The door opened to a man bustling in carrying a heavy tray on one arm, and a bucket filled with cool water and carafes of wine over the other. Bakhtiar stepped forward and took the bucket, setting it in place on the table. "Where is Mahin to help you, Golshan?"
"Her sister gave birth last night; she left to help." Golshan set the tray down, wiped sweat from his brow with a towel on his waist, and then set to work arranging everything neatly and elegantly on the table. "She wanted me to extend thank yous for the birthing gift, Your Highness. Her sister did not stop crying for some time."
Bakhtiar scoffed. "I hope everything went well." Giving birth was so dangerous, no matter how poor or wealthy a woman was.
"Perfectly, Your Highness. Mother and child are happy and healthy. We were all quite happy. I made certain yourWhispered Truthwas amongst the options for today."
"I'm glad everyone is all right. Thank you, your attention to detail is flawless as always."
Golshan bowed and departed.
"Sweet as always, my prince." Farrokh arranged wine and tea on a smaller tray to take into the throne room.
"Sweet?" Bakhtiar asked. "What did I do that's sweet?"
Kurosh chuckled, grasped the sides of his face, and tugged him into a soft, but thorough kiss.
Bakhtiar reviewed the notes one last time and then set everything aside. A hush fell briefly as he stepped into the throne room, but talk quickly resumed again as everyone realized Bakhtiar had replaced his mother. Taking his seat on the throne, Kurosh and Farrokh sitting on cushions on either side of him, he signaled the gong that would resume session.
The first twenty or so people were simple enough matters: farmers pleading for assistance after crops had beendestroyed by events beyond their control. Tenants complaining of landlord abuse that no one else had listened to them about.Thathe handled with vindictive relish, because the only person who hated slumlords more than him was his mother.
After a short break for something to drink, a woman came up. "What problem brings you to see me, mistress?" he asked gently.
Clearly struggling not to cry, the woman said, "I have no right to ask for help, Your Highness, but I've nowhere else to turn. My husband is a drunk and gambler. Last night he stole all the money I had carefully saved and lost it all at the Red Lark. It was my money, from work I did though he promised me a marriage where I would not have to work outside the home, and he had no right to it. Me and my children will be living on the streets by the end of the month. I beg for your pity and assistance."
Red Lark was one of the worst gambling halls. There were ten in the city, three of them larger than the rest, all of them rotten to the core. Red Lark, though… that place was a cheat. Literally. Nobody won there unless the ownerswantedthem to win. They bled the poor and desperate dry then threw them out. They took advantage of those who could not say no, who needed gambling the way others needed alcohol or dream powder. Colluded with the loan spiders who took further advantage of all of them. A slimy, skin-crawling industry he wanted to burn to the ground, or at least regulate to death.
"How much money did your husband steal from you?" he asked quietly. After she'd named the sum, he beckoned Navid, a court clerk, to the throne. "Give her the lost funds from my accounts. I want her husband investigated, and the marriage contract reviewed, and necessary actions taken, with a report on how matters are proceeding given to me in two weeks’ time and a month's time."
"Yes, Your Highness," Navid replied.
"How is your brother doing?"
"Recovered, Your Highness, thank you. He needs to rest another week or so, let the leg strengthen up again, but he should be back to work in not more than two weeks."
"Good, I am happy to hear it."
Navid smiled and bowed, then headed back down the stairs and escorted the woman away to sort details and make arrangements, and onward Bakhtiar's day went. He sorted seven more gambling problems, three marriage problems, and sent guards out to arrest five different people, most of them abusive husbands.
By the time the day finally ended, he was exhausted, but feeling a little less useless. Back in the antechamber, he stretched and yawned, rolling his neck and shoulders. "I don't suppose there's time to rest a bit before…whatever is next." Dinner wasn't for a few hours yet, and that was plenty of time for more work.
"I made certain you would have time to rest, Bakhti," Farrokh replied, offering up wine, pressed up against his side, warm and inviting, smelling faintly of mint and sugar. "Drink."
He accepted the wine happily, and the kiss that followed, rubbing his thumb along the back of Farrokh's neck, enjoying the predictable shivers that touch elicited. When Farrokh drew back, Kurosh replaced him, sliding into Bakhtiar's arms like he belonged there. Which he most definitely did, and for a moment all of Bakhtiar's fears that his harem had grown as tired of him as everyone else vanished.
He loved these two so much. Farrokh who was a scholar through and through, but had the build of a fighter because he detested being sedentary and used a form of martial arts to keep himself fit. Softly sculpted features and long, soft, dark brownhair he most often wore loose now, though when he'd still been Bakhtiar's tutor he'd always kept it braided.
Kurosh who was as cold and sharp as his blades, as fit as Farrokh but in a different way, built for stealth and speed. They'd met when he'd pinned a knife to Bakhtiar's throat. Instead of pleading for his life like a sensible person, Bakhtiar had simply saidYou're so beautiful.
Somehow, they'd both agreed to be his, two of the happiest moments in his life.
Drawing back, he smirked and asked, "What kind of rest did we have in mind?"
"Not that kind," Kurosh said firmly, slipping back out of his arms. "You need rest, Bakhti. You can have us all you like later tonight."
That's what they always said lately. Yes, he was sleep deprived, but they didn't know that, and what he needed more than sleep was to feel wanted.Needed. Like a priority. Any sort of priority at all.
"You're no fun at all," was all he said, though, and let them lead him through the secret passages back to his room, where he went without protest as they ushered him into his bed.
