Few other less welcome sights could be conceived by the people of the capital city of Elbar than the approach of fourteen-year-old Princess Azalea Husniria, their current Amir's fourth child and second daughter.

Never known for any notions whatsoever of 'courtliness' so often associated with ones of her rank, this princess appeared, on the other hand, to take pleasure in things beyond comprehension--putting it mildly--and would often fume at the slightest fault (in this she was almost implacable). The outbursts alone would have been something to behold.

Walking with her would almost feel like carrying along a powder keg whose trailing powder had been lit.

The people, thus, sagely stayed clear of her path, watching balefully as their princess--currently garbed in a sleeveless five-bottomed doublet, loose trousers meant for scouting or hunting, and jet-black boots still dripping with mud from yet another round of misadventures--directed her steps to a garment shop. Some went so far as to whisper prayers and best wishes for the next individual fortunate enough to come right into her scrutinizing sights.

The princess's sharp gaze of crystal-blue eyes that portended confidence almost to a fault added still more to the common folks' apprehensions. That she was carrying no visible weapons was small consolation.

For her part, Azalea bore little to no scruples: she was a princess, this was how people and things should be.

There was, after all, such a thing as 'social class'; cherished and kept in place even during the days of someone her father, the Amir, had only deigned to dub as 'The Despot' all those years (though never in the mother's hearing, for some reason); to the effect that people from different rungs ought not intermingle. The princess's mother too had maintained this stance often enough to have the daughter take it as something close to an article of faith.

As the princess entered a shop just before the turn to Emerald Street (she did not even pause to read the shop's name), Azalea was only mildly surprised to learn that the inner side of the shop's door had been equipped with a little brass bell, to help inform those concerned that a customer was impending.

"Welcome!" came the cheery greeting of one of the shop's female assistants, accompanied by a slight dip of the head and a smile... which seemed to freeze in place the moment she took note of the newcomer. "Oh my... it's The Princess."

Azalea smirked, putting one hand on her own hip. "Me again, me always. Why the frostiness, Mina?"

Mina bowed once more, slightly deeper this time. "Please do forgive me! The owner is unavailable as of today to greet Your Excellency in person, but I shall do my best! That is, if anything in our humble stall is of particular interest to your refined tastes..."

"Else I wouldn't be here, moron," Zal blurted. Unceremoniously, she took her muddy boots off; left them by the shop's threshold; and stepped forth, barefoot, to look around. "Let's see... perhaps a new dress today. Best you've got, n' be quick 'bout it!"

There followed a flurry of offers, often accompanied by cajolery and quick tips about each garment's material and price. Yet that day, as in so many other days, this princess did not seem to favor any of these choices; she tore up one dress outright from sheer frustration.

At the end of an hour, Mina was still making an effort to sell.

"How about this one, my lady? Finest Estrean velvet around!"

"How many times must you be told, peckhead?! That dress just now got fewer flower patterns than would be appropriate for my personal use in palace balls! ...No, no, this one's slash of colors is totally on the wrong side, I tell ya... Ah, darn it, this one's just not attractive enough! Won't bring out the charm, and that's about all that would matter in dances! Got me?!"

Mina lowered the dress she was displaying with a huff; the mildest gesture available to her without openly appearing to do a disservice to a member of the royal line.

Be what will be, the now-miserable single attendant groaned inwardly, regretting her earlier persistence in not having taken a day off when such an offer had come. Then at least she would not have had to deal with this... royal nuisance, for lack of gentler terms.

"Princess Azalea, with every respect, how many more garments would you have liked to try out? That dress you've so gracefully torn up, we were this close to providing a decent cut in price for the next fortunate customer..."

That remark provoked a sudden slide of curtains from the rectangular cubicle that the princess had been in. The latter was already back in the sleeveless doublet in which she had first entered the premises.

"Now let's be clear on just one thing, lass," Zal asserted, flicking her jet-black shoulder-length hair back and glaring at the now-horrified attendant. "Customers everywhere deserve to be treated like kings; that's not your lot's creed? With your own tongue, ya declared yours truly to be a princess just moments ago, which is but a step away from the real thing. Not one of the dresses you offered catered to my tastes... and you still dare to question if I'd purchase any of these ragtag clothes? Have I mislaid my sense of hearing, or are you a complete buffoon? Huh? Which is it?"

