he would not want to be on the man's bad side, he found that he actually liked Konda.

But in the court they were the exceptions. Most of the people reminded him of the arrogant young warriors of his own tribe. The ones who believed themselves invincible and immortal, deserving the best of everything that the tribe had to offer in return for their prowess in the raids and defense of the tribe. His grandfather had kept them in line when he was alive, along with the older and wiser warriors, but now..

Judas held back a sigh. He loved his brother dearly, but if Jamal had any serious failings it was his willingness to listen to his friends before the advice of older and wiser men. Flattery and companionship could easily lead Jamal along paths that could be disastrous.

Still, he was not without hope. Judas knew that several of those bravos had urged his brother to dispose of him in a more permanent way even *before* their grandfather's death. That Jamal had refused and found another path suggested that he was still his own man. However, Judas would probably never know for sure what direction Jamal would lead the tribe in.

"Come," Nemir said suddenly, snapping Judas from his reverie. "I feel the need for fresh air."

Judas followed gratefully as Nemir lead them out onto the terrace. Surprisingly, they found themselves alone there.

Out in the clear night air, Judas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was the first time he'd been outside, unconfined, since he'd been turned over to the slavers. He'd gone from the slaver wagon to the House of Kemel, then the palace in a carriage. His time spent waiting for Nemir during his sparring session that morning had been the closest he'd come to being outdoors in weeks. This was even better, though, and he planned to enjoy this chance.

He lifted his face to the light of the full moon, and for a moment, he pretended that he was back home, standing outside his tent. The murmur of conversation through the open doors to the banquet hall and the distant sound of singing combined to mimic the night sounds of the tribe's camp. Unfortunately, the ripe smell of the city interfered with the illusion.

Sighing, Judas opened his eyes again and looked out over the roofline of the city. In the distance, he could make out the walls that surrounded the city and beyond them, barely visible, he could see the desert dunes.

They stood in silence for a while, Judas feasting his eyes until he realized that there were tears running down his cheeks. He blinked furiously for a moment to clear his eyes, then turned away. There was little point in torturing himself with a past that was no longer part of his world.

His attention on his immediate surroundings once more, Judas found Nemir watching him with an expression that looked suspiciously like sympathy. Judas's pride flared, and he was about to tell the Heir what he could do with his unwanted sympathy when a movement seen out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Turning his head slightly, he saw the movement again, drawing his eye to a building near the palace, no doubt home to one of the nobles inside.

Standing on the rooftop was a man, lifting something to his shoulder. Judas's eyes went wide as he realized that it was a crossbow.

There wasn't time to shout a warning, so he threw himself at Nemir, knocking the shorter man to the ground. It seemed as though he could feel the passage of the deadly projectile as it passed over his head, through the space that had been occupied by the Heir only a moment before.

Nemir truly was a soldier. As soon as he hit the tiles, he rolled so that he was on top of Judas, shielding him. A moment later, he pushed up, making sure that their attacker's line of fire was blocked by the stone balustrade. He looked cautiously over the top in the direction that the crossbow had been fired from, then stood up. "Whoever it was, hr is gone now," he said, offering his hand to help Judas to his feet.

Judas was not quite so confident, but he was not going to show fear. He took the hand and the assistance, his eyes roving, looking for the next threat to appear.

Nothing.

And amazingly, the assassination attempt on the terrace seemed to have gone unnoticed by either the guards below or the nobles inside. Music, conversation and much too polite laughter spilled through the open doorway, but there were no cries of shock. Judas glared in the direction of the doorway, wondering what was so wrong with those inside that they had not noticed that their newly returned Heir had nearly been killed.

Nemir shook his head, still holding onto Judas's hand as if to restrain him. "We are out of sight of the door," he said softly, "and there was not enough noise to attract attention. I would prefer that it stayed that way."

Judas shook his head in disbelief. "Someone tried to *kill* you," he protested, but not loudly enough to attract attention, although he was not sure why. "Shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't I summon the guards? Order a house by house search?" Nemir suggested, the corner of his mouth quirking up at Judas's annoyance. "Our would-be assassin will be long gone with no witnesses to describe him, I am sure. The only result of raising the alarm would be to say that I am vulnerable." He bent over to pick up the spent bolt from where it lay on the tiles slipped it into some pocket inside his robe.

