Date: November 14, 1998
Place: Throne Room, Seraskier's Suite - Atesh Gah - Haven
Cast: Arslan, Faisal, Rabi (puppet - Aba)
Scene: The Varati Visir and a Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar butt heads over dinner; both of them too proud to ever bend, even when their goal is a common one.

Throne Room - Atesh-Gah - Haven:
      This massive rectangular area seem to rise forever; white polished marble catching the light that enters through the spacious windows on either side of the room and reflecting it throughout to dispel all shadow or gloom. The walls themselves are a work of art; the top half being the aforementioned stone, broken at mid-point by a border lovingly carved into an intricate design. Housed within the near foot-wide space is a pattern of interwoven bands of gold. The bottom half of the wall is sky-blue marble shot through with graceful swirls of cloudy white, once again giving way to pale marble for the few inches nearest the floor. Sturdy seats of golden-varnished wood, covered in cushions and upholstery of shimmering royal blue, are placed in orderly fashion at the sides of the room. Those who await the God-King's attention may rest as he attends matters of state.
      Dwarfing all is the raised dais of solid marble, upon which looms the throne of th God-King. A testimony to the art and craft of the Varati people, it practically shimmers in the resplendent light of the chamber, the same satiny hues of the royal blue upholstery surrounded by a detailed filigree of gold. There are two doorways in the room; the first, at the furthest end of the hall from the throne, leads to the foyer. The second is to the left of the dais.

Arslan sits on his throne as usual, elbow on the arm and chin on his fist.

Head bowed, Rabi enters the throne room carrying a neat stack of scrolls. Each one is tied with a different color and texture of ribbon, the quality thereof and the number of knots in its tails indicating the recipient. The deep green stone bead tied snug against each scroll, faintly striated, is Faisal's own color and so marks him as the sender.

Silently, she makes her way along the outside of the room, trying to be unobtrusive, until she reaches the Agni-Haidar scribe to whom her burden is to be discharged. Try as she might to be invisible, though, she is seen: the eyes of the other scribes here track her progress. They have still not decided what to make of her, this woman who writes, and who writes not with the florid gothic flourishes of court calligraphy but with an austere, solid, powerful line and composition that makes each letter seem to have been breathed directly onto the paper by the Seraskier himself. Most think she is clumsy; one or two recognize the beginnings of true skill.

Rabi hands over the scrolls and bows. She receives the slightest of nods in acknowledgment. The woman turns and catches sight of Arslan; for a moment she stands still and regards him. He looks remarkably unmarked when compared to the image she has in her mind, of blood and gore and strong words spoken through a clenched jaw.

Arslan glances towards Rabi, and offers her a nod. "Imphada, a moment if you will."

Rabi glides forward and bows, silks rippling soundlessly. She produces her slate and chalk from beneath the waist-length veils and awaits his word, her eyes finding his face through their own veil of dark lashes.

Arslan's dark eyes remain upon Rabi's form as she nears. Only after she has approached does the Visir speak. "The Agni-Haidar that fell to the Nayaka... do you know anything of his condition?"

In marked contrast to the writing she does for Faisal, the words that curl out now from beneath her hand are delicate, wispy, imbued with a faint tremble that gives them an almost dancing motion. But the forms are still simple and clear; she does not, it seem, care for the ornate work done in the court. "I am told he is healing well, but I have not seen him since that night." She tilts the slate towards Arslan for his review.

Arslan nods his head slightly. "I should look into his health. It falls on my head that such things should have come to pass, for it was upon my writ that I sent him to arrest the Nayaka." The Visir sighs, shaking his head. "What is it about those that feel they have favor with Khalid that causes them to behave foolishly?"

Rabi tilts her head, regarding the man speculatively. He could be talking about any number of people. And her hesitation is also brought about by the fact that she is not sure whether he is seeking any opinion on her part or whether he is merely thinking aloud.

Arslan shakes his head again, sighing. "Your master is among those, Imphada. He is Seraskier of the Agni-Haidar and sits out this war, despite word from Khalid himself that I speak for Him in this matter." The young Visir shakes his head one more time, running a hand through his hair. "Him and that never-to-be-seen High Priest cause me no end of headaches."

