Faraj kept his mouth busy with his bowl ofmaqlouba.He could not possibly ask Anuket to focus her attention on her body’s discomforts for his personal edification. And he also could not ask Anuket, who had already remarked on the banning of small cats in thehaveli, about whether his own forbidden cat-familiar was likely to share her experience of bearing her kittens.
Kamil had always been the sort of catfolk who hid any hint of his own pain, through both pride and stubbornness. Sahar seemed much more vocal about her opinions. And the cat-priestesses would take too much mischievous delight in making the God-Emperor’s brother squirm… not to mention that he was almost certain some of the physical details would not make for a pleasant meal’s conversation.
He couldn’t dare look more deeply into the future to see the kittens; he didn’t want to glimpse Shai Vishal’s judgment. He couldn’t bear to foresee the outcome.
But tonight’s performances of both entertainment and politics still held more than enough potential slips and stumbles to hold his foresight’s attention. Because Farida, the eldestqaynaamong theqiyan,had just walked into the center of the courtyard as though she owned it.
Farida bowed to him deeply, a lamp offered in both outstretched hands, and she held the pose without even a tremor until she judged her point properly made. She was older than he was, her hair almost entirely silver-white, and yet she was still the premier dancer among the troupe, despite her younger rivals’ ambitions.
“If it pleases your Highness, we will performThe Blossoming of the Lotusthis evening.”
“It pleases us greatly,” Faraj replied, lifting his voice to make a point of the royal plural to the gathered crowd. “To honor both Order and Beauty, we delight in the wisdom of your choice.”
Farida bowed once more, then untucked the silk veil at her waist, pinning one end under her toe and reaching up above her head to limn the soft billowing of a lotus petal, softly lit from within by the lamp in her other hand. Half a dozen other dancers ran to gather around her, untucking their scarves and pinning the petal-ends underfoot as they began to slowly, elegantly unfurl each petal of the lamp-glowing lotus one dancer at a time. It was best performed late in the evening, on a clear night like this with a near-full moon, when the lamps would shine through the silk and illuminate both the petals and glimpses of the dancers within.
Farida and Faraj had come to a wary truce over the years. Although she felt his lack of lustful interest in dancing-girls as a threat to her standing, she also sternly appreciated that he would not impose himself upon those dancing-girls, and would not bestow intimate favors to set off even greater rivalries than the ones theqiyanalready squabbled about among themselves.
Faraj did not need nubile gyrations at his banquets with priests — especially not with both Anuket and Neferkamin in the gathering. He didn’t mind that Farida was slow, methodical, and poised compared with her young proteges’ swift feet and youthful stamina. What hedidneed was Farida’s years ofexperience with managing the attention of a diverse audience that often included priests, scholars, and honored guests who were not human. That included her years of judgment in selecting a routine likeThe Blossoming of the Lotusso asnotto exuberantly flutter their gilt-edged scarves around cat-priestesses and a hair-triggered cobra-priestess.
He had tried to explain his gratitude to her, and he hoped that she believed him. But she had been sent to the dusty, ancient, often-overlooked backwaterhavelithat passed for Faraj’s court as a hand-me-down from his brother Ziyad twenty years ago, when Ziyad had already felt her to be past her prime, and Faraj feared she would never fully trust a prince’s promises of favor again.
Behind the cover of a sip at his cup of honey-wine, Neferkamin murmured, “Haven’t you put her out to pasture yet, your Highness?”
“You and I are why he has not, you realize,” Anuket said, nudging Neferkamin in the ribs with an elbow. “Not to mention the cat-priestesses.”
Sekhmet’s Priestess had taken up the pointedly alert guardianship of the High Priestess of Bastet. Pakhet’s Priestess, meanwhile, was staring at the occasional eye-catching flutter of the youngest dancer’s scarf with huge black pupils and a twitching tail-tip, coiled in readiness for a single excuse to pounce.
“Neferkamin,” Faraj said softly, “if I may prevail upon you for those promised reinforcements…?”
