It was one thing for Master Asharan to assure him of his affection when they were in private. That had been a richly unexpected pleasure, and a breathtaking joy.
But it was much more intimidating to offer themselves to the three days’ gossip of the aunties of the Catsprowl, even if the aunties had no idea he was a prince. Perhaps especially if they had no idea he was a prince, because the courtiers had been more than clear that his title was his only attraction for them.
In his admittedly court-biased experience, bed-gossip was hardly ever kind. But if the aunties judged Master Asharan cruelly because Rahat was …not what they thought worthy to be desired…
Rahat honestly couldn’t tell if the frantic flutter of his heart and the leering of shadows at the corners of his eyes were from his actual foresight, or from the unexpected tangle of yearning and guilt.
Or, just as likely, his keen awareness of what his brother’s courtiers and ministers would say if they learned that the God-Emperor’s fat, shy, awkward, scroll-scribbling brother was enamored of a handsome bath-house companion in a run-down Catsprowl neighborhood — a companion who had a notable talent for allure-charms, no less.
Struggling for composure, Rahat looked up at the catfolk lingering at a particular spot by the door where the first sunbeam to clear the roofline would warm her fur.
“My lady…?”
She actually looked around for a startled moment, then laughed. “Me? I’m no lady, Rahat-sahib.”
“Hira-sahiba, then?”
“Zahira. But just call me Hira, honey.” She sat down beside him and poured herself a cup from the chai-pot, warming her hands with it. “You’re not used to any of this, are you? Where is it you’re from?”
He didn’t need Kamil’s throat-clearing to remind him of the need for discretion.
“I’m from the far side of the desert, near the Summer Capital,” he said, which was entirely true and yet also not the entire truth. “But you’re quite correct that I’m… not accustomed to… um. Mornings after. Does he do this with his patrons very often?”
“The chai, he does every morning,” Hira said. “The rest of it, though? Never.”
“I — I’m sorry, what…?”
“We’re professionals, here at the House of Jasmines,” Hira said. “You tell us what services you want, a soak or a grooming or whatever, and we serve you for coin. We flatter wealthy patrons, yes, and he’s very good at making everyone feel special. But then we say farewell and we move on to the next guest. And italways stops at the door.Sitting in the courtyard feeding kittens treats together, and kissing you out here? That is not even a nod in the vaguest direction of professional. He doesn’t do this withcustomers, Rahat-sahib. Not at all, not ever.”
“He wouldn’t let me pay him,” Rahat murmured. “But if he struggles with coin, I can afford to…”
“He struggles withnumbers,honey, not with coin,” Hira said. “We’re comfortable enough to feed the littles their chai every morning before Elder Sister’s lessons. And we’d upset him if he’d refused to make what’s between you a matter of coin, but then I had you pay me anyway. You see?”
“Oh. Um. Yes, I… yes. But you’re certain you can afford this?”
“Absolutely,” Hira assured him. “Though I wouldn’t say no if you gave me one of those rose-sweets. His magic’s even more delicious when his heart’s tangled into it.” With an impish grin, she patted his belly and said, “Share your sweets, Rahat-sahib?”
His hands were trembling as he felt in the little rose pouch for something shaped like a cube ofrahat al-hulqumrather than a rose petal. He understood enough of magical theory to suspect that the final spark in such a small charm was his own faith that he would find what he hoped for, his faith that Master Asharan’s gift was real and true and solid enough to taste.
He found the little sweet he’d hoped for, and gave it to Hira, who popped it into her mouth and started to purr.
“Try one,” she mumbled. “Really.”
“Oh, but I shouldn’t. My physician says I’ve overindulged more than enough, and the temptation… um.”
“Is having that pouch going to be difficult for you?” Hira asked. “Or is it just the physicians wanting everyone to sculpt themselves like a temple statue? Because if it’s the latter, I’ll point out that Upaja — what do you call Him? Al-Samin? Anyway, the fat god is also a perfectly lovely temple statue that someone sculpted quite nicely, and I bring Him meadowflowers along with Bastet’s catnip every rest-day. But if you’ll struggle with having it at hand…”
“It helps if I think of them as something for the kittens,” Rahat murmured. “To give away, not to keep.”
“Oh,” Hira said, and sighed. “You’ve had a lot of that in your life, haven’t you. Things other people can have that you can’t. Ways other people can be that you can’t.”
Rahat stared at her, shaken. “I… I thought Master Asharan was the mind-mage.”
“That’s not mind-magery, honey, that’s people. You’re rich enough to be fat, you’re kind enough to cuddle kittens, Ashar clearly adores you, and he’s an excellent judge of character. But if you’ve ever spent a night with a lover in a bath-house before, I’ll eat that chai pot.”
“My lady Hira…”
“I don’t judge,” Hira said. “I don’t care whether it’s god-vows or family expectations or just shyness. But, Rahat-sahib, Ashar is my friend as well as my boss. And I heard him: You promised that you would come back when your cat has her kittens. Don’t go and convince yourself that he didn’t really mean it, or that he’s someone who’s meant for other people and not for you. Because you’ll hurt him, and you’ll hurt yourself, and I like you both. And I’d rather not need to hunt you down to knock yourheads together, because this is a big city and a lot of it smells bad. But I’ll do it if I need to.”