Rabi blinks, both dismayed and confused. The chalk leaves a threefold dash across the slate as her hand is caught in the written form of being speechless.

Arslan takes in a deep breath and lets it out explosively. "I suppose I should expect no less. Bullheadedness is trained into both the Atarvani and the Agni-Haidar." He looks over at Rabi, frowning slightly. "Ah, forgive me for ranting, Imphada. I did not mean to keep you... you may go whenever you wish."

Something incomprehensible burns in those copper-flecked gold eyes of hers, a confusion born of being such a mixture of so many emotions: confusion, anger, pain, disbelief. Mostly confusion. Long fingers rub out the previous words and the stuttering dash and write anew; the letters have a strange new quality to them that is indefinable, like the look in her eyes. "You have been given command over the Agni-Haidar?" Rabi looks at his face as she shows him the slate, trying to understand.

Arslan slams his fist down on the arm of the throne. "No more command than I would have over the forces of another Clan. But dammit, they should at the very least be supporting our movements and not huddling like cowards behind the battle lines. This is the Amir-al's war, not mine!"

Rabi can't help but start at the motion, the noise. Terror and anger war within her; she wants nothing more than to run and hide. But... she is Faisal's first consort; she would dishonor him by doing so. She scribbles out another line and it is no less graceful than the other, more carefully written lines, for its speed. "He is not a coward. Have you asked him?"

Arslan narrows his eyes slightly. "I have heard. He considers the war mine, and I know he will do nothing because of it. So like the Agni-Haidar, bull-headed fools. One day Khalid shall become annoyed with the order, and disband it, allowing the Warlords to manage the warriors as they should."

Rabi's own eyes narrow in turn. She points to the last phrase: "Have you asked him?"

Arslan stares at the woman. "I am Visir, and the war leader of Khalid's war. He should have come to me offering his help already. Do not defend the Agni-Haidar to me."

Rabi draws herself up and meets his eyes. "If what you say is true," she writes. "Then you are both being foolish men who place their pride before the Amir-al's will by refusing to talk to one another. If he should offer, so should you ask." Then, very courteously, she bows as she continues writing, and shows the slate to him again. "Please come share dinner at our quarters tonight. It would do us honor."

Arslan arches a brow slightly. "I would not dream of taking an offer to invade the Seraskier's home unless it came from his own lips."

Rabi regards him very firmly. She scrubs out the words and writes: "I am the Seraskier's first consort. He has given me hold over his household and in matters such as these I speak with his voice."

Arslan chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I must admire your spirit, Imphada."

The expression in Rabi's eyes softens somewhat and she inclines her head gracefully. Still, she writes: "Does that mean 'yes'?"

Arslan smiles slightly. "I shall consider it."

"Good," comes the written response. "We shall expect you at sundown." Rabi's eyes meet his and there is a sparkle in them: humor dances in fiery glintings around the cores of night at the center. Slate and chalk disappear underneath voluminous pourings of blue and green silk and she bows to him again, a farewell this time. As she moves away, the gold calligraphy of her sari's hem shimmers and waves, given life by her movement, letters catching the light as if singing the poem they represent in silent adoration. She withdraws, tracing her path along the wall, and slips through the doorway leading out.

[Interlude: Seraskier's Suite - Atesh Gah - Haven]:
      The brilliant glow of sunlight explodes into the room from the large bay windows opposite the entryway. The warm rays of the sun splash over countless red clay beds, suspended from ceiling. In some clay beds, vines of the deepest green whose leaves tumble almost to the floor, soak in the glow of the sun. In others, flowers explode in every color of the rainbow, pleasing the eye as well as the nose with their delicate scents. A few of the flower's petals have escaped their buds and tumbled to lie idle on the floor.
      Beneath the hanging garden, the furnishings of the chambers are finely made, if sparse. A plush blue carpet stretches across most of the floor, it's design an intricate lace of golden vines that crawl up each edge. Upon the carpet, cushions of blues and burgundy lie in every corner, each ready to be used in the comforting of the suite's residents and guests.
      Save for the carpeting, small tables of a red wood stand against the walls of the audience room. Each sport trophies of war. On one, a broken lance with the lion crest of Clan Ummayyid on its blade. On another, an ancient golden helm fashioned in the manner of the Praetorian Guard, its craftsmanship ruined by a jagged tear down the right side. Beside the table bearing the helm, another of like manufacture prominently displays what appears to be a book. Emblazoned boldly upon the cover is the sigil of the Agni-Haidar, black wings cradling a fiercely burning sun. New in construction, the most recent ornament gives of a soft scent of beeswax.

