Two Cats

Chapter 18

“Interesting,” Prince Tenarreau said, finally, his voice jolting me out of my exhaustion induced half-sleep. The only sound of the previous half-hour had been that of shifting paper as he pored over some of the records marked 'Teuring'.

“Yes, interesting. Quite,” I said, sitting upright in my chair, doing my level best to clench my teeth together and hide the yawn that I suddenly found myself unable to avoid.

I hoped he wouldn't notice. Yawning while in the company of the Prince? Inexcusable!

It would almost be as bad as giggling madly upon seeing him sitting at his desk, diminutive form propped up on the seat of a chair that was noticeably higher than mine. Given the size of the furniture in the room, he left you with the impression of a child seated at his father's desk.

This 'child', of course, was presently the most powerful man in Harael, one who could probably have me killed on a whim. I'd reminded myself many times of this fact, whenever I'd been tempted to chuckle.

Although I'd sworn his attention were elsewhere, he gave me the tiniest smirk once I'd finished stifling my yawn.

“Sorry, am I boring you?”

“No, not at all,” I said, admitting to myself even as I spoke that a private audience with the Prince wasn't nearly as exciting an event as it sounded. “Sorry, long day, full of thwarted attempts on my life, acts of butchery, all sorts of exciting mayhem. I'll live.”

“Ah, of course. Speaking of which, how is Ismir faring?”

“Well enough,” I said, attempting to quell the sick, guilt-ridden feeling re-emerging in my belly, “and the healers expect him to make a full recovery. The majority of his wounds looked a lot worse than they were. He did take several blows to the head though, so they're watching him for any signs of erratic behavior. And, of course, there's the scars...”

“Yes, he got marked up rather badly, didn't he? Dangerous sport, neh? Still, these things happen. I suppose you're not entirely comfortable with what transpired out there this afternoon, given your intimate familiarity with scars and all.”

I didn't answer, not really trusting myself to speak. I could still see Ismir in my mind's eye, fingers reaching to clutch at his face as razor-sharp steel sliced through his cheek from the inside, a hideous flap of skin folding outward along his jaw and hanging there like an improperly applied wall treatment.

My fault, I reminded myself, cursing silently.

“Well, there's no point in agonizing over it I suppose,” he continued smoothly. “From what I know of Ismir, a display like the one he was subjected to this afternoon will just drive him to work harder to understand Western style fencing. He was getting just a wee bit too proud of himself, by my reckoning. ”

“Highness, is he actually royalty, like you said out there at the Circles?” I asked.

He fixed me with an amused look. “You don't know much about Vereet, or some of the other countries East of us, do you?”

“Not at all, I'm afraid.”

“Yes, he's royalty. Of course, approximately nine people out of ten who are born in Vereet can claim ties to royal blood. From what I understand of the place entire families, even distant blood relations, routinely go to war with each other and attempt to exterminate entire branches of various other families for no other reason than that they simply believe such a thing to be overdue. Barbaric and unproductive, obviously, but one of the more interest-ing consequences is that you end up with the majority of your population being related to one another. Fascinating, to an extent.”