“Yes,” said the prince. “I’m quite aware.”
A tense silence stretched between them.
When Hazan finally spoke, the heat was gone from his voice. “It was a formality,” he said.
Kamran looked up.
“Your question,” said the minister. “You asked why the Tulanian king was invited. It is a long-standing tradition, during peacetime, to invite neighboring royalty to the most elite affairs. It’s meant as a gesture of goodwill. Many similar invitations have been made these last seven years, but never before has the Tulanian king accepted.”
“Excellent,” Kamran said drily. “He’s come now to enjoy a bit of cake, no doubt.”
“It’s certainly good to be cautious, fo—”
Just then there was a sharp knock, immediately after which the door to the dressing room opened. The elderly palace butler entered, then bowed.
“What now, Jamsheed?” The prince turned in his seat to face the man. “Tell my mother I’ve no idea where the seamstress went, nor what she did with my robes. Better yet, tell my mother to come find me herself if she wishes to speak with me, and to stop pitching you about the palace as if you haven’t far better things to do on such an evening.”
“No, sire.” Jamsheed, to his credit, did not smile. “It’s not your mother. I’ve come because you have a young visitor.”
Kamran frowned. “A young visitor?”
“Yes, sire. He professes the king himself granted him permission to visit you, and I come to you now to ask—only out of the greatest respect for His Majesty—whether there exists even a grain of truth to the child’s claim.”
Hazan stood straighter at that, looking suddenly perturbed. “Surely you cannot mean the street child?”
“He does not look like a street child,” said the butler. “But neither does he appear to be trustworthy.”
“Yet he’s arrived here, at this hour, demanding an audience with the prince? This is outrageous—”
“Don’t tell me he has a shock of red hair?” Kamran ran a hand over his eyes. “Too tall for his age?”
The butler started. “Yes, sire.”
“His name is Omid?”
“Why— Yes, sire,” Jamsheed said, no longer able to hide his astonishment. “He says his name is Omid Shekarzadeh.”
“Where is he?”
“He awaits you now in the main hall.”
“Did he say why he’s come?” Hazan demanded. “Did he give a reason for his impertinence?”
“No, Minister, though his manner is a bit febrile. He seems deeply agitated.”
With great reluctance, Kamran got to his feet; this day felt suddenly interminable. “Tell the boy I’ll be down in a moment.”
The butler stared, stupefied, at the prince. “Then— Then what the child says is true, sire? That he has permission from the king to speak with you?”
Kamran hadn’t even the chance to respond before Hazanmoved in front of him, blocking his path.
“Your Highness, this is absurd,” the minister said in a forceful whisper. “Why would the boy request an audience at this hour? I don’t trust it.”
The prince studied Hazan a moment: the flash of panic in his eyes, the tense form of his body, the hand he held aloft to stop him. Kamran had known Hazan too many years to misunderstand him now, and a sharp, disorienting unease moved suddenly through the prince’s body.
Something was wrong.
“I don’t know,” Kamran said. “Though I intend to find out.”
