Artifice excerpt:

As the servants cleared away the remains of the meal, Jahzel retired into a private inner chamber where he often read from his collection of scrolls or, when the mood took him, indulged in more intimate pleasures. His servant Udjan, at his post in the corner, stood ready to carry out whatever wishes his prince might have, but after several moments contemplating what he ought to do, Jahzel decided he was interested in neither reading nor lovemaking.

“Pour me a cup of Besarian white,” he said, “and I will walk outdoors. The evening is pleasant enough for it.”

Udjan poured the wine, tasted it and discreetly wiped the rim of the cup before offering it to Jahzel. “Do you require a guard to follow you, my lord?” he asked. Jahzel liked his unadorned manner, yet there was no engaging him in conversation. The man only spoke as many words as were needful, and Jahzel knew he would never relax his vigilance before the High Prince even if granted leave.

Wine in one hand and a lantern in the other, Jahzel strolled through the gardens. Twilight had already fallen over the city, a rich blue dusk into which the moon rose high and full: the kind of desert night about which poets sang. Gooseflesh prickled his arms at the breeze that stirred the manicured fruit trees and hedges. Even though the rains had ended four weeks ago, spring nights remained cool.

Torchlight flickered from the sentry post by the far wall. A uniformed guard peered out, poised to issue a challenge until he recognized the intruder as the High Prince. With a crisp salute, he and the other sentries respectfully melted back into the shadows as Jahzel passed into the outer court.

The frieze, a mountain of dark draperies, dominated the space. Gingerly stepping over the ropes that pulled the cart, Jahzel approached and raised the cloth. Placing his wine cup at the base of the sledge, he lifted the lantern and gave the carvings the attention his earlier audience did not permit. Real temple dancers were androgynous creatures, painted and choreographed in stylized movements. In his work Khemwy had captured that air, yet in places life breathed through. Jahzel savored the details with which the stone carvers had lavished their work.

Here was a face of astounding beauty, eyes half-closed and full lips parted in ecstatic worship. Jahzel let his fingers graze the finely finished surface, lingering over high cheekbones and sliding down to trace the tendons in the neck. Khemwy always used models for his work, but without access to the exquisite bed slaves of the elite, where had he found such a lovely boy to pose for him?

Dropping the cloth back into place, Jahzel finished his wine and made his way back to his apartments, where he spent an hour reading before he had Udjan summon the eunuchs of the bedchamber to help him retire.

Workers came at midmorning to pull the cart from the palace to the temple of Shalat, where the frieze would be mounted on one of the walls. Since yesterday, no grumbling had come from the priests, which meant they either approved of the work or were indifferent.

Jahzel briefly interrupted to see how the work was progressing and exchange a few words with Khemwy. A team of eight mules was brought in through a side gate to be hitched to the cart; the overseer barking at the handlers straightened and immediately softened his tone when he spied the High Prince watching from the archway.

Khemwy gestured at him to continue before offering Jahzel an anxious bow. “Forgive the commotion, my lord.”

“Noise and industry are synonymous with each other, master carver,” answered Jahzel. “I examined your work more closely last night. Your models must have been of exceptional quality.”

“What’s that, my lord?” Khemwy strained to hear over the noise before asking Jahzel to repeat what he had said. “Oh, yes. I’ll only take the best.”