The Harem Wife

The Chains of Tradition

Swearing to himself, the king's servant, his right hand, read and re-read the missive from the Vazimir Counsel, the body of twelve Tamir Elders who were dedicated to upholding the many ancient traditions of the old and wealthy kingdom oasis. While they enjoying the riches and plenty provided to them by their desert barbarian king, they were still determined to keep Tamir as the gods had first created it. To the Vazimir Counsel, it was bad enough that their previous ruler, though bloated with power and indolence, had been killed in combat against the brutal desert rebel king, but they drew the line at allowing the usurper to diminish the rich and beautiful history of the oasis.

And so, they had gotten together, plotted, and decided that their king had been unwed and without heir long enough.

Gods, he knew his master and oldest friend would probably kill him—the messenger—upon hearing the counsel's pronouncement. And he wouldn't blame him.

Closing his eyes against the rising apprehension, Jakkar sucked in a slow breath, releasing it when the hand holding the missive cramped from gripping it too tightly. Opening his eyes, he turned toward the door leading to his master's royal chambers, and with a weary prayer to the gods, he took a step forward.

****

Sweaty, sated, and yet still thrumming with dissatisfaction, Kamal growled when the door to his private chambers swung open. Jakkar, his personal vazir and most loyal servant, barely blinked an eye at the three naked women, their limbs tangled together in exhausted slumber, lying beside him in his large bed.

Without preamble, Jakkar moved toward the bedside table, poured a healthy cup of water, downed it, then simply replaced the cup where it had been...waiting for Kamal to use it.

"By all means, servant, drink from your king's cup," Kamal snarled, knowing full well that no amount of bluster would bother the man. He'd been with Kamal for nearly twenty years—through battle blood, pain of torture, and finally glorious victory. As much as Kamal had seen and experienced, Jakkar had been there beside him. And he'd survived.

So why did his vazir look...anxious?

Beside him, one of his consorts stirred, murmuring in her sleep. Jazira. She was the newest of his harem, and one he enjoyed breaking in, teaching her all the things that pleasured him the most. She was a bright and eager student—as exhibited the night before. Beside her was Ros, the most gifted with her tongue and mouth, and beneath Ros was Rameela, the king's most favored consort. Of his ten consorts, Rameela spent the most time in his bed. She was beautiful, lush, and had the most experience pleasing her master and king.

Waving his empty hand dismissively, Jakkar drew Kamal's notice to Jakkar's other hand.

"What have you there?" Kamal asked, though not all that interested in what had brought Jakkar to his chambers. He was more interested in finishing the conversation so he could dismiss the consorts...then summon his personal bathers who were the most skilled with their hands. Though they cleansed his massive, hard body with scented soaps and spice oils, they made him dirty first. So very dirty.

He grinned at that thought, but his attention was once again caught on a wary Jakkar.

Swallowing visibly, Jakkar pursed his lips. "The Vazimir Counsel has been busy," he announced loudly, reaching for then tossing a brocade velvet blanket over the women who'd yet to stir despite the other man's refusal to speak at normal levels.

Kamal grunted, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet. "When are they not busy—either trying to plant their lips on my ass, or trying to steal from my treasury, or trying to kill me.... One wonders why they bother being subtle. If they aren't plotting to remove me from my throne, they are plotting to remove my head."