EIGHT
‘THE ANSWER IS NO.’
Karim’s voice was harsher than usual, sharp rather than simply firm. The Assaran envoy’s suggestion had stunned him. It seemed, despite his actions five years ago, he was still a part of Middle Eastern politics.
Karim stared through the window at the panorama of sapphire lake, verdant foothills and Swiss mountains, yet felt none of the calm the view was supposed to inspire. He spun around, ignoring the quickened beat of his pulse and the clench of his gut.
‘But, Your Highness…’
Karim stiffened at the words. ‘I no longer use a royal title.’
He watched the envoy absorb that.
‘Sir, at least take time to consider. You haven’t yet heard the Royal Council’s reasoning.’
It was an enormous honour to be asked to take the Assaran throne. Especially since Karim wasn’t Assaran. He came from the neighbouring kingdom of Za’daq, where his brother now ruled.
Karim wouldn’t accept the Assaran crown. Yet he wondered why the Council was looking beyond its borders for a new sheikh. What about the heir? He knew the recently deceased ruler of Assara had left behind a wife and son.
When Karim realised the direction of his thoughts he sliced them off. But not quickly enough to dispel the sour tang on his tongue.
‘Please, sir.’
The man looked distressed. Karim knew his visitor would be blamed for failing in his mission. If it was discovered he’d been ejected by Karim in mere minutes…
Stifling a sigh, he gestured to the lounge. ‘Take a seat. You might as well be comfortable.’
The presidential suite of this exclusive hotel might be comfortable, but sadly it hadn’t proved exclusive enough to prevent this unwanted diplomatic delegation. As the hotel’s new owner, Karim would change that.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Even so, he waited till Karim had taken a seat facing him. Deference towards royalty was ingrained in the man. Even royals who’d renounced their regal claim.
For a mad moment Karim considered revealing the truth and ending this farce. But he’d vowed not to. His brother Ashraf had enough to deal with, imprinting his own stamp on Za’daq. He didn’t need full-blown family scandal as well.
Their father had believed Ashraf, the younger brother, was the result of an affair between their mother and the man she’d later run off with. It had only been as the old Sheikh lay dying that they’d discovered Ashraf was legitimate.
Instead Karim, the firstborn, the one groomed from infancy to take the throne, was the cuckoo in the nest.
When, soon after, the old Sheikh had died, Karim had renounced the Za’daqi throne in favour of his brother. No one but the brothers knew the scandalous reason for his decision.
‘The Council has given this its deepest consideration since the tragic death of our Sheikh.’
Karim nodded. The Assaran King’s death had come out of the blue. ‘But surely there’s an heir?’
If the envoy noticed Karim’s voice had turned to gravel, he didn’t show it.
‘Yes, but he’s far too young to take up the reins of government. If the boy were older…a teenager, perhaps…a regent might be appointed to rule in his stead and help guide him. Given his extreme youth, the Council has decided unanimously that it’s better for the country to find a new sheikh.’
‘Thus disinheriting the child?’ Karim had never met the boy. Intended never to meet him. Yet he felt for the child. His own brother would have been denied his true birthright if disapproving old men had had their way.
‘Our constitution is different from yours in Za’daq, sir. In Assara what we propose is quite legitimate. The crown is passed from adult male to adult male.’
Karim nodded. This wasn’t his battle to fight. He was only hearing the envoy out so the man could tell his masters he’d done his best.
‘Surely there are suitable leaders in Assara? You don’t need to go outside your country.’
Especially to a man who’d already turned his back on one sheikhdom.
The envoy pursed his lips, clearly taking time to choose his words. ‘I need hardly say, sir, that the Council’s deliberations are in strictest confidence.’
‘Naturally.’ Karim nodded. ‘You have my assurance that nothing you say will leave this room.’
It would have been easier to end the meeting and send the man away. But Karim’s curiosity was roused. He’d spent years building his investment business in lieu of ruling a country. But some things hadn’t died—such as his interest in state affairs.
‘Though the Sheikhs of Assara have been from the same family for over a hundred and fifty years, other significant families claim the right to offer a candidate in times where the inheritance is…complicated. Several names have been put forward. The one with the best claim is Hassan Shakroun.’
The visitor paused and Karim knew why. Shakroun was a bully whose idea of negotiation was bluster and intimidation. He was interested in personal aggrandisement and expanding his wealth, not in his nation. No wonder the Assarans were scoping other options for a king.
‘I see you know the name.’
‘We’ve met.’ Once had been enough.
‘Frankly, sir—’ The man swallowed, then ploughed on. ‘The Council is of the opinion that it’s not bloodlines that should determine our next leader so much as personal attributes.’
Karim swallowed a wry smile. They certainly wouldn’t get royal bloodlines from him, even if his mother was from a powerful family. His real father, as far as he could tell, came from humble stock.
‘You’re after someone who will do the bidding of the Council?’
It had been the same in Za’daq. Many councillors had been close friends of the previous Sheikh and, influenced by the old man’s disdain for Ashraf, had made his succession difficult. Things were better now, but for a while many had sought to bring Karim back and install him on the throne. Which was one of the reasons he’d refused to return to visit his homeland, except for Ashraf’s wedding. The other being that he knew it was better to cut all ties rather than pine for what might have been.
‘Not at all, sir.’ The envoy interrupted his thoughts. ‘The Council wants a strong leader capable of taking responsibility. A man who knows diplomacy and statecraft. A man who’ll be respected by other rulers in the region. If that man