The door creaks lightly, a soft whisper of sound announcing just as clearly as would a voice who is slipping inside. It is Rabi. The hem of her sari is kicked up as she immediately goes into the kitchen, looking for Aba.

Like some deathly shroud, the voluminous garment stretched across Faisal's shoulders falls silent to the floor, unmoving. Presiding above the ominous expanse of cloth, a weathered face takes note of his consort's quiet, searching manner, but fails to remark upon it. Instead, coal-black eyes seek out the rim of the cup rising to tough his lips, the kaffe within soon filling the Seraskier's mouth with its bitter taste.

It is Rabi herself who brings the pitcher to refill her Imphadi's cup; from within the kitchen comes the renewed hissing of pans as Aba expands the menu. The young woman kneels down on her cushions at Faisal's side and regards him with some not small trepidation; she can only be so strong for so long and then she is the little mouse again.

The cup of kaffe retreats from the stern visage, which now turns to regard the woman newly arrived at his side. An inky black gaze wanders the smooth curves of her face, as if silently drinking her sight. Shattering this placitude, the harsh sound of the warrior's voice sounds, nearly renting intelligible the words that follow, "You have been gone for some time. You are not exerting yourself too much?"

Rabi shakes her head firmly. She produces her slate and chalk and there is only a slight tremble in her fingers as she gets right to the point: "I have invited the Visir to share supper with us tonight."

She looks up at his face, her eyes following the lines of his features with the same intensity as he had looked at her. There is a expression on her face, in her eyes, of both hope and faith: she knows he will be angry, but she is confident in him that in the end, he will do the right thing.

Like the rumble of some giant avalanche, Faisal's stern voice fills the room, almost deafening, "You have invited the boy-Warlord to dinner? Why have you done this?" Eyes once content to drink in the sight of his consort now blaze dangerously with a dark fury only barely restrained.

Rabi closes her eyes against that onslaught, leaning back ever so slightly like a willow in the face of a storm. When his question has finished lashing across her shoulders, she opens her eyes and meets his, and there is a calm serenity in them like she has never shown in the face of his anger before. "Because you two are not talking as you should be." Even the writing is calm, upright and even and entirely without the tremble of fear or the furious slant of accusation.

Faisal's voice cracks like a vicious whip, "And you are now the judge of who I should and should not speak to?"

"In this matter, yes, because I found myself having become the bridge." Rabi finds that concentrating on the grace and poise of her writing makes bearing the brunt of his voice a little easier. "He is angry because you do not offer the services of the Agni-Haidar to the effort of the war, which he is carrying out in the Amir-Al's name, and yet he himself refuses to ask you or talk to you about it."

Again the older warrior's voice races through the air with no small measure of harsh anger, "If I require you to speak for me, I will tell you so. Until then, you will not take that responsibility upon your shoulders unless I instruct you to. Is this understood?" Rather than waiting for an answer, the thundering sound torn from Faisal's throat continues, "Furthermore, if Amir-al intended the boy-Warlord to have use..." silence, as if stumbling verbally. Finally, he spits out as if some heinously blasphemous comment, "...if he intended the boy-Warlord to use Agni-Haidar, then I would have orders instructing me to follow his word. I have none. If the boy-Warlord wishes my help, he may come to me. I need nothing from him."

The response is quite firm. "He is coming to you. For dinner."

Biting the heels of the written words is Faisal's grating response, "And I am now obligated to entertain his presence. I cannot retract the invitation you have given him lest I be dishonored. So now I must suffer his soiling presence to salvage my honor." Quiet ensues as Faisal visibly searches for a way to satisfy both his honor and keep Arslan from calling. Finding none, he tears his attention away from Rabi and viciously snares the cup of kaffe from the platter at his side. The steaming liquid splashes and burns the course hand that grips it, but goes unnoticed. "Since you put my honor is such a difficult position, you will sleep with Aba until I decide otherwise."

