Ikan took a long draw. His eyes were closed in concentration. Then he puffed. A cloud of smoke ushered  from his mouth, rising with serpentine grace, filling his world. Ease and comfort that was what he needed.

He watched satisfactorily as wisps  of smoke curled above his lacquered white clay pipe, climbing with a slow elegance to the   panelled  ceiling of his wide  chambers.

He winced slightly as his  grandson sputtered  over the passage he was reading out loud.

The boy read the old Alamarian text in a way that reminded him of his first time seeing an Andorian new to the City trying to speak Alamarian. A  dog trying to meow would have done better.

He sighed as his grandson continued to murder and mutilate the story from the book. He hesitated and mumbled every now and then.

"Á...meri... Alamaria?"

"No,"  he interrupted the boy who looked up to him with tired eyes.
" It's meRI not MEri. One is Old Alamarian for victory. The other is just plain nonsense. Doesn't that  talkative tutor of yours teach you Old Alamarian?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders, batting his long lashes, before stifling a yawn.

He's handsome, no pretty is the word, like a girl. 

He took after his Hond mother. He probably had her wits as well.

Although, he has his father's complexion, my complexion.

"Grandfather, papa told my tutor not to teach me old Alamarian. He said it is a waste of time to learn a dead language. That it is of no use to a noble born of the house of Vona. Only scholars who had nothing better to do and priests in rite may  bother with it."

He sounds girly too! I had a louder voice at ten.

"Did your father also tell you that Old Alamarian was the language of the kings of old. It was in those words that Arin sang. In those words, our first scribes wrote. Our name is of old too.

"Even that tutor of yours. He should know better than that silly  father of yours who couldn't read a line of old Alamarian in his day.  A story is best told in the tongue that it happened. It captures the very essence of it. Hah!"

He exclaimed, exasperated. He and took a whiff  and puffed again.

"Grandfather?" He asked smiling shyly.  Is he blushing?

"Can I read it to you in proper Alamarian?"

Proper Alamarian?  Does that make Old Alamarian improper? Scholars have a lot to answer for.

"Fine!" He waved his hand. "There's a tome of "King Arin" up the shelf, be careful not to knock off the expensive jade vase next to it. He pointed. "The book was translated into "proper" Alamarian by the pretentious Kuzie Dim . He was dishonest in many of his works, but in that his lies are hardly visible. It's fairly endurable."

The boy leaped off his seat as delicately as the butterflies motifs on his blue luanzi.

The boy found the big book, returned to his   stool next to Ikan's  arm chair and began to read as soon as he found the text.

Ikan watched the smoke dance in the air, clouding the ceiling,  spreading to the  bright mosaicked walls. Some  lazily sailed  out through the open door to his right,  leading to a balcony.

He stared at his smoking dark reflection on his night marble floor. His pipe's mouth glowered like a red eye on the marble.

I'm the King of  smoke.

His grandson droned on.

"And Arin called his ten brothers unto his dwell..."

The story would have been better in old Alamarian. There was something stimulating reverence about it.

"He made a great feast for them. He killed the fattest of his cows, roasted his birds and fetched the sweetest and strongest of wines..."

He sighed. He knew this story by heart. He could recite it in Old Alamarian if he wanted, the way Arin spoke centuries ago. He could utter his purging and piercing Okwu aja word for word.

"And Arin feasted his brothers until they were full and drunk asleep as stone..."

Here it comes.

"Then as the clouds covered the moon and evil things stirred in the night, Arin arose and with his sword slayed his slumbering brothers. For every of his brother he killed, he wept aloud.

"Yet, from his murderous act, he didn't refrain. And the feast of brothers was mingled with blood. The last of his brothers stirred awake before Arin cut his throat, sobbing: "What I do, I do for Alamaria, this my sacrifice...."

Ihah  bu ajam  marey   Alamaria.

Very powerful words. He took another draw, then he released. He felt at ease.

It had to be done. Arin's brothers would have torn the young City to shreds with their feuding.

Never mind that the scholars and scribes called Arin a brethren slayer. Arin did what had to be done for Alamaria. He was no monster, not some heartless schemer.

To survive, Alamaria needed one King. Arin knew this and bravely sacrificed his brothers for that cause. It had to be done.

He had the guts to do what had to be done. It's as Kuzie  Kosi says: "Many call that which is  done cruel not knowing how crueller it's to be left undone."

The boy read on as he smoked on and on. The room was quite foggy now.

Out of that fogginess a figure in a black thobe burst into the room, coughing heavily.

What does he want now?

Ikan continued to watch and smoke as his old house scribe coughed and squirmed in the smoke.

"What's it?" He said stiffly, wondering how long he could tolerate this whooping.

This old fool better not spit phlegm on my floor.

The old man's face looked  so flaccid, his eyes threatened to pop out with each cough .

In between coughs, he sputtered. "I bring you-words! Of gr-eat urgency! From the war front, your Excellency."

"Tah!" Ikan dismissed him with a wave of hand.  "Your news is stale, I have heard already. Now leave  before the smoke kills you. Oh! And inform the Assembly that we shall have a meeting at- What hour is it now?"

"The third hour Of Aoha at day!" He said before whooping up something wet and nasty.

It was late morning. Sunlight had already bathed his corridor golden.

"Tell them, we shall meet at the first hour of Idem at day! Don't say anything,  only a nod will do. I don't want you spilling the nasty thing you just coughed up. Save it in your mouth."

He bowed and fled.

I have one hour before I meet those fools.

Ikan dropped his pipe on a side stool. His grandson had already finished the story. He sat still with eager eyes.

"You want something?"

The boy giggled!

I'm going to have a serious talk with your parents. They shouldn't ignore such.

