Farrokh was the one to offer him wine, then, smiling with deep, gentle fondness before taking the remaining sip for himself. "Always the patterns with you, my prince."
"Like a spider that can chase down even the barest touch on its web," Kurosh said.
"Indeed," Lady Varesh said. "Astute, Your Highness."
Bakhtiar acknowledged the words with a bare nod, more interested in the first course that was being laid out, as he could not remember the last time he'd eaten. Breakfast, probably, since he had gotten to eat before that stupid taaki game.
He let the conversation wash over him for a little while, though always keeping track as he had a job to do and did not want to be told he was a disappointment one more damned time. He still was getting occasionally jabbed at by Aradishir for not buying gifts for Relanya or scheduling things to do. Which yes, he should have, but his mother had never actuallytoldhim, only apparently written a list that she sent off. A list he'd never seen, and with all the other things he'd had to do, buying gifts for a woman he had no interest in had slipped his mind.
It didn't even matter since everything had worked out so perfectly for everyone, especially Shir and Relanya.
His leg was starting to hurt, after spending so much time sitting with it bent, with little chance to straighten it out during the day, but he kept still anyway and focused on other things. Like how Farrokh and Kurosh had seemed so approving of his stupid rambling about the winery.
He wasn't certainwhythey were so impressed he could recognize patterns, like it was some difficult thing, but he'd take whatever positivity he could get.
Eventually, though, the conversation turned back to the stupid tariffs and he had to leave off his beautifully roasted goat to focus.
"—charging so much more. It's excessive."
"What's excessive? Stone has a modest percentage tariff, and that rate is increasing barely at all, from 1.5 to 2.1, the only increase in stone tariffs in Tavamaran history, which was why it was marked out as a good place for rate increases." Bakhtiar replied. He could feel his parents looking at him, the reprimands to besubtleanddiplomaticandchoose your words carefullyand use them sparinglybut they'd left the issue closest to his heart dead in the water, his harem was probably going to leave him, and apparently everyone thought him so stupid they were impressed he recognized patterns. So who cared if they yelled at him for being too blunt for the thousandth time?
So he kept doing things his way. "Your company imports a mere 20,000 ters of Tritacian marble per year, more than enough for all the tiles, countertops, and other decorative bits the wealthy want for their museum-like homes. Market value for Tritacian marble is sixty beshar per universal square, so roughly one eighty per slab, two slabs to a ters, seventy point two million beshar a year, with a tariff of a mere one hundred fifty thousand, up from one hundred and eight. A total cost of seven point three five a year.
"You sell the marble for three hundred twenty a slab, a one hundred percent increase, and after running costs are left with a profit of sixty beshar per slab. So even with the increase, you're still making more than a million beshar a year. Nevermind that you'll use the tariff, trivial though it is, to increase your asking price and make more money than ever. You have nothing whatsoever to complain about, yet here you are complaining all the same. Explain to me again why this tariff is a problem for you.Especiallywhen this is only a small part of your income, in fact the smallest part, and the vast majority comes from your stakes in Red Lark and Falling Star." He looked at the other two. "Do you need to be reminded of your numbers as well?"
"No, Your Highness," they replied quietly, in unison, staring at their plates.
Messar, meanwhile, was still red in the face, hands beneath the table, probably balled into tight fists, and he was probably all the angrier because there was nothing he could sayor do with the king and queen right there. Especially because Bakhtiar wasright.
And he'd solved the problem in minutes, instead of dragging everything out incessantly all night.
Not that anybody would thank him for it.
"If only you were as good at returning my earrings as you are with numbers," Jahanara said into the silence.
Bakhtiar swore he could feel something literally, physically break inside him. She'd meant it as a joke, he could tell that, but was that really all anyone could say? So math and patterns weren't remarkable or useful skills for a crown prince. He didn't know that 'patterns' was a skill at all, per se. But he'd still solved the problem. They'd stop bickering now and agree to the damn tariff. Public shaming worked wonders on greedy, conceited assholes.
Aradishir would have gotten a soft smile from their mother, a proud look from their father. His sister would have gotten deep nods, shares of their private wine.
All he got for his efforts was a lousy joke about how stupid and careless he was.
He couldn't fucking take it anymore.
"If you'll forgive me, Mother, Father, I'm no longer feeling well and need to go lie down." He gave them a hasty bow and left as though chased by fire, not even waiting for his harem to catch up.
Taking the secret passage, he made his way to the semi-public gardens that were reserved exclusively for use of palace residents and special guests. Regular visitors and guests weren't permitted here unless accompanying those with permission.
He walked until he reached a corner that wasn't visited much because like his own private gardens there were no flowers here, simply plants, though those plants were lovely. Only showy flowers mattered to the court, and everything else was boring.
As he reached the pond, though, he could hear a voice. A familiar voice. The book reader.
He stepped around a wide tree, following the voice, and found the winsome man sitting on a stone bench next a young woman, reading the same book he'd been reading that morning. His voice was still so beautiful, truly enchanting, animated as he read the story to his avid audience.
Captive audience, in Bakhtiar's case. Who was this man? What did he do with his days? If Bakhtiar asked him for readings would he be happy to do it? Or simply happy for the money and boon to his reputation? He supposed the semantics shouldn't matter, he would get the lovely voice either way, but…
Not that it mattered, because he wouldn't be asking. He could already hear the jokes about how lazy he was, carting around people just to read books to him instead of reading them properly, because when other people did it in groups that was fine, but if he did it alone he was somehow failing.
The hypocrisy of people gave him a headache.
