Ounyal’am had always supported this custom. Young royals and nobles needed to see something of the importance ... something other than fine food and drink, affluence and influence, and the garish clothing so prevalent at court. Hopefully, they would see that those placed in power over the common people held an even greater responsibility.
Typically, only two or three families per moon brought their children to observe and learn. Of late, since the emperor’s “retirement,” that had changed, though not for the right reason.
Families from as far as the eastern coastal provinces were in attendance this day. They crowded the floor all the way to walls, leaving poorer citizens to walk a narrow path to the dais. And all in attendance had brought a daughter, a niece, or a sister of proper age ... for marriage.
Some of this could be attributed to celebration of the emperor’s birthday in three days, not that anyone expected Kanal’am to be in attendance. But the celebration had to take place, and it proved convenient for nobles seeking an imperial alliance by marriage ... and later by blood through a firstborn child.
The prince counted no fewer than nine such women—such offerings, such bait—kneeling virtuously beside a well-dressed father and/or mother. What a lovely image they made to uninformed eyes in displaying their interest in the day of “the people’s court.” And kneeling closest, no more than ten paces away, was the most striking young woman.
Durrah was considered by most to be Ounyal’am’s likely choice.
Her family was one of the wealthiest in the empire. Her bloodlines could be traced back almost as far as the imperial line. Tall and well figured, with a mass of dark wavy hair, she was a simulacrum of her mother in spirit and body. Her mind was more like her vicious father.
Durrah’s gaze shifted slightly to meet Ounyal’am’s, as if she knew whenever he looked her way. The barest smile spread across her dark, full lips before she shyly looked away, but he saw the hard triumph in her eyes at his notice.
Cold, ambitious, and cruel, Durrah was most suited to this imperial court.
He swept his gaze over the other young women who knelt among their families like willing sacrificial offerings. He hoped not to see one face ... but he did.
A’ish’ah knelt beside her father, the emir, with her head down and her eyes fixed on the mosaic floor beyond the edge of her mat. Her straight hair hung long enough to touch the floor as she knelt so low. Lovely as she was in her long pale yellow tunic over a white silk skirt and matching slippers, Ounyal’am quickly looked away.
The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to her, for the other families would always be watching. They were capable of anything should they fear their own candidate’s success was threatened. He knew full well that when he finally had no choice but to pick a wife—first and last—he should pick Durrah. He would not subject anyone he cared for to such a life.
No, not A’ish’ah.
At his nod, two imperial guards pulled upon the sweeping, golden handles of the far doors made of the purest ivory slats. As the entrance widened, petitioners entered under the guards’ careful scrutiny. And as always, Counselor a’Yamin led the way with an armload of scrolls.
It had long been the counselor’s duty to oversee the petitioners. In truth, Ounyal’am thought a’Yamin had little interest in common citizens and their needs. The counselor merely insisted on being at the center of anything that happened within the imperial audience chamber. He liked to display his position and authority, more so in the absence of the emperor.
“My prince, I present the people’s requests,” a’Yamin announced, bowing dramatically and holding out the first scroll.
Ounyal’am took it and the proceedings began.
Most issues were typical, such as complaints of overpriced livestock or goods, with the injured party requesting repayment from the seller. In these matters, the prince listened fairly and attentively to all sides.
One man, who had recently suffered from illness, requested a reprieve for taxes on his candle shop. Ounyal’am granted this instantly. And the afternoon crawled on.
One after another, citizens came before him, bowed low—too low for his conscience—presented their situation, and then awaited an imperial pronouncement. There were a few more interesting cases toward the end.
A young man in attendance had become engaged to be married, and the bride’s father had paid her dowry in coin seven days before the wedding, as was customary. The would-be groom spent a good deal of the money on improving his home, to ready it for an impending family. The day before the wedding, the bride’s father broke the engagement and demanded the dowry be returned. The young man learned that the father had arranged for the daughter to marry a more affluent tea merchant. The would-be bride had agreed, assumingly of her own choice.
“I cannot return the dowry,” the young man explained. “I spent much of it in good faith to make a suitable home.”
“Yes, but the marriage will not take place,” the bride’s father insisted. “The dowry must be returned!”
Ounyal’am considered this for a few moments. True, the wedding would not take place, but that was hardly the fault of the would-be groom.
“How much of the dowry remains?” Ounyal’am asked the young man.
“Nearly a third, my prince.”
“As you did not sever the engagement and spent the coin to improve your impending bride’s new home, you will return a third of the original coin and keep whatever small amount remains.”
The young man bowed his head in relief. “Yes, my prince.”
However, the bride’s father, Counselor a’Yamin, and Emir Mansoor appeared stunned and disapproving. In such a case, it was customary for the entire dowry to be returned. This practice allowed any father to keep his options open without risk.
A’Yamin took a step toward the dais. “My prince—”
Ounyal’am cut him off with a cold stare. He waited until the counselor dropped his less than respectful eyes before all in the chamber. Humiliating the imperial counselor was not wise, but Ounyal’am’s bitterness overwhelmed him.
“I see there is one last petition,” and he held out his hand.
The counselor shuddered in his stooped fury, but he presented the last rolled paper.
Ounyal’am took it, peeled it open, and scanned it. The last case was more difficult.
Two sisters had recently lost their father, who had owned one of the largest goat farms adjacent to the city. He had been a steady supplier of milk and cheese. Instead of following custom and leaving everything to his eldest child, he had divided it. Half of the livestock had been left to his younger daughter.
Most of the farming equipment was left under the control of the elder daughter, but she was to allow the workers a choice of which sister they would serve. Nearly all had chosen the younger, and neither sister was turning a profit. The elder wanted to assert her legal—traditional—right to full inheritance.
“Can you not hire new workers?” Ounyal’am asked the elder, and then to the younger, “Can you not purchase the necessary equipment?”
“I tried,” the elder answered, “but the workers have been with our family all our lives. They know our ways and the goats. With new workers, the goats’ milk ran dry. This is harming not only me but other merchants in the city who have relied on my family for many years.”
“And I have no spare coin to purchase equipment,” the younger said. “Not nearly enough buckets or urns and no wagons to carry such to market. I am failing, Highness ... failing in the eyes of my father’s spirit.”