Chapter Sixty: Something New

The house was being cleaned top to bottom, and every hand was needed in the effort. Rather than waste time moaning about the extra chores, however, the servants were breathlessly gossiping about the imperial visit.

“I’ve never seen the emperor before.”

“Scarcely anyone has outside the capital! What do you think he looks like?”

“I saw a painting! He’s a young man, handsome too.”

“Young?! He’s got adult sons!”

One of the laundresses—quite possibly the oldest of anyone employed here—spoke. “He was governor here once, at this very house.” This was met with great interest. Osmund stopped mid-stride to listen.

“Really?” Come to think of it, he thought he remembered Bayram saying something similar.

“Yes, this was his post! He really was a young man then, though that was nearly fifty years ago.”

Fifty years! Osmund thought. So Emperor Alemşah was likely in his sixties at least. Older than Father had been. Older than Father ever would be.

Strange, that he could think of it and feel a pang of grief. Grief…but not quite regret.

Osmund continued outside, scanning the grounds of the sprawling complex with a fascination not yet dulled by familiarity. Besides the main house, another building received the lion’s share of their attentions. It was an exquisite affair, rather more like an art piece, crowned with a magnificent golden dome and surrounded by a well-maintained garden. This building was aptly called the Golden House, and it stood entirely empty when not hosting its intended occupant: that is, the emperor on one of his rare visits.

He gave that distant dome a passing look, longing just for a peek inside, watching as the servants filed in and out with fresh linens and other conveniences.

Mind turning, his feet carried him to the mansion’s outer gate. A stray breeze brought in the smell of the sea, and Osmund inhaled. He conjured the city of Şebyan from his memories, its main thoroughfares crowded with fishermen, traders, and travelers, as well as the ordinary folk frequenting the poultry market, bringing their pots to be retinned, and whisking phlegmy children to the local apothecary. He’d spent weeks now telling himself, tomorrow, I’ll go to the market. The thought had nourished him, captivated him, until the prospect of exploring his own city seemed a grander adventure than any to be found in a novel. Yet he’d put it off.

Outside the gates meant outside the circle of Cemil’s protection. It meant exposure to whoever Lord Pravin had out there right now, hunting for a man of his description.

To bring me to the Isles, he told himself firmly. Not kill me. It was surprisingly little comfort.

“Little Tolmish!”

Osmund turned enthusiastically in the direction of the voice. “Nienos, Gudrun, Kasri, Keldin, and um, Ratface!” he hailed as the mercenaries approached the gate. “What timing! Why are you all here?”

“Why else?” The point of Gudrun’s long spear peeked over her tall, narrow shoulders next to the beginning of her trademark red braid. “An imperial procession’s coming to town. That’s important men to protect and order to maintain.”

“What we call easy money,” Ratface summarized. He wore his array of tiny knives proudly.

“Oh, you’re after a job!”

“If your handsome princey still pays on time,” Nienos grinned, flexing his immense muscles. (Kasri reached up and gave his bicep a squeeze, apparently on a random whim.) “Say, idea! You join us in town tonight, eh? We all have fun! Got info about where to find alcohol!” The last he nearly sang, waggling his eyebrows.

Osmund opened his mouth to accept—and that old fear destabilized him again. Surely he’d be safe among the mercenaries…but afterwards? What if the wrong person happened to notice him in town?

At once it was ridiculous. He simply couldn’t go on living like this, stuck in the mansion’s inner world for fear of shadows lurking around every street corner. And so he knew what had to be done.

“I’d love to,” he said, revitalized by this new courage. “Tonight then? I’ll have time to prepare?”

“Meet us at the Wood Falcon!” Gudrun called. “We’ll open a tab for you!”

“I need to change my hair!”

“What do you mean?” Nuray demanded as he walked in. “Your hair? Osmund, why?”

The girls were absorbed in various pursuits, mostly stitching and other handicrafts, but by Nuray’s knee lay an open book with large, conspicuous letters. Their reading lessons had been somewhat awkward to arrange now that Osmund was living outside the servants’ quarters. Some days, ignorant of time as the hours blurred together, he forgot about them entirely.

“Why do you want to change your hair?” Nuray repeated her question when Osmund became distracted by his guilt and didn’t reply. “Has Şehzade Cemil said something?”

“No.”

She looked puzzled. “Well, then you can’t change it,” she insisted. “What if he hates it?”

There was no approaching the truth, or anything like it. “It’s my hair,” Osmund said simply. He held some of the limp blond strands apart from his face. “I just…want to try something new. Does anyone at the house have some dye, at least?”

“But you’re so easy to spot in a crowd!”

“…I think I’d like to blend in a little more.”

Aylin put down her brush. Judging by the canvas at her feet, she’d been in the middle of sketching the other girls. “I know how to help,” she declared, jumping to her feet. “Come along!”

Nuray inhaled through her teeth. “Fine,” she agreed in turn, “I’ll help too. But you must promise not to mention our names if we make you look terrible. I still want to get invited to the palace, you know.”

Hours later, Osmund asked for Cemil and was pointed towards the meeting chamber. He’d been assured the divan council had already adjourned for the day, and that Cemil was alone—which was why he stopped in his tracks when he heard the swelling voices.

“It’s overreach! I earned my appointment from the Imperial Mages’ College directly—even you don’t have the power to remove me without trial!”

“Really? A trial is what you want?!” It was Cemil, speaking to, if Osmund wasn’t mistaken at this distance, Emre. “If word travels that you were recently implicated in a plot against the empire–”

“As far as anyone knows, I was busy performing my duties as a researcher at the head magister’s command, duties that required me to travel for months at a time.”

