Power & The Price

Freyza was never quite heralded as a king after his latest exploits to the Najan Isles to capture slaves for the Sultan’s harem. In fact, oftentimes he had to wait a whole afternoon until the port’s officers let him or any of his crew or newly minted odalisques leave the ship at all.

He was in his cabin awaiting the checks, while his assistant Iskander was sent out to reason with the officers. They wanted gold for they knew Freyza had plenty, and holding him up cost him more than a little bribery ever could.

Recently, Freyza had resigned from his post in the Sultan’s court as Sword of the Treasury, and the next challenge lined up for him as Sbaian ambassador in Massouron soon made these trips to the Najan Isles a thing of the past. Perhaps it had even be his last. He considered that only now — far too late, as he answered a few letters that had been smuggled in with his assistant.

‘Master,’ Iskander began as he opened the door to his cabin with a creak in the door. ‘They should be all set.’

Freyza looked up from his paperwork and impatiently tapped the side of his quill against his index and middle finger. ‘What did they take?’

Iskander’s face, already tainted in its expression by its littleness, turned grave. ‘A girl — oh, and four-hundred akce for the trouble.’

The slaver clicked his tongue. ‘These goddamned animals,’ he complained and stood up.

He stormed out and climbed the stairs back to deck, where he saw the officers leaving, the tops of their padded turbans visible even as they lowered themselves onto port. Freyza whistled for their attention.

‘Sirs!’ he hollered, his arms crossed before him.

Two of the three turned to him, the other holding the girl that Iskander had spoken of. Their faces were similar, both olive-skinned and black-bearded, but one of them had a much wider appearance than the other.

‘Do you know the price of stealing from the Sultan for a common man?’ Freyza asked, himself now carefully following them off of his ship.

‘We’re not common men, Master Freyza,’ one barked.

Freyza scratched at his beard. ‘But?’

‘Death,’ he said at last.

‘Mhm. Beheading typically,’ Freyza said. ‘Now what’s it for emissaries and staff members?’

Freyza eyed them both up and down. Unlike Freyza, who despite his station wore simple working clothes when he was out on the sea, the two officers were dressed almost like sultans themselves. When the answer seemed not to come, he grinned. ‘Slow death. Beheading with a butter knife. Burning with a candle that is blown out each time its flame rises above the length of an eyelash. Poisoned with mere drops of arsenic at a time. Hunger sustained for months.’

He searched his pockets and brought out a gold case the size of a small playing card, and through its crystal lid, revealed a miniature portrait embedded in it. ‘And this is what I’ve sold the Sultan. Now I’ve really enjoyed our dealings together and I’d hate to lose the three of you to your own stupidity.’

One of them narrowed his eyes and looked intently at the miniature. ‘That’s this girl?’

Freyza chuckled. ‘Made you look, didn’t I? My men are good at what they do. No matter how specific, we’ll find a shipment full of slaves with the exact characteristics asked for. With His Excellency, I’ve found that this little worthless miniature of a banished Courtenay brood gets me to a place where very few are rejected from his harem. I’d like the girl back — to save us both trouble.’

One of the officers whistled which called the one that was still walking away back. He had his arm around her torso to keep her by his side, and Freyza’s eyes were fixed on his hand, which the officer had placed around her breast. Her face was fair, and she squinted where the Sbaians could comfortably look out. Her eyes were a pale green color, and her red hair was in braids. As Freyza put the miniature back where it belonged, he marveled at the likeness.

‘Leonora,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’

She said nothing, her eyes cast downwards.

‘Gentlemen…’ Freyza said, gaving them each a long, disapproving look. ‘I wish I could say that I look forward to seeing you again, but I am bound for Massouron.’

As he turned, keeping Leonora at his side by clasping her tightly around the waist and squeezing his arm against his side for leverage in case she wished to run, he saw that Iskander was overseeing the rest of the operation and sighed. Thank goodness he did not have to make an excuse for the shipment of one fewer than the precisely three-hundred odalisques, rudimentary Sbaian-speaking, mostly virgins, and all flaxen or red-haired.

They arrived at the palace a several hour coach ride later and Freyza was starting to feel the old feeling of anxiety. Meeting the sultan was never easy for him, and since this was likely his last shipment, he expected to be informed of the date that he would leave and the conditions of his arrival in Souchon Palace while he was there. Reminiscing about the last few years only made the anxiety worse. When he was at sea, there was nothing but the briny water and the rowdy sailors, and his mind never wandered to court life, to his failed marriage or to the details of his own profession. He simply did as he had been told by the sultan; he did as his father did before him and his son was expected to after him.

