Chapter Eighty: So Effortless

A prince’s hands were to be kept flawlessly clean, and idle unless moved by some noble purpose. Osmund had always surreptitiously stripped off the white gloves on his trips to the Valcrest Castle stables, even when he didn’t mean to ride. How did one expect to bond with an animal while preoccupied with touching it as little as possible?

It was the glove on that outstretched hand he fixated on now, and the small dark speck —food, oil, dirt?—that marred one white finger. He found himself thinking, Father will be furious.

Dream, dream, dreaming.

“Are you afraid to shake my hand?” came the voice again. “But I understand you’ve been in rather close quarters with a prince before. That’s a joke, my good man!”

Osmund must have recovered himself, because now that gloved hand was enclosed over his own in a firm shake. “Or perhaps you’re just surprised to find me alive,” chuckled the impostor—Imposmund. “Yes, as you can see your prince is still breathing, and in one piece despite the overwhelming power of the necromancer queen’s fiendish cohort. The rumors you’ll have heard about my poor father are true however. Tragically, I’m the last remnant of my family’s line.”

Some automatic part of Osmund’s brain reawakened. “Y-Your Highness,” he managed, the familiar address turned alien on his tongue, in his voice.

“You may kiss it, if you like.”

Osmund looked up, dazed anew. The other’s gloved hand was still clenched tightly in his own. “If it relieves your reverential urges, you may greet your prince properly,” the man repeated, lifting his knuckles slightly in offering. Osmund was forced to realize this was no jest.

At the base of that little finger perched a blue signet ring. Swallowing back his revulsion, Osmund pressed a quick kiss to the emblem of the falcon he so despised, and tried to dismiss the memory of how this ring had once felt on his own hand.

Madness awaited him if he ceded ground to it. With Father at his back, he straightened, and forced himself to ask, “Your Highness, what are you doing here?”

The impostor flashed him a winsome grin. His was an unfamiliar face, not much resembling Osmund’s own, but pleasing and dimpled, and his blond hair was straighter, more well-tamed. “Naturally, to win the support of the imperial army, and make a friend of ‘the people’s prince’, as they call him. And for the joy of hunting. Prince Cemil is as I’ve heard: a true gentleman, and a great fan of the sport. And in spite of his charming accent, he speaks Tolmish rather skillfully! We must have you to thank.”

He was so effortless. So—complete. For a moment, Osmund actually doubted his own first twenty-three years of life, a thought that very nearly gave him hope. Yet those chips in the paint did not go unnoticed: the man dressed as a prince enunciated his consonants excessively as if afraid he’d lose grip on them. Heard. Sport.

Just like the counterfeits, a well-made fake.

Osmund looked around for Cemil, but there were only strangers around them, giving the two Tolmish a wide berth. “So, you’re his lover,” said the impostor, drawing Osmund’s attention back. “I admit, you’re not what I was imagining.”

“How do you mean?”

The other just smiled again. Unwilling, perhaps, to say he’d expected to find him prettier or more handsome or simply less blindingly average. “I hope we’ll be allies here,” the impostor said instead. “Not to suggest you pick sides—we’re all on one side. Winning back the Isles for their proper king will earn the future Emperor of the Meskato a valuable friend for life.”

So, Cemil wasn’t sold on the idea yet. Interesting. “Have you any…other sponsors?” asked Osmund very carefully. “Perhaps…anyone among our fellow countrymen?”

A laugh. One that would certainly draw curious stares at a noble gathering, Osmund couldn’t help but note. “I’m pleased to find you so politically minded, my friend, but let’s save it for a truly idle moment. Come. I’ll show you the lay of the land while we wait for our polite host to rejoin us.”

The shadow that was nearly perfect took him by the arm, and Osmund could not refuse.

The salon of the hunting lodge was free of any bloody traces of the sport. It was only a well-furnished retreat, laid out much the same as the other important Meskato buildings Osmund had visited, with patterned tilework and fine carpets and many low, flat couches for repose. The building itself was old, but the upholstery and the paint were conspicuously new. Hung in the air was a vague smell of woodsmoke and incense as the gathered ministers smoked and gambled. An immensely broad man with shockingly wild white hair sat ignoring the Tolmishmen in favor of a small band of entertainers that swayed and twirled along to their music. Another man, with oiled black hair and snakelike eyes, spared them only a brief look.