Judas just stared at him. "You *are* vulnerable."

Nemir sighed. "We are all vulnerable," he said sadly. "My grandfather died at the hands of assassins and there are rumors concerning my mother's death." Then his eyes went intense, focused on Judas. "But now I have you to watch my back." The expression Nemir's eyes made Judas's breath catch in his throat. Oh how he wished that he could read the young man better. "You will watch my back, won't you?"

Judas swallowed. "Yes," he said, barely above a whisper. He would. There was something about Nemir that drew him, fascinated him, and he did not want him to die before getting to know him better. As well, he did not want to know what the Prince would do if he let the Heir die but survived himself. He swayed in place, his gaze locked to Nemir's

"Nemir? Are you out here?"

At the unexpected voice they nearly flew apart, both looking towards the open doorway. Judas could feel his face heating up. A quick glance at Nemir found him to be outwardly composed, however he seemed to be breathing a little more heavily than even the near miss would warrant. Then he turned his attention back to the slim figure back- lit by the lamps inside.

The figure stepped out onto the terrace, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, resolving into a young woman the same age -- or near to -- as himself and Nemir.

She was nearly as slim as a boy, with a subtle figure, but none would ever mistake her for one. Her long hair hung loose, falling in a straight curtain to her waist, held back from her face by jeweled combs. Her garment was a simple wrapped gown that left her smooth shoulders bare, but the deep red silk was obviously expensive and complimented her complexion perfectly. Judas also noted that the color was a near perfect match to that of Nemir's own red tunic.

He recognized her from earlier, of course. He'd carefully examined everyone in the room, looking to apply what Konda had started teaching them that morning. She'd been seated two-thirds of the way down the hall, indicating a lowly status in the court. She'd also seemed to show no interest in the dais, keeping her attention on those seated around her, but now she was smiling brightly at Nemir. "Oh Nemir. I thought you were never going to return!"

She nearly threw herself at Nemir, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek. Judas's back went rigid with shock and he wondered what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to ensure that no woman became too 'close' to the Heir, but there was little he could do at that moment short of pulling her away physically.

Fortunately, after a moment of surprise, Nemir was the one to disentangle himself from the girl. He pulled away until she was at arm's length and carefully examined her face, a puzzled frown on his own.

She waited patiently until his expression changed to one of surprise. "Layla?" he said in a tone of delighted disbelief.

"Who else would I be, pray tell?" she said archly, holding out her arms in a way that invited -- and received -- an inspection of *more* than just her face. Judas's stomach began to churn. She seemed far too familiar with the Heir for his comfort.

"You've changed," Nemir said, his admiration clear.

"So have you. When last I saw you, I was the taller and able to defeat you in a wrestling match. When the nurses were not around, that is," she added with a smile. "Nearly ten years have brought a lot of changes to us both.

"I suppose they have. Judas!" Nemir turned and gestured for him to step forward. "Layla, this is my companion, Judas. Judas, I would have you meet Layla, my favorite cousin. Her mother came with her sister as chaperone when she traveled to Ajantha to wed my father."

"And she fell in love with a noble of the court and chose to stay," Layla finished for him, regarding him with an expression that was slightly confused.

Then she seemed to dismiss him, as so many others had that evening, and turned back to Nemir. "I want to know everything about what you have been doing since you left to be a runner for the guard. We've heard tales of your exploits. You've become quite the heroic figure."

Nemir seemed pleasantly embarrassed, unlike earlier when he'd simply been embarrassed, and Judas's disquiet grew. "Such stories rarely have much to do with the truth," he said. "They exaggerate, if not out and out lie."

"Perhaps. Then you will have to tell me the truth and let me decide for myself."

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and steered him back towards the door and the banquet hall inside. Judas followed behind them, both relieved that Nemir was going inside where the danger, if no less real, was less immediate, and disturbed by the presence of the young woman. Although he tried to convince himself that a childhood friend, especially so closely related, was not a danger, he could not help worrying.

A worry that would continue for the next five years, he thought to himself wryly.