While the women he had brought were being received, washed, and clothed, Freyza had a moment to tend to his successor as Sword of the Treasury, the young Bayezid of Amouas, who had done well by making himself trusted by Freyza when he was still the Sword. Now years later when Freyza was becoming ambassador, he had to admit he thought he would miss catching up with Bayezid about all the happenings while he was out at sea.

His office flanked a garden where the young aristocrat was often found reading or smoking, including on that very day. Freyza tapped the door that led out, and Bayezid turned his head, blowing a puff of smoke out all the while.

‘Ah, old dog!’ he said, and scrambled to his feet to embrace Freyza.

‘Bayezid…’ Freyza said.

Bayezid tutted him playfully. ‘Look at how dark you’ve gotten… in winter, you’d pass for a Baradran or even a dark-haired Massouric nobleman. Now look at you, just in time to move up north you look like you fell down a chimney and were grilled over an open flame.’

Freyza looked down at his sun-specked hands coming out of the white sleeves. ‘Unlike you, I work,’ he said with a wink. ‘Actual work that requires actual exertion. I’m in the sun all day if I’m unlucky.’

‘You poor soul,’ Bayezid sighed. ‘At your advanced age, too. Good you’re getting promoted. I’ll hold down the fort here.’

Freyza sat down and rolled his eyes. ‘So… from how you’re acting I take it I haven’t missed a single thing.’

Bayezid joined him and took another drag from the waterpipe that stood between them. ‘I’d say so, yes. The only thing that comes to mind is that the King of Ilworth died and so did his son. But in a cruel twist of fate, though the heir’s wife was with child, the fact that the son died before the father meant that the former did not succeed — and despite half a dozen claimants, the spare has been crowned.’

Ilworth. It was a country Freyza had little interest in, but that was the primary alliance of Massouron after the Baradrans had started their descent into unrest, and that alone caused him to take note. ‘Isn’t the spare some small boy?’ he asked.

Bayezid shook his head with great amusement. ‘In some fit of madness, that whore hadn’t been taken off of the line of succession! She was taken from the convent and crowned! There’s talk that her daughter will be brought to her again and given a princess’ upbringing. Barbarians!’

‘The redhead?’ he asked.

He nodded. ‘The one His Excellency’s smitten with.’

Freyza snorted and searched his pockets for the miniature again. ‘What a twist of fate,’ he said, half to the painting itself. ‘My dearest companion on my travels, my half-Baradran pocket odalisque has made something of her life.’

‘You know, that little thing might be worth something now,’ Bayezid said and laughed. ‘There goes your wild idea to kidnap the girl from the convent.’

Freyza shrugged and let himself slump over in his chair. ‘They’re hardly as pretty as on the portraits, and this one is rather vague. She probably wasn’t worth the trouble, especially considering I’d need to port in the north of Ilworth… I wonder if she’ll visit Souchon Palace during my position in office. Then we’ll know for certain. Perhaps then she can be tempted into a life of the imperial harem and Sultan Selim will be paying me so much gold that my great-great-grandchildren will start their own country with the scraps. And Ilworth can return to having a proper monarch — all thanks to one humble Sbaian slaver turned diplomat.’

The Sword of the Treasury was quiet for a bit, looking at the miniature Freyza had laid on his thigh.

‘The operative word being humble,’ Bayezid said. ‘As it always is with you.’

Freyza raised both his hands, palm up. ‘Either it’s dishonesty or it’s arrogance, Bayezid, I cannot banish both at once within my personality. Has anyone spoken about my departure?’

Bayezid’s face theatrically soured. ‘Your wife is wondering about your son’s tuition.’

‘He’s three years old,’ Freyza barked. ‘And she’s not my wife. She was the one to make sure of that.’

‘Well… I don’t think people assume you’ll be back soon. Especially not when the Queen of Massouron’s Sbaian ambassador arrived here a couple days ago with the necessary paperwork to cross Baradran waters.’

Freyza reached for the mouthpiece of the waterpipe and cleaned the end on his tunic. ‘I love how you’ve started this meeting with the important news. Why can’t I cross Baradran waters? What ambassador? We have a Massouric ambassador?’

‘Calm,’ Bayezid said simply.

