Violya

Chapter 11 Ammad

11

AMMAD

Ammad felt f*****g ridiculous. And f*****g angry. Here he was in the royal box at the polo stadium watching the match. He gritted his teeth as the Parchad Prowlers turned their camels the wrong way, stumbled into one another, lost possession of the ball time and again. The team from Orean in their tatty, mismatched attire and on their shabby, inferior camels was thrashing them.

It was because he wasn’t there to carry the Prowlers. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that Jakira no longer had to fix the games always in his favour. He had been the best player in scorch seasons. Ever, in all likelihood.

And now, here he stood next to his father and in front of his mother as a mere spectator.

Ammad wore an elaborate tunic in the Wakrime royal colours of silver and gold. His mother had outdone herself in choosing the fabric and design. It truly was a resplendent outfit, but she had been careful not to outdo that of his father. Our Ruler Mastiq’s ensemble was gaudier, but entirely shapeless. His large gut was hard to dress, even by the most skilled tailor. Ammad imagined his father’s tunic could double as a tent for a family of six or so back in the slums.

Mastiq wore his revolting headdress, which he cherished and Ammad privately derided. Made of a wire frame in the shape of a hand, fingers spread with palm facing forward, it was covered with exquisitely expensive material – mostly from Peqkya, as Ammad recalled with revulsion – gold nuggets, jewels, bells, and small bones from Mastiq’s father and Ammad’s grandfather, Our Ruler Shaan. These trinkets knocked together in an inane jangle that set Ammad’s teeth on edge.

Ammad certainly looked the part of Crown Prince, apart from one humiliating detail. The arms of his fine tunic had been stuffed with straw and cloth and shaped. The hands, however, were real. They had once belonged to some insignificant slave or another, punished for stealing. They had been stitched into his long sleeves. One was overly tanned with wiry black hair. The other, Ammad was certain, was a woman’s hand.

“What happened to ‘the people need a hero’ and that being a ‘heroic brave prince’ will endear me to the people?” Ammad had demanded of Jakira earlier when she had presented him with his stuffed arm tunic to wear to the match. “I’m a war hero, I shouldn’t have to humiliate myself with this farce.”

“Your father needs some time to adjust to the idea that you’ve lost your arms. No one has officially told him yet. I will tell him when the time is right, flesh of my flesh,” Jakira had replied.

And the public, they too needed some time to adjust to Ammad’s evolved form. Rumours had spread from the men who had returned from the war in Peqkya about the red-haired warrior and the injuries the Crown Prince sustained.

But anger had spread quicker.

The lowly scum women had rebelled when fathers, husbands, sons hadn’t returned. The furious scum had instigated an uprising, rioting outside the palace, vandalising the palace walls. The ruler’s elite guard, the Cuttarrs, had been called in when the city’s guard had failed to contain the violence after days. The cutthroats, as everyone called them but never to their faces, had quashed the unrest with especially brutal tactics involving plenty of cut throats and bodies left to rot in the streets to serve as a warning to anyone else considering speaking out against the ruler or his decisions.

Ammad, never usually bothered with the mood of the people, as his mother called it, today had a strong sense that they were seriously pissed off.

His mother had ordered more guards to accompany his litter as it travelled from her villa to the stadium, with the strictest instructions to keep the curtains firmly closed so his identity remained unknown.

The stadium was half full, and there was no cheering or clapping when a goal was scored. Ammad wondered if Ruler Mastiq’s advisors hadn’t told the cutthroats to round up the street scum and force them to come and watch. Not one person there looked as if they wanted to be.

Mastiq stood at the front of the royal box, hands on rail, ridiculous headdress balanced precariously on his head. He seemed to be the only one enjoying the game. But he kept glancing back to Ammad, sneaking glances at the fake arms, looking confused as if there was something not altogether right that he couldn’t quite put his fat finger on.

Ammad was also stood. There was a seat for him, next to but slightly behind Mastiq’s own. The Crown Prince couldn’t sit though, even if he had wanted to. His hanging fake arms only looked natural when standing. When sitting, they looked f*****g ridiculous. He pretended to be passionately involved in watching the dire game that was unfolding before him. So immersed, that he couldn’t possibly sit.

He had been intensively training with Samark and already felt stronger. The man was a beast. And although Ammad hadn’t attempted to get back up on a camel just yet, he would. He had spent years training his camel Yoyo to be the best, and his heart had broken when the loyal animal had dropped dead in that hole, Urakbai.