---------------------------------------- Chapter Twelve ----------------------------------------

Looking back, the banquet had been a mixture of contrasts. The boredom of sitting around watching others talk about things that were of no interest to him and the heart- pounding rush of excitement when someone tried to kill him, leaving him feeling more alive than he had since his return home. Facing a court filled with people he disliked, like Morlan, compared to the pleasure of being with those more pleasant, like Judas and Layla.

Meeting Layla again had been an unexpected joy. As children, they had been inseparable. They'd taken their lessons together. Layla had later accompanied him to his early weapons training, despite the objections of her nurse, although she'd merely watched, not participated.

He'd nearly forgotten her in the years he'd been away. When he *had* thought of her, he'd assumed that she would be married, perhaps even a mother by the time he returned to the city. Instead she'd become an elegant and confident young woman determined to make her own way. She was an artist now, she'd told him. She'd faced down opposition and persisted until she found a teacher willing to take her on as a student. He remembered that strength of will well. Naturally, she had her suitors, drawn by her obvious beauty, but she'd chosen to stay on the path she'd picked.

"Is that why her position in the court is not as... elevated?" Judas asked the next day while they ate lunch before their lessons. It had been nearly dawn by the time they'd reached their beds, so Nemir had chosen not to go to the practice yard that morning, although he had no intention of letting that happen too frequently.

"In part, I'm sure," Nemir replied, setting aside the rind of the fruit slice he'd been eating. He picked up a cloth and wiped away the juice running down his chin before continuing. "Also her parentage."

Judas frowned as he tore off a chunk of bread from the loaf. "But she is your cousin. How can her parentage be an issue?"

"Her mother and mine were sisters, as I told you," Nemir said, reaching for a slice of cold meat. "However, while my mother was the daughter of a wife -- first wife, in fact -- hers was the daughter of a concubine, a woman from the north taken in raids and sold to our grandfather. She came to Ajantha as my mother's servant, although they were dear friends."

He paused to eat a little more, then continued. "It was that friendship that allowed her to marry as well as she did. However, her husband was only a minor member of the court. As a result, most of Layla's status *does* come from being a blood relation, but it will only take her so far."

"I see," Judas said, although his expression told Nemir how foreign he found the concept. "So by being seen with you at the banquet last night..." he said as he considered what he'd been told.

"She becomes the focus of those higher than herself, which will help her find a patron for her art," Nemir finished. It had not escaped his notice how she'd maneuvered them inside so that she could be seen on his arm for an extended length of time and it did not bother him either. He remembered her fondly from his childhood and was more than willing to help her. As well, she was a far more pleasant conversationalist than most of those who'd wanted to speak with him and he told Judas so.

The boy did not look overly pleased by that. Nemir had to hold back his laughter; with any other, Nemir might have accused them of jealousy, however, he knew that this was not the case with Judas. No, his objections would no doubt come from his orders to make sure that Nemir did not break his promise to his father not to take a mistress or risk a bastard.

However, there was no danger of that with Layla. He was about to say as much when the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Konda. While Nemir could choose to pass on his spar for a day, these lessons would continue every day until his father and Konda decided they were finished.

"So now you have seen the court," Konda said without preamble, sitting down at the table with them and pouring a goblet of ale from their pitcher. "Do you have any observations?"

Nemir snorted. "My observations would not be fit for polite company," he said, remembering the behavior he'd seen the night before and the cutting comments that he was still not sure whether or not he'd been intended to hear.

Konda laughed. "I believe that goes without saying," he said, then sobered. "However, you would do wise to keep that reaction to yourself. The Prince may rule, but he does so only with the support of his court. Several have tried to go against the will of the court in the past and paid the price. Assassinations have happened."

"And it nearly happened again last night," Judas said with a stubborn expressing, making Nemir groan. He had not wanted anyone else to know about that yet, but Judas obviously felt differently. While he could understand the boy's reasoning, he still wished that the boy had kept his mouth shut.

Konda immediately stiffened and shot an angry look at Nemir. "And why am I hearing this for the first time now?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

If there was one thing Nemir disliked more being second- guessed, it was having to justify his actions. "Considering the timing, I felt that informing the entire court that someone had tried to kill the Heir the day of his elevation would have been... inadvisable. There was little chance of catching the would-be assassin at the time. Besides, at the distance, he did not have a hope of succeeding." This was blatantly false, but he hoped that Judas would at least back him up in *this*.