Freyza took a drag and hardly let the smoke into his lungs before he sighed again. ‘You can see I’m trying to calm.’

‘You can’t cross Baradran waters normally because… I don’t know, Freyza. Something something rival dynasty, something something Ilworthian princess who is the bastard child of one of these guys. They aim to make passage from places like the south Baradrans and the Najan Isles as difficult as possible so it call all neatly diffuse before it combusts.’ Bayezid scraped his throat and signaled for the hose to be returned to him. ‘As to the ambassador… she’s not particularly susceptible to being charmed out of information so I just know she arrived and has been looking for you.’

‘Anything else?’ Freyza asked.

Bayezid shrugged. ‘Shave before you see the Sultan. And wear something less… poor-looking. That’s all.’

The last thing Freyza did before leaving was pass Bayezid the hose again.

A bit of his swagger had come back with a shave and a change of clothes in anticipation to meet the Sultan that afternoon. He was led through the enormous hallways, both hands on his back, with Iskander by his side and a small team of staff members behind him. He had been made aware of the fact that the girls had been taken to the palace and were being introduced to the guards, other women, and of course to the Sultan himself, after which there would be the possibility for complaint.

It was precisely for that reason that his expeditions tended to take twice as long as those for the auctions: he needed to make absolutely sure that there would be no complaints — unlike for the alternative, where he guaranteed a fine experience right up to the doorstep but not a smidge further.

When he was almost at the gate that separated the hallway with one of the many sitting rooms in the Sultan’s private residences, it dawned on him that this would likely be the last time he would come there, perhaps even the last time he saw the aged Sultan. The guards opened it for him quietly and Freyza straightened himself.

On the far end of the great hall stood a throne on which Sultan Selim sat. Freyza strode in confidently, leaving Iskander and the rest behind him, and made himself smile as he briefly locked eyes with the ruler.

‘Freyza al-Khalas, Duke of Tougaf,’ one of the emissaries spoke to Selim.

Freyza bowed and when he came back up again, clasped his hands nervously behind his back until he knew for certain that Selim had little to no bad news to share with him.

The Sultan was a little man, aged and with a long face accented with a pointed beard. On his head perched a padded turban in white, and in its middle gleamed a purple crystal. Dozens more were scattered on his fingers, around his neck, and as ouches on his tunic and trousers. His hands were clasped together and his face seemed kinder than it generally did.

‘Oh, Freyza…’ he sighed. ‘What are we to do without you?’

‘Your Excellency…’ Freyza replied with a nod.

‘I mean it. I’ll miss your good eye,’ Selim insisted.

‘Immensely flattering,’ said Freyza. ‘I’ve taught Master Bayezid, though, my work in the Treasury, and I am certain that your purchasers will be fruitful at the auctions. If not, of course I may always be called back.’

Selim smirked and crossed his arms. ‘Lady Azeline of the Massouric court has spoken to me about the important happenings up north. It’s a matter of little kings and little queens of course, but it is intriguing nonetheless. I believe you will have your hands full, and we require a strong and intelligent man in the embassy.’

‘I take it, Your Excellency, that you have been informed about the Ilworthian succession,’ Freyza said.

‘I was meaning to speak of that,’ Selim said, and pointed his finger up. ‘If you see the young Queen of Ilworth, give her my congratulations and well wishes. Say… I almost daren’t ask. Was she the one with the, uh…’

Selim gestured to his head.

‘The red hair?’ Freyza asked. ‘Indeed. Very well, Your Excellency.’

He thought for a while and Freyza felt relief about the fact that not the quality of the odalisques, but the prospect of meeting the model behind the odalisques was to be discussed instead.

‘I shall write her,’ Selim concluded. ‘Put in a good word for this old statesman, if you will…’

Freyza smiled, trying his best not to cackle. ‘I will have no choice and that will be twofold. Of course your magnificence knows no bounds — and equally, I am on the Sbai Empire’s payroll to promote the magnificence.’

‘And if you had a choice?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.

The slaver raised his brows. ‘If I had a choice, it would be incorrect of anyone to assume that I will cease to be patriotic for my own country the moment I walk across the border. No matter what the frogs ask of me, if you will pardon my language…’

The sultan laughed heartily, which was so contagious to Freyza that he himself began to smile. ‘Good luck,’ he said at last. ‘You already talk like a parliamentarian. Tell the Queen of Massouron and her husband I said hello.’

‘Will do, Your Excellency,’ Freyza said at last, and bowed.