Two days ago, Medi had surprised him with the news Jakira had purchased a new camel for Ammad and had hired the best in the business to train it to respond to foot and voice commands. It had cost one thousand drimars. Yoyo had only cost eight hundred. He couldn’t wait to get back on that pitch, his camel kicking up sand as it hurtled towards the goal.

His reverie was distracted by Advisor Farack whispering in his father’s ear and nodding in Ammad’s direction, specifically at his arms. Mastiq looked concerned. A cough burst forth from Our Ruler’s lips followed by a chunk of phlegm. Automatically, Farack held out a cloth to Mastiq to hawk in.

Ammad sneered. He must’ve pocketed thousands of those lump-filled cloths in his time. Farack was one of Mastiq’s most trusted advisors, with him from the start of his tenure. Jakira had never succeeded in buying him. He’d always remained loyal to the ruler.

Advisor Farack glided away and Mastiq abruptly sat, as if following direction. He patted the seat next to him.

“My son, come and sit with your father,” Mastiq said, his other hand resting on the top of his gut.

Shit. “Ah, but Dada, the game,” he said in a whine and didn’t move, “it’s reached a critical point, the prowlers are staging a comeback…”

If Ammad had been anyone other than the Crown Prince, he would’ve been reprimanded in a less than pleasant way for not doing precisely what Our Ruler Mastiq had requested.

“Ah, yes, son, you carry on,” Mastiq said jovially and turned his eyes to the pitch.

A cough from Advisor Farack reminded him of his purpose.

“Come and sit, Ammad,” Mastiq said more firmly and clenched his lips together.

Ammad glanced at Jakira, she subtly tilted her head in warning. He took a step towards the chair but didn’t sit.

A scream pierced the glum, silent mood of the stadium. It echoed around the stalls. All eyes in the royal box looked out into the crowd.

With a thud, a projectile hit the cloth draped over the top of the royal box that kept out the sun.

“Oh!” Mastiq exclaimed.

Then more came. Rotten food, dead rats, lumps of camel dung and other unidentified detritus was pelted at the royal box. It slapped into the wall of Cuttarrs who fanned out to surround those in the box, their perfect uniforms smeared with dead animal innards and ichor, and their fierce faces splattered with stinking gunge. The cutthroats pulled their swords and snarled at the crowd. The mob was gaining in confidence and pressing closer as spectators piled from their seats.

Two guards rushed to Mastiq and bundled him away from the rail and towards the secure royal tunnel that led from the box to the street.

The silence in the stadium erupted into boos and jeers. Shouts of “Mastiq killed our men!” and “Mastiq is a fool!” gained in pitch and boisterous repetition, soon to be shortened to “Fool! Fool! Fool!”

Ammad, shocked by the palpable threat that roiled off the lowly mob, looked for his mother. She had already been ushered into the tunnel. The crowd was closing in but staying just out of reach of the cutthroats’ precision sword swinging. He knew the guards would be remembering faces. Would take revenge for the rotten s**t that now soiled their resplendent uniforms as soon as the royal group was safely away.

The royal box entourage, now Mastiq and his immediate family was safely out of the way, were pushing their way into the two-person wide tunnel, cursing and screaming at those in front to hurry up.

Ammad, momentarily frozen in place by this unexpected turn of events, came to his senses, and realised he was still stood by the railing. He hurried towards the tunnel.

“It’s armless Ammad,” an old woman with a gravelly voice jeered. “Give us a wave, Crown Prince!”

Ammad’s cheeks burned but he refused to look. His entire body twitched for a throwing knife, for the ability to throw it. He could kick the haggard old b***h to death, choke the life out of her with his thighs. Samark had shown him how, but that didn’t help at this precise moment. Ammad pushed his torso into the royal hangers-on blocking the tunnel.

“Move,” Ammad shouted. “Your Crown Prince demands you stand aside and let him pass!”

The bodies in front didn’t budge, the women screaming and men shouting orders. Ammad shoved harder.

The old hag kept on and, like the wind kicking up fine sand across the dunes, the chant caught on with those around her, and soon, the entire stadium.

“Ammad give us a wave!” rolled around the stadium followed by “Ammad scratch your arse!” and “Ammad pick your nose!” and everything else their little minds could think up.

He made it into the tunnel, disgusted that he was the last of the party, and a line of cutthroats formed up behind him, blocking the way to any in the crowd stupid enough to attempt to follow.

