The Silver Sparrow

Presumptions

Jarem stood with hands behind his back, watching the salar go through a stack of reports in his study and entertained himself with an image of Deo di Amarra being thrown out the balcony to pass the time. The Khandoor was late, yet again, to the summon.

Such insolence, displayed too many times to count, should have ended with Jarem's fantasy being realized, and yet it hadn't. The salar had somehow developed an unprecedented amount of patience with the grotesquely wealthy merchant and royal advisor who seemed to be able to get away with anything in the Black Tower, including making Salar Muradi of Rasharwi wait.

The door creaked opened, and in walked Deo di Amarra, bringing with him the same air of grandeur a highly sought after performer might produce upon his initial entrance to a stage. A cloak of priceless grey wolf pelt swept across the black marble floor as he approached in slow, lazy steps toward the desk behind which the salar seated. Three large rings set with rare gems big enough to buy a small army adorned the fingers on both hands. Underneath the cloak, a deep blue tunic of finest Makena silk stitched with silver threads peeked out from the luxurious fur, completing the picture of a man who might be wealthier than the salar.

Which might very well be the case, Jarem thought bitterly. The Khandoor owned close to half the businesses in Rasharwi and probably had investments in more. The house of assassins he operated—not so secretly—happened to be the most expensive in the Salasar only the elites and the powerful could afford. Now, as a royal advisor to the salar, Jarem didn't want to imagine the number of bribes and favors that must have been going into his pockets. Deo di Amarra was a figure that could shift the balance of the peninsula if he wanted. Had changed it, actually, for a handful of Vilarian horses to make sure Prince Muradi ascended safely—and timely— to the throne. Jarem happened to know first hand which names had gone into that infamous Jar of Souls as a result of that transaction.

The Khandoor paused before the salar and bowed. To Jarem, the proud, elegant gestures found in its execution made the whole thing feel more a display of gratitude rather than an offering of obeisance. As always, he seemed to take pleasure in appraising the furniture and the decorations in the room while waiting to be addressed. If there was any amount of sweat breaking around the salar commonly found in most men who attended him, it didn't show.

"You're late," said Salar Muradi without looking up from the report.

Di Amarra dipped his head a little. A gesture so subtle it didn't move a strand of that eye-stinging red hair. The small, sardonic grin on his lips was also there, as usual, to irritate Jarem.

"Regrettably so, my lord," he replied unhurriedly. "I thought it wise to have a little chat with our heroic prince before I came. It took me a while to find a moment alone with him. The Prince Lasura is why I'm here, I presume?"

Jarem shot him a glare. "Have a care, di Amarra. Your presumption may contribute to your premature death if you keep this up."

Di Amarra turned, ran his gaze over him from head to toe and frowned. "The only thing that's going to give me a premature death, commander, is the sight of that dull, horse-dung green tunic you're wearing. It's sucking the life out of me as we speak."

Jarem raised a brow at another insult he'd gotten used to by then. Out of having to deal with it for the past two decades, of course—nothing else but sheer necessity would ever do the trick. "Does it now? Should have told me. I would have worn it sooner if I knew."

The salar looked up from the report then, a grin playing about his lips. "Horse-dung tunic aside," he said, leaning back on the velvet cushion, "let's hear the rest of your presumptions, shall we? Why do you think you're here, di Amarra?"

Jarem glanced at the Khandoor, searching for any sign of stress on that laid back, half-sobered expression and didn't find it. The question was a test of sorts. It was how the salar measured the competence of his men, and from which he would often draw a conclusion of whether one would exit the chamber through the door or the balcony. Most grown men shit their pants during the process. Di Amarra had been placed on it—every time he was summoned—and somehow never broken a sweat.