"Well, if you have no interest whatsoever in those that I've brought and showed, my lady," the attendant tried to reason, "then at least have the grace to take a look at them yourself..."

"Oh, but as can be seen," Zal grinned, "I have walked a darn-long way just to get here, Mina. A pity that the proprietor ain't here... but if ya're somehow not up to serving yours truly--as I could see no other visitors presently--say so. Either way, ya can be sure I wouldn't vouch for ya in the case of yer receiving 'guests' this very night. A word in the right ear..."

Mina blanched, already thinking of her baby boy and how this work as an assistant was her only way to keep things going following that stormy divorce--damn the man. A 'visit' in the manner that this princess was gleefully hinting would almost invariably result in this assistant being kicked behind bars and squeezed dry in the so-called 'protective custody'.

That it would not be done with the Amir's express approval was a small consolation. Rumors had it, though, that he would have liked to delegate such 'more menial' aspects to one of his consorts or the other... and Mina felt she knew which of them would be more than delighted to endorse this kind of undertaking.

"But of course," Azalea resumed presently, "I would not 'ave liked to go empty-handed, so..."

With a quick flick of her hand, this princess took away the dress that Mina didn't realize she was still holding, then stooped down to wipe her own feet with it.

"Velvet, was it?" the customer sneered. "Very fine indeed, consider it an honor that I even touched it... Oh, and my warmest regards for whoever happened to own this pigsty ya dared call a dress shop. Good day."

The attendant, too astounded for speech, could only gaze on as Princess Azalea put her boots back on and started to make her brusque egress. Out in the rain, having slammed the stained-glass door behind her with just enough force not to break it (though she heard the small brass bell fall with a clang), the princess giggled.

"That's how it's done. Score one for the good guys~"

Her share of mischief for that particular day having been suitably sated, and following a moment's thoughtful silence, Zal threw down a pouch of gold coins which she took out from the breast pocket of the doublet--part of her allowance for the day--at the shop's threshold.

"For that velvet dress..." she whispered.

This done, Zal continued occasionally eavesdropping on what she casually dubbed 'rattle-talks' of the commoners as she resumed her wandering around town. More often than not (as she had once been told), words delivered in whispers carried more truth, whether intended or not; and that there was power in information, if one should be clever enough to wield it.

Nor was Zal particularly concerned with how two of her step-siblings would have reacted concerning this bout of misadventure. To blazes with Leia, that 'cheeky Pighead'--she was older than Zal herself by just three days, after all. Rashid was younger and a cheery, dutiful kid besides; no serious threat.

Their eldest brother, Mustafa, was currently far away to the North, keeping encroaching heathens at bay in their lord father the Amir's name... which suited the latter just fine, seeing as he wished to see the North subdued come what may. Let the waves of that region's defending forces first break themselves upon the rock that was Mustafa; then the Amirate would rightfully retaliate in one big, conclusive push.

Utilizing this to her advantage, Zal's mother, Queen Mirani Izuria, had taken steps to ensure nigh-uncontested sway in the capital--which had also been the latter's girlhood home--through agents and informers. By this point, one in five citizens could have been feeding information to Mira's growing network--earning her the dreaded moniker 'Mama Viper'. 

Azalea, so long as she kept obeying this queen's every word as good girls were bound to do, would be practically untouchable.

Yet that was far from being how this feisty princess felt presently.

"Crap," she instead muttered ferociously under her breath when she felt she was far enough away from the messed-up garb shop, tears already bubbling in her eyes. "Crap, crap, crap! So very sorry, Mina... That single pouch o' gold won't remotely be enough for redress, I can tell. 'Twas either yer hide or mine, in any case; I dare not defy Mom publicly, but this I promise: I will make it up to ya in full, soon as I can!"

With gnawing guilt, thus, Zal redirected her steps to someplace she might cry her heart out. Preferably alone.