As he scurried down the steps towards his waiting litter, he heard screams and the trampling of feet on the boards above. The cutthroats had no doubt fanned out into the crowd, merrily cutting into flesh. He knew they would show no mercy for the hecklers.

He especially hoped the old hag received a slow, painful death.

Back at the palace, in one of his father’s formal audience rooms that Ammad had never stepped foot in before, Mastiq paced and wrung his hands.

Ammad stood, agonisingly aware that one of the fake arms had slipped and the woman’s hand now hung near his knee. He gritted his teeth against the overwhelming desire to wrench it off.

The ruler, distressed by the events at the stadium, had gone straight to his private quarters to compose himself, but had given orders for the Crown Prince, Jakira and the Minister of War, Whaled, to attend him.

Now the three of them stood in the ruler’s receiving room, flanked by Cuttarrs. They watched as the ruler blundered back and forth muttering to himself. It was obvious he was plucking up enough courage to say what was on his mind.

Jakira eyed Ammad’s arm and then gazed at him venomously, as if it was his fault that her fake arm had been shoddily sown in and was now slipping nearer and nearer to the floor.

Whaled stood still, stolid and patient. The only thing that moved on his body was his mass of hair sprouting from face, nose, brows, ears… that swayed in the gentle breeze from a nearby slave’s palm-frond fan.

Mastiq stopped and faced them, gesturing to the plump floor cushions arranged in a half circle around a low table set with dates and mint tea. “Let’s sit.”

As Mastiq arranged his unwieldly self on the cushions, Ammad squatted and sat, as Samark had taught him, with little effort. His arms splayed out. Jakira watched him closely and then sat strategically between him and Mastiq, arranging her svelte self to hide Ammad’s arms from Mastiq’s view. Whaled sat to Mastiq’s other side. His finger worried briefly at his cavernous nostril, before he folded his arms.

Mastiq turned towards Whaled, the ruler hefting his great gut to get more comfortable. While his back was turned Jakira discreetly arranged Ammad’s arms as best she could, refusing to touch the hands, which weren’t quite as fresh looking as at the beginning of the day.

The Ruler of Drome sighed heavily and then reached out a hand to Whaled and rested it on the great hairy man’s thigh.

“My dear friend, we have known each other since boyhood. And I am so…” Mastiq circled his other hand as if he couldn’t find the right word. He continued on without one, “that you didn’t disclose the extent of my son’s injuries.”

Whaled opened his mouth to reply but a sharp head shake from Mastiq stopped him.

Mastiq took his hand from the Minister of War’s thigh and turned to Jakira. “And you, my dearest, my favourite concubine, the mother of the Crown Prince. You too…”

The ruler was at a loss for words again and waved his hands about in a fluster.

Jakira dipped her head and looked up through her eyelashes at Mastiq. “Oh, my darling, we so wanted to tell you sooner, but Ammad nearly died and has been gravely ill. We knew it would be too much for you to bear, we couldn’t put you through that trauma.”

She shifted closer to Mastiq, sweeping her luscious brown hair over one shoulder. His eyes glazed and his entire body softened as he was sucked in by her beauty.

But he shook himself out of it, putting up a palm to stop Jakira’s seductive advance. Jakira’s shoulders tensed momentarily in disbelief. Her charms had never been denied before.

Mastiq addressed Ammad, but couldn’t look at him, staring instead at the dates on the table. “And you son… those are…” and then in a hot, spewing rush, “not your hands!”

If he could, Ammad would’ve clapped at the old fool’s superior deduction skills. “Oh, Dada, Dada,” he said in his most childish, pathetic voice.

But Mastiq wasn’t swayed. Bolstered by his first-ever rebuff of Jakira, he ignored Ammad and turned back to Whaled.

“I’ve thought long and hard about this and venturing into Peqkya was a mistake. The army needs new leadership, you will step down,” Mastiq said with a nod.

Whaled’s eyes narrowed and his fists tensed. Carefully controlling his tone, he said, “Ruler Mastiq, I argued against invading.”

Mastiq waved Whaled’s retort away and turned to Jakira. “And I’m sorry, my dear, but Ammad can no longer be Crown Prince.”

A sound like a great glass window shattering and falling to the ground crashed in Ammad’s ears.

