Forty-Four

 

Philemon took a deep breath as he surveyed the Sultan's audience chamber. He knew this was just a formality, for the Sultan's matchmaker had agreed to the marriage long before he turned frog, but that didn't stop his heart from leaping into his throat in fear if something went wrong.

But it would not. He was a prince – a true prince, unlike Aladdin – and a fitting husband for any princess. Or so he told himself.

A commotion at the gate told him Aladdin's servants had arrived, with his gift. The crowd parted, waves of an ancient sea at the command of a prophet. Or a prince.

"A gift to the Sultan from His Royal Highness, Prince Philemon of Tasnim!" the door guardian djinn – Kaveh – roared, his voice perfectly pitched to resonate through the hall.

Not for the first time, Philemon regretted losing the loyalty of the ancient vizier. But he didn't have time to dwell on it.

"Where is this prince?" the Sultan demanded. "Tell him to show his face, so that I may thank him for such a handsome gift."

It was identical to what he'd received from Aladdin in exchange for permission to marry Maram, even down to the livery of the servants. The Sultan was not fool enough to refuse it.

But Philemon was not Aladdin – he needed no fanfare or parade to announce his presence. A true prince commanded attention, or he did not deserve his crown.

Philemon strode into the archway that marked the boundary between the dim throne room and the dazzling desert daylight. He stood in the light, silhouetted against the morning sun. "I am here. I have come to claim my bride, a daughter of the Sultan to become the new Princess of Tasnim."

The crowd buzzed, but they did not hinder his march toward the dais where the Sultan sat.

When Philemon reached the row of prostrate servants presenting their gifts of gold and jewels, he stopped and bowed. Just low enough for his eyes to meet those of the seated Sultan.

The Sultan looked shaken.

Because of Aladdin, Philemon guessed.

"When I saw how happy my younger half-brother, Aladdin, was with his wife, I refused to wait any longer. I must marry, and it must be one of your daughters," Philemon continued.

If this didn't work, Philemon vowed he'd force Aladdin to confess the truth at the point of his sword, no matter what his witch of a wife wanted.

In the shadows behind the Sultan's throne, a woman leaned forward and whispered something into the Sultan's ear. He gave the slightest nod, then rose.

"This audience is at an end for today. I will hear more petitions on the morrow. I will meet privately with the Prince of Tasnim," the Sultan announced.

The court slowly emptied, until the golden doors closed with a clunk of finality.

Only then did the woman step out of the shadows. Her gown, which Philemon had taken for plain black, glittered in the light, for the wine-coloured linen was embroidered with jewels.

The Sultan did not miss Philemon's interest in the mysterious woman. "If you wish to discuss marriage, my matchmaker must be present. She knows which of my daughters are suitable."

Philemon nodded. The woman hadn't been so richly dressed when he last met her, but it made sense to have her there. Though he would be the judge of who was suitable, not her.

The matchmaker led the way into the palace proper, choosing a chamber that was better suited to an intimate discussion than the audience hall. One more richly furnished than the place where he'd first met with the woman, if indeed this was the same one. For the matchmaker he'd met here before hadn't swished her hips quite that seductively as she walked. Nor had she been the first to sit on the floor cushions, as this one did.

She'd surprised the Sultan, too, Philemon noticed, hiding his grin.

Philemon and the Sultan took their seats and servants brought in refreshments, before departing at a signal from the matchmaker. This door clicked shut so quietly Philemon was barely aware of it.

The woman threw off her veil and reached for a cup of wine.

Maram. Her haughty brows furrowed when she found both men staring at her. "He's family, Father. Aladdin's brother. Perhaps if we find him a wife, he'll learn to stop staring at women's faces when he is fortunate enough to see one." She sipped from her wine cup, then shot a red-lipped smile in Philemon's direction. "If my brother-in-law can tell us what he wants in a wife, perhaps I can help him."

"I want Anahita," he blurted out, closing his eyes to better resist the spell she seemed to cast simply by looking at him.

The Sultan cleared his throat. "My daughter Anahita is in mourning, for she has only recently been widowed. It will be some time before she is ready to wed again, if ever."