"You read well enough, although you could be louder. I will have a talk with your father about your education. What do you want as a reward for reading?"

"A sword!" His eyes beamed, going to the jeweled swords hanging on the nearby wall.

There's still a boy in you after all.

"A sword is not a toy." He said stiffly trying to hide his pleasure.

"The guards can teach me how to use it!" He sang with excitement.

He obviously thought Ikan couldn't refuse him.

"I will see what I can do. I will get your size, but before that I will give you Hiray Ele's "The Burden Of The Sword" written in old Alamarian of course."

The boy sighed.

"It should improve your skills and ready you for your sword. Tell the servants to bring me breakfast, leave the door open on your way out. Now go I have got to get ready."

Ikan grabbed an ivory comb from an ornate desk   as soon as his grandson ambled out of his chamber. The eagle headed handle with black gem eyes glared back at him.

He stood before the looking glass and hissed with sudden self annoyance.

What's the business of the vulture with the barber? What am I doing with a comb? Why  do I  even have a comb? I'm bald!

In a fit he threw the heavy ivory comb encrusted with green gems  away furiously.

It crashed into the servant bringing his breakfast. The porcelain tray fell off her hands as she groaned, staggering backwards.

It shattered into fine shards on the marble, along with the glass of milk that formed a puddle with a loaf of bread dipping in it. An orange rolled to his feet.

The servant clasped her mouth, and fell to her knees, her dress soaking up the milk,  muttering a thousand apologizes, pressing her forehead. "I'm sorry, master—"

"Get out and get me another breakfast, find someone else to clean this mess or do it yourself when you return.  I don't pay you and put in fine clothes to dawdle." He barely checked the rage in his voice.

The miserable thing scurried out of the room bowing and apologizing.

He returned to the looking mirror to meet his fierce eyes starring back at him. He ran his hand over his bare head remembering when it was full, black and full in  his youth. It will never be again. Never. It was silly to let such things get to him. He was beyond such trifles.

We are what we are. I might consider wearing a wig.

Breakfast arrived. He startled the servant with a dry apology after she cleaned the floor. "Take the comb too, it's useless to me."

He noticed her swollen forehead.

You were at the the right place at the wrong time.

She grabbed the comb warily, unsure, looking back at him and to the encrusted gems.

"Take it and go, it's all yours."

She muttered a thousand thanks and bowed over and over again.

He hissed and blared "Out!"  

She fled with her precious comb, amusing him with her speed.

As he chewed bread and drank milk, his thoughts returned to the story of Arin. That always put him in an agreeable mood.

A  pity Arin died so early. He ruled for only three years.

Such a bold man would have done more for Alamaria if he had lived longer. Long enough for people to forget him as Brethren slayer and to remember him as the bringer of order and preservation. Perhaps he would have changed the path kingship was destined to follow.

But that was not to be.  He sipped. The milk was as warm as he liked it.

Arin died strangely. He became secluded, melancholic and finally mad  to his grave. 

Some scholars like Woma  ridiculously attributed it to a curse by the gods who sent madness to their victims, on Arin for killing his brothers.

Baseless words, there were kings after Arin who slayed not only brothers but their own sons as well, they reigned to a grey age.

Hilar the bad heart ruled for fifty years. The gods don't care so much for man's cruelty.

Peasants and singers love to sing of Arin's Forlorn love. Baseless  folk tales.

Even more stupid was it, the thought of such a great man driven to insanity by love, even for an immortal.

In the end, he concluded as he stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth, nobody really knows.

He dusted his palms. Now to dress up.

He entered an inner room, his sleeping chamber. His groom had already laid out his official clothes on his giant bed.  It was an elegant thobe.

He ran his hand across the lace, liking the feel of it.  It was a rich purple, it sleeves were cloth of gold. The eagle of his house was emblazoned at its breast.

Lovely

He needed no help with dressing, only babies did.   He slipped out of his voluminous scarlet sleeping gown and into his  official clothes. He adjusted the sleeves and slipped his sandals on.

He went before the looking glass again, smiling with satisfaction at his reflection. He caught the reflection of an incoming servant.

He sighed. I really should start closing my doors. "What's it now?"

"Dinwe, my  mistress, your wife wishes to see you."

You used the Old Alamarian title for lord and master. Well, you're not totally worthless.

"Dirka, right? That's your name?" He asked softly.

"No Dinwe,  I'm Yaki.  But I have been told I resemble Dirka.  You assigned me to the mistress some years ago."

Ikan nodded,  hardly remembering ever doing that. There were so many servants. He barely remembered those attached to him, talk more of the entire household.  But it didn't matter as far they knew him, knew who was master.

His eyes ran over the servant's lean face, full eyes and his tinny hands.

Not so young, not so old.

There was a time when 'Your wife' meant only Kasia to him that was a long time ago

He was left with that harpy of a woman, Eliea for wife.

He didn't want to see her this morning, not before a meeting.  Let her keep her nagging to herself.

"Tell her I'm going to a meeting, I shall not see her this morning.

Hopefully for the rest of the day as well.

Yaki took a bow and saw himself out.

His thoughts finally returned to what he had been contemplating earlier this morning—the news of the battle!

He would admit it didn't go exactly as he hoped, his pest was still alive.

But one can only expect so much from the gods. It was nothing much, he could be handled later.

Whatever be the case, one problem was solved.

He would have to officially inform the Assembly of course, they had probably heard it by now.

There will be noise in the streets, those temple bells would soon deafen the City.

He sighed. "Another day with the Assembly of fools. Let me go and  tell them  that they can gorge themselves to death with feasting if they want, Alamaria is saved."   He began to exit his chamber.

Now everything is in place, the bigger game may begin.