Rabi is furious. She slaps the slate down and puts her hands on the stone surface of the table so that it is her slate, the words forming and writhing with absolute defiant clarity. "If that is what it takes to get you to speak with one another and serve the Amir-al together in this war as you should be, instead of being two prideful little boys as you are now, than I will sleep with Aba forever. Your pride and honor and his pride and honor--they are nothing compared with the service due to Him--better I sleep entirely alone than other women suffer and other families be torn asunder until the Amir-al himself must step in and tell you two how to serve!"

With the chiming, shattering sound of porcelain being torn asunder, the cup in Faisal's hand explodes as the hand that grips it crushes the shape into oblivion. Shards of the rent cup whirl through the air while others bury themselves into callous skin. Steaming kaffe, not and caustic, mingles with the lifeblood of the Seraskier's as it falls to the floor, pooling. Still gripping the remnants of the cup, the hand blurs towards the figure of his consort, as if to strike her. But rather than deliver the blow to flesh, the hand attacks the writing board and sends it streaking toward the ruined Praetorian helm, knocking the trophy from its stand with a horrendous clatter. The thunderhead upon Faisal's brow now ripe, his voice assails the smaller woman, "You speak of what you do not know. I have no orders, so I cannot know what the will of the Amir-al is. If I allow the boy-Warlord to use the Agni-Haidar, I may act against what Atar wishes. If I do not, then I risk the same. I will not risk violating Atar's will by acting wrongly, so I wait for orders and none come." The fury of Faisal's argument carries him on, a storm crashing against the rocks of land, "Because you carry my child, I will not cast you out of this house, but since you wish to sleep alone--you will. And you will not show yourself in my presence until I decide otherwise. I do not wish to see you, nor hear you until I can forget your unknowing words."

Rabi reaches out, fingers trembling, for the hand that bleeds.

"Just... talk. Please," the table pleads.

A peal of thunder rips through the room in the form of the warrior's furious voice, "Go! I do not wish to see you now!"

Because she is so much stronger than she knows, Rabi does not immediately burst out into weeping. She bows and rises to her feet, vanishing in a whisper of silks into the servants' quarters.

A short moment later, Aba comes out at the clattering, cooking forgotten for the moment, and gasps at the aftermath of fury: blood, broken china, and Rabi's retreat. The old woman hastens to bring a towel for Faisal's hand and to clean up as best she can.

The ruined hand reaches out to seize upon the towel offered Faisal. With deliberate motions that bespeak of fury loathe to abate, he begins to clean his hand of both blood and tepid kaffe. Coal-black eyes, leaking the coldness of death, remain rooted upon the door opposite him as he speaks to Aba, "This will need to be cleaned up quickly Aba. We have a guest tonight."

Aba bows. "Yes, Imphadi," she responds quietly, and gets about to doing just that. For her age she moves with surprising quickness--she had time to prepare herself, knowing that something like this was sure to happen.

The old woman retreats into the kitchen, returning moments later with a new cup. She refills it from the pitcher at his elbow and goes back into the kitchen to finish her preparations.

There is a knocking coming from the door.

Arslan pushes wide the twin wooden doors and advances into the Seraskier's suite from the embassy hallway beyond.

Standing behind a myriad of cushions scattered upon the floor, ready to be used in comforting the chambers' guests, an inky black figure stands. Like a shroud of death, a voluminous ebon haik falls from broad shoulders to the floor, silent. Above the garment, a familiar face, close to ruin with age, regards the new entrant with no tangible expression of welcome. Ripping through uneasy silence, the Seraskier's roughly hewn voice forms words difficult to discern, "Good evening... Imphadi," the last word torn from his throat with no small measure of reluctance.

Unescorted for once, the Visir of Haven enters the room. He offers it the merest of glances before meeting the gaze of Faisal, returning his greeting with the slightest of nods. "Imphadi. I have no wish to intrude upon you, but would feel it most impolite to decline your lady's invitation without knowing your will on the matter."