***

The drizzle, widely believed by many in the realm to be one of those more fortuitous times for prayers to be granted, now thickened; large droplets of rain hit again and again, among others, the single large rose-patterned stained-glass window halfway up Prince Dastra's tutorial chamber. Three years younger than his fiery sister Azalea, Dastra was still trying to get on his proverbial legs on such basic subjects as mathematics and simple poetry... and that day, he was mentally in a bit of a tight corner.

That day's lessons were mathematics (or 'sums', as the young prince called it), involving up to fifty problems on multiplication and division provided as homework by the portly, amiable, turbaned tutor Bahram.

Dastra's lady mother had employed up to ten personal tutors on various other subjects, apparently preferring them over formal enrollment of her royal kids in the Amirate-sponsored Crescentium Academies.

Of the current fifty problems, the first twenty were one-time single-digit operations from each category, and of these, Dastra had solved eighteen.

At present, the prince's pointed quill was already hovering over the still-blank space provided beside the nineteenth problem. Having filled in the answer, Das's eyes widened as he saw that upcoming lessons consisted of a string of two-times (even three times in the last two problems) single-digit operations.

Yet that was hardly the end of the bad news; there were at least three more.

First, his tutor, Bahram, had not yet given the full tips on how to solve the multiple-times single-digit operations before his tutorial hours for the day were over, and he had left with some haste in accordance with his employer Lady Mirani's strict schedules.

Second, this assignment was due the following day.

Third, this time, Azalea was not around to act as his anchor of certainty. Left alone and confused as he was, there was little the young prince felt he could do. At present, with the hand not holding the quill, the princeling pulled at his hair in frustration.

"Aw boy, what do I do now... Should I try to ask Mom? T-then again..." he gulped, "she's more than a tad fearsome if provoked..."

In his dawning frustration, gnashing his teeth, it occurred to Dastra that not many would dare oppose his mother, at least not openly. Not only was she the current Amir's wife and the mother to no less fiery a figure than Princess Azalea; Mirani herself was widely acknowledged to be the 'daughter of the land' and an adept schemer besides. If whispers were to be given credence, Mira knew the alleyways and dungeons of this palace better than even the Amir. No one dared to contemplate what she might do with such knowledge.

Even at that date, the latter consideration still weighed quite heavily in the minds of many.

The princeling shivered again, shaking his head to help clear such misgivings.

"Gotta focus on my immediate business, as Big Sis Zal once said... and that is to get this assignment done before tomorrow! But to barge in on Mom now and ask for her help... wouldn't she be angry at me instead?"

Growling again at this indecision, Dastra closed his eyes and felt rather than saw his hand move the quill back into its inkpot.

"I must use every resource at my disposal, yes," he mumbled; the hand that had been holding the quill now clenched into a fist. "Mom's help is one of them... else I might never get anywhere!"

Saying so with budding determination that he had rarely known before, the princeling rose.

***

In the meantime, in another chamber, the much-dreaded Queen Mirani was having a private conference with Courtier Razin Belvassir, her aide, and two others.

"Our most recent attempt to reassert Izurian dominance had, most unfortunately, not turned out as expected, my lady." Razin gave his report with a furtive look about him. "Not only had this cost us quite dearly in gold, but also the lives of the actual perpetrators, agents that the now-defunct House Azam had so kindly provided."

"In exchange, and as per your directions," Courtier Khazan said, we had switched to either doing away with some of Vazir Yasnar's more well-placed informants or inducing them to change sides, with or without the employment of bribes and torture in your dungeons of choice. Such attempts had yielded but moderate results, but concerning the continued performance of these, ah... 'adventures', we are running out of volunteers and funds. Nor does it seem likely to sway any other parties sympathetic enough to our cause anytime soon. What are we to do now?"

"Lie low," Mirani suggested lightly, "or brave exposure. If ya recall, the target we had chosen for the most undertaking was one with the most perceived value to this Amirate... and that had, as you have so brazenly mentioned, not paid off. We can only hope that the vazir shall not feel too eagerly about the calculated displacement of his men, since he's got the Amir's ear."