“Oh, send the shepherd to entertain the cats,” Anuket pouted.
“Elias is kind, but he is surely not as experienced in distractible teasing,” Faraj explained, fidgeting with one of the arched coconut slivers of leaping fish. “Whereas I am confident Neferkamin has developed the best-honed instincts of anymortal man in the Empire when it comes to knowingexactlyhow far he can press his luck, his flirtation, and his teasing before he is slapped across the face, with or without claws.”
Anuket laughed aloud, clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound at a glare from the musicians, and spent a while wheezing with the need not to irritate theqiyanfurther.
“I am wounded to the quick,” Neferkamin said.
“You know he’s right!”
“Of course he is. Which iswhyI am wounded to the quick.” Still, a certain wry merriment glimmered in his eyes with the warm shine of the dancers’ lamplights. He bowed to them both with a hand to his heart, gathered up his cup of honey-wine, and moved to settle himself squarely between Pakhet’s Priestess and the dancers’ sedately arching petal-veils. Pakhet’s Priestess flattened her ears back, but Neferkamin reached up with a confident hand to scratch the best spot on her cheek, just beside her ears, and within a few moments Faraj could hear her grumbly purr even over the music.
With the sun fully set and the prick-points of lamp-flames scattered about the courtyard like a scattering of golden stars, Faraj settled his mask of blandly smiling tranquility more firmly into place. Any prophetic shadow vivid enough to catch his gaze in the dark would need to be truly dire, but he couldn’t let himself fret about what he couldn’t see. Other people somehow made their way through the world with no foresights at all, and in the inverse people grew restless when a prophet looked fretful.
So in the dark, beyond the limits of his own vision, he placed his faith in his people — Farida, Hadil, Irfan, Kamil, even Neferkamin, this evening. He smiled into the glittering lamplit splendor of the night, and held to his faith in their skill and dedication, and nibbled at hismaqlouba.
And his people upheld his faith in their order. Every step from every dancer was precise. Every note from the musicians was pitch-perfect. Every dish served and every glass filled by thekhadimunawas flawlessly presented and exquisitely delicious.
Faraj smiled on cue, he prayed on cue, he spoke without stammering when he needed to. He ritually washed his hands between each course, he kept his utensils straight, he made what seemed to be the appropriate gestures at the appropriate intervals. He even quoted the necessary verses when one of the priests challenged his memory with fragments of three-thousand-year-old scriptures, all while watching his Chamberlain’s cues for the timing of every stage of the almost-ritual performance.
He prayed with particularly heartfelt relief over thejudhabacourse, because Hadil had handed the platter supporting the steaming dish to him with a smile: perfectly golden in the peaks, soft as a pillow beneath the glaze of roast drippings, heaped with succulent slices of lamb and pheasant, and not at all overbaked through delays of either political or theatrical dramas. Holding it up to the brazier offered him enough light to glance at the shadows, but the worst he foresaw from this dish was the Priest of Ta-retiu’s irritability at his juniors’ eager overindulgence.
After thejudhabaand the fresh fruit and sweethalawathat finished the banquet, all that remained was for three of thekhadimunato carry incense andushnanhand-powders for the diners to cleanse sticky fingers and freshen the air. The others were happily partaking of the leftovers within the modest concealment of the serving-hall, but Faraj was pleasantly surprised to find his little blossom holding the fine-ground fish hand-powder for the cat-priestesses.
Since the catfolk would likely lick at their paws as soon as no Priest of the Assessors was watching, he’d talked with Kamil and Esmat over the years to develop a blend which offered a suitablecleansing texture and also tasted appealing to groom from fur. The otherkhadimheld a more floral and woody blend, because Faraj had to admit his human nose preferred those scents to the lingering smell of dried fish.
Side by side, neither of them flinched when the Cobra-Priestess slithered over to taste the air above each of their offerings, although they were standing close enough to lean into each other for support.
“Feeling emboldened, little onessss?”