He did, but even Nemir did not find his assurances believable. Certainly, Konda's expression said how little faith *he* put in the words. However, he seemed willing to let it be for the time being. "What *can* you tell me about it?" he said in an acid tone.

Nemir nodded to Judas, since he was the one who'd see the assassin. "It was a man on a rooftop," he said reluctantly. "I saw a small flash of moonlight on metal and a sense of movement, and when I looked, I saw a man with a crossbow. I knocked the heir to the ground." He glanced back and forth between the two men watching him. "I know that wasn't exactly appropriate..."

Both Nemir and Konda snorted. "Anything that keeps Nemmie alive is appropriate," Konda said, ignoring how Nemir's eyes rolled at the use of the diminutive. "Any crime can be forgiven if committed for that purpose." Then he turned back to Nemir, all business. "Which rooftop and did the bolt reach the palace?"

Nemir described the building, then reluctantly admitted that he had the bolt that had been fired at him. Konda immediately insisted that he produce it. He grimaced and headed for the sleeping chamber. He'd been too tired to find a good spot for it where the servants wouldn't find it so he'd tucked it into the space between the mattress and the wall where it would remain undisturbed while he slept.

The tip was bent where it had hit hard stone, but it still was sharp enough to draw blood when he touched it. He headed back to the sitting room and handed it over to Konda. He did not like giving it up, but his father trusted Konda so he supposed that he should as well. Still, trust did not come easy to him.

Konda examined every detail of the bolt, turning it this way and that. He reached the pattern of paint banding the shaft of the bolt and grunted. "This is from the stores of the Palace Guard," he finally said, setting the bolt down on the table. Nemir stared at in disbelief.

"Are you sure?" he asked, reaching out and rolling it over.

"Yes. The Guard use a very distinctive pattern on the shafts of their bolts and their arrows. Their swords also use a design not used anywhere else."

"So the assassin was one of the guard?" Judas asked in a horrified voice. Nemir could understand that: The Guard had access to all parts of the palace and were tasked with protecting the Prince and the Court. If one of them was a traitor, it would cause chaos. However, that was not the only possible explanation.

"It could also be someone who has gained access to the armory," Nemir said. "Or a guard could have been bribed to provide bolts to an outsider, or even a drawing of the banding pattern so that a fake could be made."

"Only the Captain of the Guard and his lieutenants have access to the armory," Konda said.

"Perhaps so," Nemir replied, remembering the surprise of the hidden passage from the chief healer's office. "But the guard do receive them. As well, I doubt that the captain paints each bolt's banding himself. No, the bolt does not necessarily point a finger of accusation. In fact, that might be exactly what it is intended to do." Judas looked confused, but Nemir just felt tired. These sorts of plots within plots were why he preferred the Desert Guard.

"So there is not way to find the man using that?" Judas asked, disappointed.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. No matter how the bolt was obtained it needed to be done by someone inside the palace. As well, to bribe a guard or an arms maker would require a great deal of money. If that person can be located, that will lead us to the assassin's employer."

"Well put," Konda said with an approving nod. "You would make an excellent investigator. I will talk to the Captain about whether any of his people have been acting in a suspicious manner or if any materials have gone missing recently."

"Are you sure that he can be trusted?" Nemir asked. He knew that suggesting that the Captain of the Palace Guard might be a traitor was taking a suspicious nature to new depths, but such an early move against him inspired paranoia.

"I think so." Konda smiled fondly. "He is my brother, after all."

There was little that could be said in reply, so Nemir held his tongue. Instead, he picked up the bolt again and glanced at Konda. When there was no protest, he took it back to his sleeping chamber and looked around for a safe place to store it.

Now that he was rested, the answer was obvious. His weapons chest sat against the wall next to the cabinet that held his clothing. He unlocked it and set the bolt inside, next to the bolts for his own crossbow. Comparing them, he could easily see the differences between the Palace Guard and Desert Guard designs.

That done, he returned to the main room where he found Konda and Judas in hushed, earnest conversation. He stopped and frowned. He did not know why the sight bothered him, but it did.

"Now that tha