"But I thought," Aldeer, one of the other participants, put in, "displacing the current Amir and those associated with him is going to be our primary aim, my lady?"

"Even so, we must know when to exercise caution," Mama Viper reminded him. "So long as there's any progress at all in Urdin's northern conquest, I doubt the people are gonna clamor for his head; us makin' any reckless move now would only accelerate the return to chaos that we've been trying so damn hard to avoid--without anyone on the wing to replace him with, that is."

"There's still Vazir Yasnar. Are you planning to retain him as a figurehead, perhaps?"

"No less ambitious, that," Mira observed, "but not impossible-"

Three knocks on that chamber's doors occurred just then, and Mama Viper narrowed her eyes in quiet dismay.

One of the door-minders went in with small steps, slightly trembling.

"My lady-"

"Had my instructions not to be disturbed during this particular session not been clear enough, perhaps?"

The peon kept his gaze down. "Pardons, Your Grace, but this is no ordinary visitor..."

"Who could it be?"

"It's..."

"Mom!" Dastra burst in, flushed, one hand still clutching his notebook. "Please! Help me get this done already!"

"Dastra?! What d'ya think-" Mira blinked, shaking her head quickly. "Help with what?"

"My homework on sums! Due tomorrow!"

"Dastra, dear, I am having a meeting as ya can see..." she gestured to the three courtiers, who meanwhile had also risen as a gesture of respect, hands folded, gazes to the floor.

"Heck if I care! Might be planning more foul things anyway; sums gotta be done today!"

"Das, you're really makin' a fuss now."

The princeling, instead, rushed on to his mother's seat and grabbed her by the arm with his free hand. "Please. Help. Me!"

Mirani's attendees waited with bated breath, which was released the moment a curt "Leave us" escaped their hostess's lips--which they promptly did, dipping their heads in turn to the princeling as a subtle "best of luck, kid". The youngest prince, catching the hint, gulped.

"Now then, young man," Mirani towered over him moments later, "we are going to talk big time. Come."

So saying, Mirani pulled on her son's ear.

"Urk..!"

Notebook quickly forgotten, the princeling was now husked in such a manner on to another quite isolated chamber, unadorned but for covered clay jugs. It was also windowless and dimly lit.

"In here!"

Dastra complied, already jittery from the pain, tottering toward the clay jug nearest him. The mother hung back.

"Mom, what... what are those?"

"Go ahead, open one."

The princeling obliged with some apprehension--then jolted back as if he'd seen a ghost.

"AHH!! C-Centipedes, dang it... looks wriggly, urgh... BIG jugs of 'em too!!"

When next he looked back, Das found it to his utter horror that he was now all by himself, and that the door had been closed and barred from the outside. In vain did he shout, kick, and bang at it.

"MOM!! No, please, lemme out! Please! Be good from now, I promise... don't wanna be with 'em, not like THIS!! Mom..! Please... be good..."

His manic screams were now interspersed with loud, frantic knocks. At some point, the small panel on the now-barred door slid halfway to the left--revealing the mother's onyx-like eyes: dark and unyielding.

"One hour! Face your fears, Das; this is only the mildest sip."

"Gotta be kiddin'..."

"Best o' luck, son."

Despite the sense of finality that her most recent reply might have hinted, Mama Viper contented herself to stay around for just a bit longer--her gaze through the half-open panel gradually going from stoic to pitying.

"Go ahead, Dastra," she yelled at length, "bawl all ya want. Told ya not to make a fuss... but ya said ya wouldn't care; so be it. Not like I should care how ya'd deal with this either. In the future, best reflect on this; but for now-" Mirani banged at the door once, temporarily stilling the sounds from the other side, "one hour, and not a freakin' second briefer! Off I go."

"MOM!! NO, PLEASE..!!"

But Mama Viper, true to her sobriquet, was by now as good as deaf to the princeling's plight; she even found time to smile on her way.

No blade would be sharp without the process of heated forging; if this was how she could mold her only son to be the man she aspired him to be, well, so be it.