“And as a ‘researcher’, why do you still insist on meddling in the affairs of the state?!”

“Because my brother is going to be the next emperor! And because I happen to care about our future as a nation!”

Osmund wondered if he should leave. Then Cemil’s voice called out sharply, “Show yourself.”

That was his cue. “I’m sorry, it’s only me,” he stammered in apology, turning the corner. Both brothers looked genuinely surprised to see him, and for a moment, Osmund couldn’t figure out why.

“That’s a different look on you,” Emre said.

Oh—his hair. Right. The girls had introduced him to a plant-based umber dye, which he’d left in for several hours. The result was a color several shades darker than his usual, with a bit of a reddish tint. It was going to take some getting used to, but Osmund didn’t think it looked “terrible”, as Nuray had feared. They’d even done his eyebrows to match.

Cemil said nothing for a moment, just stared. Then he cleared his throat. “…Did you need something, Osmund?”

“The cooks sent me as an intermediary again,” he reported, sheepish to be interrupting with such trivial matters. “They want you to personally approve the menu for the emperor’s arrival.”

“Why do they keep sending you?”

“I asked them the same question. Apparently, they seem to think I get better results.”

Emre gave his younger brother a knowing look. Cemil’s lower lip pursing was the only sign of his embarrassment. “That’s fine, then,” he said, waving a hand. “Leave it with me. Emre, we’re done here.”

The atmosphere grew tense again. “You can’t refuse my help just because you’re holding a grudge,” Emre asserted, digging in his heels. “I’m a powerful asset. You aren’t thinking logically.”

“I can’t trust you,” Cemil threw back. “What’s illogical is that I’ve been letting you stay in my house!”

“What charity! I should be glad my brother thinks so highly of his own family!”

“Yes, be grateful! I’m going to have my hands full convincing my father you deserve to keep your head!”

Osmund looked from brother to brother, watching helplessly as the situation escalated. “‘My father, my father’,” Emre parroted mockingly. “You think I give a damn about what your father thinks? To me, he’s the man who kidnapped my mother and I from our country and our home!”

Cemil’s nostrils flared. “Our mother doesn’t feel like a captive,” he growled at last. “She adapted, like all worthy people do. You should take a look at your own privileged life and all the Empire has given you, and examine why you apparently feel so oppressed!”

Emre made a disgusted noise and swept out of the room, disappearing down the hall. Osmund swallowed, and waited for tempers to cool.

Finally Cemil let out a long breath. “I don’t want to speak of it,” he said, heading off any possible remark. Then he paused. “You changed your hair.”

“Um, yes.” Osmund itched to ask the myriad questions he’d just now been denied. “Thought I’d mix things up.”

The silence dragged a moment longer. “It’s nice.”

“Oh, you do hate it.”

“I said it was nice.”

“You’re a very poor liar, I’m sorry to say.”

Cemil shook his head and laughed quietly. “It isn’t bad at all,” he admitted. “You almost look a new man.”

“Only, I suppose you preferred the previous man?”

“Mm. I could learn to appreciate the charms of this one, too.”

If Osmund wasn’t careful, he was going to wind up on his back again, and he had plans tonight. He stepped back just as the Meskato prince took a step forward. “I also wanted to tell you, I’ll be a little late coming home,” he said quickly.

Cemil’s brows raised, then set. “You’re going out?”

“Yes, just with the old mercenary gang.”

 “…I understand. Of course, you’ll want to celebrate.”

Celebrate what? Osmund wondered. Unless he meant the mercs scoring some work. 

“I had something planned for you too,” Cemil confessed, sounding strangely regretful, “but I won’t keep you—it can wait until tomorrow, on the real occasion. I’m sorry these preparations have kept me so occupied.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Osmund asked with a surprised laugh. “You’re the one handling important official business! All I’m doing is whiling the days away at home.”

“Nonsense. You have a very important job.”

“Which is?”

“Giving me something sweet to look forward to.”

“That really isn’t a job.” Osmund crossed his arms. “I thought you were going to say something about my work with the horses.”

“I’ll have Banu and Anaya deliver their thanks to you, as well.”

“How thoughtful.” Osmund gave him one swift kiss (lest he be tempted to linger) before turning to leave. “I’ll see you tonight!”

“…Wait.” Cemil inhaled. “I…would have your thoughts. About Emre.”

That was a surprise. “He came to me to offer to serve. As something like a spy,” Cemil continued.

Osmund bit his lip, wondering how to approach the matter. “I know he wants to see you succeed over your other brothers,” he said delicately. “Is that what you’re concerned about?”

The Meskato prince met Osmund’s eyes. His face was grave. “I’m trying not to get in the habit of using the people close to me,” he said. “Emre. Sakina. You.” It was a significant admission.

Osmund blinked. “That’s why you didn’t want me poking around for information? I thought you were being protective. Or that you didn’t think me capable.”

“Your quick thinking against Bayram saved my life. I have no doubts about your capability.” The words were so totally earnest that Osmund couldn’t help but blush. “But to ask you to needlessly put yourself in danger…”

“You said once that perhaps our meeting was the heavens’ will. Which would mean I serve a purpose in all of this.” He had Cemil’s attention, and boldly pressed on. “Let me help you, Cemil, in whatever small way I can. I don’t mind being used by you.” To be used, after all, was to have a use.

Cemil studied him for a long time. “…Alright,” he said finally. “If you wish to become my eyes and ears in town, I’ll see and listen through you. There is hardly anyone I trust so much.” That word, trust, still burned like bile going down. “Now go and enjoy yourself. Let your friends know they can send the bill to me.”