The Impostor cleared his throat, and said privately to Osmund as they lingered near the door, “I’ll point out the important ones, though I’m sure you haven’t missed them. The white-haired fellow is Vasiliy. He’s Videlari, and an old ‘friend’, apparently, of the emperor’s, though they seem a step removed from bitter rivals. He’s irascible. Don’t offend him for any reason, or he’ll petition to have your head removed.”

Osmund shuddered. “A Videlari? He must have opinions about the barons.”

“He has opinions about everything, to hear our good Cemil tell it. The other behind him is Toraman. He controls the emperor’s accounts.”

Amidst the men sat a more welcome sight—Şehzade Yücel. A subdued laugh on his face, he looked as though he was holding court in his own right. His wavy black hair was well-combed, and his layered clothes were rich, if charmingly ruffled around his big frame. At his hip rested his walking stick. He looked up and saw Osmund, and friendly recognition bloomed in his eye. Osmund managed a smile in return.

“That’s Prince Yücel,” said the Impostor, not realizing they’d met. His voice went a shade quieter. “He’s like an aide to his father. Never joins us for sport. Poor chap, he can barely ride, let alone walk. Though I daresay it means Cemil may take pity on him when it comes time to clean house, as it were, seeing as he’s not a threat.”

Osmund wanted to say something, but in strolled the emperor himself, trailed closely by Cemil and Sakina, both with carefully neutral expressions. They must be coming from wherever Emre is resting. “Excellent news,” announced the emperor to the room, getting his minsters’ attention with a gesture. “The foreign criminals responsible for debasing their own currency and seeding mistrust in our exchanges have been apprehended and charged. I’ve just had the report from Al-Katiba.” He swept a hand in Sakina’s direction at his side. “Apparently Cemil’s hand-selected lieutenant, Taranuz, has proven up to the task.”

There were murmurs of approval from the assorted ministers. Only Vasiliy with the wild white hair harrumphed. “One achievement does not, from an untested boy, an imperial ruler make,” he groused. “Picking his people is only one part of the job.” Opinions, indeed!

Snakelike Toraman beside him smiled blithely. He seemed to speak for a number of his fellows when he said, “Sir, you continue to judge our prince too harshly. He’s been a popular governor for many years, and promises to forge our two peoples a lasting peace the way only a handsome, desirable young prince can. Or do you simply begrudge him on behalf of your hardheaded countrymen, at least those as wizened as yourself?”

Vasiliy gave him a beligerent look. “I speak the truth,” he insisted. “Whether a man is honest enough to accept it is his own battle!”

Osmund was shocked to hear him speak so boldly in front of the emperor—who merely chuckled. “Your fiery tongue is all that remains with you in your old age, my friend,” said the sovereign tolerantly. “A few detractors at this stage will do Cemil some good. It is your face he’ll picture with spite when he takes a sword against our enemies.”

All the while, the musicians continued playing and singing. The emperor joined his ministers on the couches. Sakina began to peel away, but was found by an emerging Mirhan, who attached himself promptly to her side.

Osmund jumped to attention as Cemil reappeared beside his Tolmish guests. “You two have become acquainted, then?” the Meskato prince said. Without waiting for a response, he leaned in and continued privately, “Osmund, I heard about the fire at the Guild’s meeting house, and that you were inside when it happened. Sakina and Emre claim you’re alright. Let me hear it from you.”

“I’m fine,” Osmund replied automatically, terrified to pull at a thread and unravel that particular tapestry. “Yes. I’m unhurt. Don’t worry.”

He felt the collective eyes on them, those burning glances of appraisal as the gathering angled for a glimpse of their future emperor’s rumored favorite, though each of these lounging ministers and attendants was a practiced hand at masking his interest. Osmund hesitated, keenly aware of their audience.

“I’ll make myself scarce,” the interloper beside them offered, politely smiling.

Cemil on the other hand seemed undeterred. “No need,” he said as he took Osmund by the hand. In a voice that was plainly audible to anyone who cared to listen, he announced, “We’ll be retiring awhile. Excuse us.”

And with that, he tugged a stammering, red-faced Osmund down the hall.