"And the daughter of a mere concubine – hardly fitting for such an important prince," Maram interjected. "I am sure one of Mahsa, the Moon Queen's daughters, would be far better suited. She has two daughters of marriageable age – Katayun and Mahvash. Mahvash is the image of her mother – sweet and obedient, and likely just as fertile. Katayun has been well trained by her mother in the practicalities of running a harem, and well able to keep your other wives and concubines in order. I have heard tales that the Prince of Tasnim's harem rivals my father's own, and a young, virile man like yourself without an heir..."

"I want Anahita," Philemon repeated. "I want her as my wife, and no one else. Now." He wished the woman wasn't here – her very presence set his teeth on edge, and made him most irritable. Left alone with the Sultan, he would not have announced his desire so directly, nor demanded it. There would have been conversation, negotiation...but the witch wanted him to fail. Why else would she be making this so difficult?

"But her husband has only just died," Maram snapped, eyeing him with considerable irritation.

If he failed, he'd get his harem garden back...but what use was it without Anahita? What use was anything without her?

Last night, Maram had insisted if he followed her plan, he would win Anahita back. Now, it was as though last night had never happened. Or was this woman one of Maram's sisters, identical in appearance to Maram, but not the same person?

If she wasn't Maram, then he had nothing to fear from her.

Philemon rose to his feet. "I am her husband, by the laws of the desert people. Sheikh Basit's death frightened her, and she refused to be left alone. She shared my tent that night, and the marriage was sealed by a wedding breakfast at dawn the next day. I will not leave the city until you return my wife to me!"

A wicked smile appeared on the woman's face, which dissolved into a shocked expression as quickly as it had appeared. "But one of the Sultan's virtuous daughters would not...could not..."

It was Philemon's turn to smile. "She already carries my child. And the child will be born in Tasnim, as the heir to the principality should be!" It was possible, therefore not entirely a lie.

Maram's eyes danced with mischief – for this woman could be no one else. "How do you know it is not Sheikh Basit's baby in her belly?"

Philemon drew himself up. "Because I slew the man myself before the consummation could occur."

"You killed him?" The Sultan stared.

If Philemon had ever doubted Anahita was her father's assassin, the doubts died then and there. "He encroached on Tasnim's territory, attacking towns that were under my protection, and we do not treat such things lightly." Philemon allowed the Sultan a small smile. "I'm sure if you were in my position, you would have done the same."

The Sultan looked thoughtful for a moment, before turning to Maram. "Fetch her," he commanded.

Maram obeyed.

Once the door had shut behind her, the Sultan poured himself a cup of wine and gestured for Philemon to do the same. "I had heard that Tasnim's wells ran dry."

Philemon's mouth was drier. "They did, but the waters have returned, sweeter and more plentiful than ever," he managed to say. He poured, then drank. "Tasnim is a worthy ally for anyone who wishes to travel and trade across the desert."

"So it is. But what if you were to suffer some misfortune? Who would be the ruler of Tasnim then?" the Sultan asked.

"The city will pass to the child my wife carries," Philemon said slowly.

"A child cannot hold a city, especially an unborn one. Surely your brother would inherit instead."

Brother? Oh, Aladdin.

"Hence my need for a wife. One who has proven fertile already," Philemon managed to say, feigning nonchalance to cover the chill that had crept over his heart. Did the Sultan intend to have him assassinated so that Aladdin could steal the city?

But the Sultan's assassin was...

"Ah, Anahita. Good. I have some questions for you, child," the Sultan said.

Anahita stood awkwardly before the closed door, staring at her father. "Yes, Father?"

"Who killed Sheikh Basit?" the Sultan demanded.

Anahita wet her lips. "Why, Prince Philemon, of course. It was terrifying to see him strike the blow. Ask anyone in Basit's camp."

The Sultan seemed surprised, then relieved.

Because his daughter hadn't killed a man?

No, because Philemon didn't know that she had, Philemon decided.

"Are you carrying his child?"

Philemon closed his eyes.