“Oh, my darling, you must reconsider!” Jakira slid gracefully into Mastiq’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and nuzzling into it so he had a full view of her chest.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” She whispered sweetly in his ear, in between nibbling it. “The moment you set eyes on me? I’d fallen in your lap…”

Mastiq ogled her cleavage for a moment. Took a great breath in, as if smelling her scent for the last time, and shoved her inelegantly off his lap. Jakira landed on the floor by his feet, her hand on her heart. A hurt look spread across her features and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. As fake as Ammad’s arms. He knew his mother would be furious.

“He is a war hero,” Whaled said, to Ammad’s surprise.

Mastiq shook his head.

“People respect a man with military prowess,” Whaled insisted, and Ammad didn’t think he could get any more surprised.

“Yes, and also one who is whole,” Mastiq retorted, refusing to be persuaded.

Jakira, debasing herself and with a hint of distaste across her lips, leaned forward and planted little kisses over Mastiq’s feet.

“You must see it from your son’s point of view,” she begged, hugging Mastiq’s lower legs and looking up desperately at the ruler. “He is the same man, with the same intelligence. He is the perfect Crown Prince and will be an exceptional ruler when you care to grant him that honour. He—”

“Is no longer whole, my dear.”

Jakira continued, “Grant him a scorch season and the people will love him again. He is learning to fight again, he will play polo again. It just will take some time…”

Mastiq shook his head. “No.”

Jakira’s tone turned icy and she used his legs to hoist herself up. She loomed in front of him. “But who will you pick? Not your firstborn Hallid, he is a drunken embarrassment. Who? Who?”

Mastiq, flummoxed, shrunk back. He waved his hands in front of his face as if trying to swat the question away. He clearly hadn’t thought that far ahead. Ammad knew it would’ve taken all his father’s wits to have used Whaled as a scapegoat for the Peqkya invasion to deflect the people’s anger away from him.

“Guards,” Mastiq shouted and two Cuttarrs stepped forward, “escort my guests out.”

The three men stood. Ammad as quickly as Whaled, he was proud to note. Mastiq took some amount of time, and eventually a Cuttarr came to help him up.

Enraged, Jakira’s cool veneer crumbled and she made a grab for Mastiq, as if to shake some sense into him. “He is your son!”

Whaled, Ammad and the two guards all lunged for Jakira. Whaled got there first, grabbing her and pulling her away before she could strike the ruler.

Ammad took his mother’s place in front of the ruler and, so they had something to do, the Cuttarrs grabbed Ammad’s fake arms.

Shocked by Jakira’s venom, Mastiq said, “I know, I know, and I pity him, the poor, poor boy. Now a cripple.”

Pity! A cripple! I’ll show that old piece of camel s**t.

Ammad sprung forward. The guards who held his arms reacted in precisely the way that he wanted them to – they pulled them backwards. He squatted and kneeled forward and his tunic, complete with fake arms, was pulled straight off over his head.

With a naked chest and just his trousers, Ammad jumped to his feet, bent his knee and kicked Mastiq in the face. It was a swinging kick Samark had taught him, and one that Ammad was proud to admit he’d mastered quickly and was pretty f*****g good at.

“Oh!” Mastiq exclaimed as he fell on the cushions, clutching his jaw.

“I’m not a f*****g cripple. I don’t want your pity. You owe me your respect,” Ammad shouted at his father.

The guards, recovering from the shock of holding a tunic with arms and no person within, came at Ammad with their hands. Ha! The other reaction he was hoping for. Samark hadn’t yet taught him how to deal with men bearing swords.

He kicked out at one, connecting with the guard’s chin. Not as high as before, Ammad noted with annoyance. The other barrelled into his torso, slamming him against the wall and pinning him there.

That wasn’t expected and Ammad had no idea how to get out of it. He wriggled and struggled but to no avail. He needed more time to train.

Whaled, the second time that day protecting Ammad, said gently to Mastiq, “He is upset, my friend. I understand your actions, but he is still young. Forgive him for striking you. Forgive him.”

“Ammad,” Jakira hissed.

Ammad stilled his squirming, allowing his body to slump into the cutthroat’s grip. “Dada, oh Dada, forgive me, forgive me,” he grovelled, adding a sniff and a whimper for effect.

“Forgive him, my love, please,” Jakira said.

Mastiq’s decision-making that day was well and truly spent and he immediately agreed with their suggestion. “I forgive you, my son. You must be distraught. Jakira, I am releasing you from concubinage so you can focus fully on caring for him. He needs you more than I do. Whaled, my friend, you will be well compensated. Take them away.”

And with that, Jakira, Ammad and Whaled were all relieved from their positions of power and conducted unceremoniously out of the palace. The message clear – never return.