Aba, from her place at servant's distance off to the side, offers a deep bow to Arslan as he enters. She is standing beside a glass and silver tea and kaffe service set up on a sideboard. "Would the Imphadi care for something to drink?" She murmurs, in that quiet way that servants have of asking questions without interrupting. Delicious smells betray the kitchen's hidden entranceway: curry, lamb, fresh bread.

The old woman does shoot Faisal a glance though. Very rarely does she hear him call anyone 'imphadi.'

Silence. Bloodless lips threaten to seize upon a means of escape, but instead the grating voice echoes like a distant peal of thunder, "You are welcome here..." A hand, callused severely from service and years, gestures mutely towards the cushions before him. Again the voice, "Please, sit and enjoy what my household has to offer."

A dark brow is arched slightly at the Seraskier's reluctance, then a cold smile touches Arslan's lips. "If it is your will, Imphadi." The young Visir inclines his head again, then takes a seat upon the cushions.

Aba brings the tray over and sets it down on one of the low tables arrayed by the cushions. She kneels and awaits Arslan's word, a frail hand curled around a mug.

Ripples skate ominously through the ebon garment as the older Varati warrior settles himself upon the cushions opposite his guest. Inky black eyes examine the younger man before him as Aba offers the kaffe.

Arslan looks towards Aba, and his expression draws a trifle more gentle for a moment. "Whatever you may have would suit me fine, Imphada."

Aba bows and pours the kaffe. It smells somewhat different than standard kaffe, having been spiced with cinnamon and cloves for a somewhat harsher taste. Aba offers Arslan the glass cup in its nest of silver and, when it is taken, carries the service back to its place on the sideboard. She then begins to bring out dinner, starting with the aperitif of humus and pita, sliced cucumber in yoghurt sauce with dill, and falafel with a tangy lemon curry sauce.

"So..." the grating voice begins, "...how is it that you came to speak with Rabi today, and she to invite you to dinner?"

Arslan turns his attention back to the Seraskier, holding the offered cup in one hand. "She came to the throne room to deliver some missives for you, Imphadi, and I asked her over to inquire about the health of the Agni-Haidar the Xerxes Nayaka I slew had injured."

Faisal's voice speaks again with subtle, ominous tones, a storm broiling on the distant horizon, "The throne room..." A pause before the voice continues, carefully restrained, but blunt still, "The throne is for Amir-al."

Arslan's eyes narrow slightly. "The Visirs of Haven have always held their court in the Amir-al's throne room, Seraskier. Surely you know that."

The storm encroaches further: Faisal's voice grows more threatening with volume and tone, "Yes, but the Throne..." the word given heavy emphasis, "is for Amir-al and none other."

Aba is sure to bring out plates, too, and bowls of warm water in which the men may dip their fingers between courses.

Arslan chuckles softly, but coldly and almost insultingly. "For one that strives to serve the Amir-al so much, you know so little, Seraskier." The young Visir glances towards Aba as she delivers the accessories and offering her a genuine smile before turning cold back eyes towards Faisal once more. "You think I would be fool enough to proclaim myself Amir-al and try to fill his throne?"

No immediate sound escapes the older warrior, but a dangerously dark expression creeps into the already harsh features of the Seraskier: death revealing its true nature. Leaning forward, Faisal moderates his tone, but whispers still with a promise unfulfilled, "I have killed Warlords both wiser and more foolish than you. I put it past no Warlord to take Amir-al's throne, not when my past is littered with the bodies of such men."

Arslan's eyes narrow again, meeting the Seraskier's gaze with equal darkness. "Never has Messala betrayed Khalid, something you know quite well if you have done half as much research as one in your position should. The Amir-al is my lord and I only serve as Visir by his blessing. His choice alone made my Visir, his choice gave me the voice to deal with the Empyreans, and his choice gave me command of the Varati armies when war arose." The Visir starts to rise. "If you would make any such accusation against me or my clan again, Seraskier, I suggest you do it with your blade and not your tongue, lest I have you hung for treason against Khalid's will."

A dark exhale. Faisal judges the man before him and leans back, yet no sternness leaves his features. He replies bluntly, "I make no accusations. If I thought you treasonous, you would not be breathing and this we both know." A glimmer of deathly amusement crosses the warrior's features at Arslan's imaginings of Agni-Haidar put to death for treason. The amusement fades as if it had never been. He continues, "And let me also clarify your eager ambition. You have no command over me nor the Agni-Haidar here. We are Atar's warriors and we serve no other, not without orders from Amir-al himself. I have no such orders." Another deathly exhale, cold and dark, "However... I know you are Amir-al's favored. I will not be opposed to entertaining your requests of me."

