Bakhtiar was absolutely certain everyone in his life hated him. Or at least strongly disliked him.
He was loud, he was restless, he was forgetful, he was brash, he was reckless. He didn't have the calm grace of his father, the regal demeanor of his mother, the commanding presence of his sister, or his brother's effortless, quiet charm.
He was the oldest, still unmarried, and had only two concubines. Some days he wondered if they regretted becoming his concubines.
"I swear to you the papers were there," Bakhtiar said, even though he could see by his mother's face that she didn't believe him and wouldn't no matter what he said. "I finished them last night; I left them at the corner of the table for Kashi to take to you this morning. Signed and everything."
"Well Kashi says only the roughs were still on the table, with no final papers around, so you must have worked on something else."
Bakhtiar wanted to scream. He wasn'tstupid. He knew which contracts he'd worked through. He'd forgone sleep, like he often did, to work on them alone in his office while everyone else rested. Sometimes working alone in the dead of the night was the only time he ever felt like himself, with no pressure to be all the things everyone else wanted. He hadn't even bothered a servant for tea or anything, just drank water while he'd worked.
He'd gone to bed not long before the sun came up, and had been woken up just three hours later with no one the wiser about how little sleep he'd gotten.
Now here he was being accused of doing everything wrong, or flat out not doing it. "I know which papers I signed, Mother, I'm not an idiot. I read through them, I wrote the final versions out myself, I signed them. I don't know why Kashi says they weren't there, because they definitely were."
"Well, do them again, because I need them before lunch," Fahima replied. "Make certain this time, please."
"Yes, Mother," Bakhtiar said quietly, defeated.
When she'd gone, he trudged back to the table, where the rough drafts still sat where he'd left them on his blotter. The final versions were gone as though never there at all. It wasn'tfair, he'd done the work. "They were here."
"I believe you," Farrokh said soothingly. "The mystery will resolve. Let me write out the new final, and then all you have to do is sign, in the meantime you can read over your notes for this afternoon."
Right. The meeting he was dreading, because this was the sixth time that his speech, his bid for support, had been rescheduled. Nine months he'd been trying to do this, finally, actively get council support, after spending months, years, trying first to handle the matter on his own, and then formally gather information, build reports, gather local support in the city and across the kingdom, really build his case. This had become hiscause… and now this was his sixth attempt to be heard, and all he felt was dread.
Not least of all because the council was very, very fond of reminding everyone they crossed paths with that Bakhtiar was nothing like his parents where it mattered. He was pretty, and he'd been born first, and that was all he really had to his favor.
So he sat and read, even though he hated to read silently. He liked working alone at night because he could read everything aloud, get it into his head a little better. It worked best when someone else read aloud to him, but who needed things read aloud to them? Children. Bakhtiar already got told a hundred times a week that he acted too much like a child. He didn't need to reinforce the idea.
Since he couldn't do what worked best, he went with second best, which was to fidget while he read. Months ago, while hiding down in the pipe rooms to give himself a moment to breathe when everything got to be too much, he'd found an old…gear or sprocket or whatever it was, he didn't know. Small, round, a small hole in the middle, then a ring of really tiny holes, and the edge was indented evenly all around. He liked to turn and twist it, run his thumb along the edges, over the holes. When his left hand was busy, it was easier to focus on the words, actually absorb them.
A perfect world was something to fidget with while someone read to him. He'd tried asking Farrokh once to read to him, and Farrokh had made a comment about becoming indolent. He'd been teasing of course, but the words had stung all the same. He'd never asked again.
Thankfully, there wasn't much to read, and he knew it all, mostly just needed to review to get his thoughts in order, rehearse everything he was going to say so it would be extra humiliating when he screwed up anyway.
Still, this was important to him, so if more humiliation was the price he had to pay, so be it. Just so long as he got through to enough of the council.
"Contracts are ready, my prince."
"Thank you." He signed the papers and sent them off with Farrokh. What had happened to the first set? He'd probably never know, and his mother would always believe he'd justscrewed everything up again. She would never, ever look at him with that soft look of approval and affection she gave Aradishir a hundred times a day, or give that smile of camaraderie and pride she gave Jahanara.
No, for him it was just frustration and disappointment all day, every day.
As they left, he paused to turn to the guard stationed at his door. Technically there were three, one on either side and one directly across, but Reza was the primary guard. "Reza, guard my papers faithfully. I entrust to your dutiful care the secret of how terrible my handwriting is."
"Yes, Your Highness." Reza's pale gray eyes crinkled, the only tell of his amusement, the rest of his handsome, sharply defined face giving nothing away. Bakhtiar counted it a victory, though why it always pleased him so much to amuse Reza, he couldn't say.
"I don't know when I'll be back, but let no one in today, not even to fetch papers or whatnot."
"As you wish."
"Thank you."
"On to breakfast, then, my prince?" Farrokh asked.
Bakhtiar smiled because that's what he was expected to do, even though like so much else that was part of his days, all this breakfast did was fill him with dread. "Of course. Have a good day, Reza," he added, and bid farewell to the other guards as well.
It was what was called a casual breakfast, later in the morning and extending nearly to lunchtime, with everyone invited scattered about the room in smaller groups to talk, read, play games as they liked. He dreaded them because most people played taaki or chess, and he found those hopelessly boring. He was confounded as to how other people didn't find them boring.
