Though he looked like he wanted to cry again, Kajan nodded.
"You are a good, very brave boy," Ramsay said with a smile. "Your father will be very proud when he hears how brave you have been. Can you be brave and hide here while I go to the palace to tell your father I have found you? We will come back to take you home, Kaj, I promise."
"Yes," Kajan said, wrapping small fingers around the ring Ramsay had given him. "I can do it."
"Good," Ramsay said, and hugged him, kissing the top of Kajan's head. "Very good."
*~*~*
The market of Tavamara was famous throughout the world. Other countries strove to emulate it, but none ever succeeded.
To Ramsay, it had always sounded like a living nightmare. Protecting someone in a mess like this was impossible. By the time he'd first seen the market though, he no longer had to worry about such things, and though it had been overwhelming and stressful, eventually he had gotten reasonably comfortable joining the throngs to do his shopping. Still, he was grateful he did not need to make the journey here often.
Once he saw Kajan safely home, he could stop by the market to sell some of the things he'd taken from the mercenaries, buy some supplies and a few indulgences if had coin to spare, and return to his normal life, such as it was, and Goddesses willing.
Not that his normal life was anything to covet, but it was free of people trying to kill other people and free of people needing his protection. Free of the ghost of the boy he had failed.
He sighed softly in relief as he finally left the crowded streets of the city behind and crossed the empty-by-comparison pavilion and courtyard that led from the edge of the city to the great palace of Tavamara. Legend said that it had taken seventy years to build the palace. Looking at it, estimating the hundreds of rooms it must have and the dozens of secret rooms that it also probably had, he could well believe the legend.
Joining the throng headed for the main audience chamber, he accepted a token from a clerk and then sidled off to the side to wait his turn. Seeing a wide, deep window ledge, he glanced briefly around, then hopped neatly up onto it. A couple of guards glanced his way, but no one ordered him down. Ramsay relaxed slightly, and well-situated just above the crowd, finally took in his surroundings.
Mostly ordinary, everyday people. Shop keepers, farmers, other working people. Mothers, fathers, bored and confused children. Harried clerks trying to keep everything controlled and organized. A beautiful room, ornate without being ostentatious, with windows that opened along the top to let in a cooling breeze.
He glanced toward the front, at the king he sought, and abruptly felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Hard. That was a king? But… but no king looked that way. Kings were spoiled and soft-looking, or hard and cold. They wore obscene amounts of costly fabrics and jewels, showy headpieces to emphasize their great and glorious importance. Kings were, always,always, a disappointment.
The man on the throne was presently laughing at something a dusty farmer was saying—kind, genuinely amused laughter. He conversed with the farmer easily, as though theywere not king and peasant at all. Ramsay could not recall his own king ever deigning to even look at a farmer, let alone speak with them practically like they were equals.
He was striking to look at, the Tavamaran king, with all that dark skin and hair. Were his eyes the same? Or were they pale and contrasting? Were they filled with the same kindness he seemed to show the farmer?
Right now, of course, they must be filled with pain. He was impressed the king could laugh. Given the ongoing session, the lack of fear and curiosity, the low number of guards… They were trying to keep it secret that the crown prince had been kidnapped.
A wise decision, but he wondered what it cost the king to pretend as though all was well, when his only son was stolen by men who would probably kill him once they had the money or whatever it was they sought.
The more he watched the striking king, the more he saw it cost him a great deal to pretend that all was well. Ramsay wished he could simply stride across the room, up the few steps of the dais, and tell him that his son was safe.
Shafiq, he thought suddenly. That was the king's name. Everyone who spoke, with rare exception, said it with pride, with admiration. He was a well-loved king. Ramsay had not put much stock in that, as people often had no idea what their rulers were really like, but now it seemed he'd been the one who was wrong. He wouldn't actually know until they spoke, but…
The farmer went away smiling, clearly pleased with the resolution to his problem. The guards signaled a halt to the proceedings, and Ramsay's gaze was caught by movement as two of the men at the king's side moved. Until then, the men had all been perfectly still. Four of them in total, two on his right, two on his left.
The king's harem. He had heard about that—who hadn't heard about the infamous royal harems of Tavamara? No other country had anything like it. Rittu had harems, but they were complicated, extravagant, political things. Havarin of course had their pleasure slaves, a disgusting practice they refused to abandon no matter what pressure the rest of the world applied.
Only in Tavamara was it a position that the royal in question—king, queen, prince, princess—offered, that someone could accept or reject. They willingly signed their lives away to serve only their chosen monarch. He'd heard no one else could even touch them, be alone with them, or even approach them without permission. They were marked by their bare chests and the black clothes they wore, or so he'd been told, and it seemed to be true.
The two on the right were twins, which nearly made his jaw literally drop. That— Was that allowed? Theywereconcubines, right? Not just attendants. Which meant… did they serve him one at a time? Did he… No, he wasn't thinking about that, it was so far beyond inappropriate to think about how the king fucked his pretty concubines.
Still, twins? But theywerebeautiful; all the more so sitting beside each other. Ramsay did not think the finest jewels in the world could display a king's power and wealth better than that perfectly matched pair.
Pure Tavamaran, by the look of them. They had the fine dark skin, the dark brown-black hair. It was closely cropped, showing off their sharp, elegant features, the beautiful eyes that were pale-colored, even at a distance. Their chests were bare, save for jewels adorning their nipples and belly buttons, with a glittering chain connecting the ones at their nipples. One twin wore rubies, the other sapphires.
Ramsay suspected that no one except the king and the rest of the harem knew which twin was who and the significance of the jewels they wore.
His skin felt suddenly too tight for his body, and the room too small, too hot. What might it be like, to be privy to their secrets?
As though sensing him, one of the twins—Sapphire—glanced his way, caught his eye. His expression never changed, but Ramsay knew an unseen smirk when he saw one.
Hastily jerking his gaze away, mortified to be caught staring and furious with himself for forgetting his purpose, he surreptitiously examined the remaining two. The one nearest the king was pretty rather than beautiful, his hair a tangle of artful curls. He had a pouty sort of mouth, though currently he was as expressionless as the others. It was the kind of mouth that always seemed to beg a kiss to take the pout away. He had chains dripping jewels wrapped around his wrists, throat, and waist: emeralds, pearls, and amber.
The last man was far from the slender, lanky builds of the others. He was broad, well-muscled, large without being overbearing. Ramsay thought with an old, familiar sigh that he would barely reach the man's chest. Short, compact, and fast had always been his fate. He had always envied the tall, broad ones who made everything look so easy, so effortless.