Arslan arches a brow slightly. "Is that so? I hear you believe this war my own, and not the Amir-al's."

The thunderhead, so well restrained, lurks not far beneath the surface of the Seraskier's expression. Yet the stern voice that erupts gives hint of its nearness, "That is so. As for the War, I know you are made Visir, but Visir is a position created in times of peace. Visirs do not declare Wars against Candala empires, Atar does. If you have proof that Amir-al has made you a Battle Leader, then I know you lead the Clans in War against the feathered ganikas. Have you such proof?"

Arslan reaches his belt and withdraws a folded parchment, laying it upon the table. "Here they are, written by the Amir-al himself. He states that I am to deal with the Empyreans regarding Adham Kedhav's death. And if you note, he asks that I not be lenient with them. If it means war, then so be it."

The dark eyes of the warrior only glances briefly at the document before him, needing little time to discern Amir-al's writing. He nods mutely, the adds only, "Very well." Eyes leaving the parchment flicker to Arslan once again, "You lead the Clans in War against the feathered ganikas, but that does not give you command of the Agni-Haidar. " The muscles of Faisal's jaw distend, clenching as he who has given his entire life to Atar's service makes an astonishing concession, "But it is plain you speak on behalf of Atar. If you require the use of my command, I will entertain the request." At the concession's conclusion, Faisal's teeth threaten gnashing, loathe to even think of that which he had voiced without some measure of revulsion.

Arslan smiles slightly, in triumph, a cold, cruel expression. "There is little I would ask of the Agni-Haidar. This war should prove easy, for the Empyreans are weak. The Clans can take care of them, and it will do well to show the might of the Amir-al by securing a victory with the combined clans. The Agni-Haidar, I would ask to remain as home-guards for the clans, to give the Warlords peace of mind that their homelands shall remain well protected while they go to war."

Faisal groans softly before continuing, "What you ask is difficult. Atar has not chosen a new Nayaka, and I have no command of the other Seraskiers. They will do as their duty directs them. They will attack any Empyreans who enter their regions, but that does not mean they will defend the homes of other Clans."

Aba brings the next course of the meal: dal, spinach curry, lamb and beef on khebab with a different curry sauce, this one blood-red and murderously hot. She brings light salads to cool and refresh the palate, as well as more bread and fresh kaffe for both men.

The course already served has still not been touched, the discussion of politics heated over the meal. "Then show the other Seraskier what I have shown you, Imphadi. It would greatly displease the Amir-al if his own warriors would not serve him in his holy war against the hated candala." The Visir smiles coldly once more, chuckling to himself. "The Amir-al may even be impressed enough with your wisdom to favor you, as well."

Aba is good at this. The dishes are artfully arranged and those which should be hot and which have cooled while the discussion has been heated are removed. The tables are never crowded and the food remains patiently inviting.

Faisal's gaze flares almost nightmarishly, his voice rising once again, "My wisdom will not be judged by you, not by one who serves to gain Amir-al's favor. The Agni-Haidar serve because it is our duty to. That is what we do, what we are. You who serve for selfish reasons will not question our service. If the other Seraskiers ignore your request, it is because their duty to Atar requires them to ignore it."

Arslan does rise this time. "You have insulted me once too often, Seraskier. I serve because it is my honor to serve the will of the mighty Khalid Atar. Yet you time and again doubt my piety to our Amir-al." The young Visir turns away, stalking with heavy steps towards the door. "Good day, Imphadi."

Dark words chase Arslan as he retreats, "Think as you will, but do no challenge me. I cannot kill you because you are Atar's favored, but I will leave you enough scars to remember the lesson."

Arslan chuckles softly as he leaves the room. "Xerxes' Nayaka could not scar me, Seraskier. I have never been scarred in my life." And then the Visir leaves, shutting the door behind him with no more force than would a man leaving on better terms.

Arslan disappears out into the embassy hallway.

FIN  

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