by David Ward
All Yeats could do was nod. In only a few minutes he had been threatened with losing both his head and his hands. From the short time he had spent in this land, he did not doubt it was going to be a challenge to stay in one piece.
eats tied on an apron and hurried to catch up to Mohassin.
“The fire must be kept burning,” the old cook instructed. “When you are not chopping onions or peeling garlic you will check the fire regularly.” Yeats noticed an enormous pot in the center of the room with live coals beneath it. Steam poured out of the top and he could just make out something murky and brown boiling slowly and making frothy bubbles. Several featherless birds hung from a hook above the pot. Their heads were missing. Yeats shivered.
As they carried on into the next room, Mohassin continued to give instructions and pointed at various plants or herbs. Occasionally he shouted orders to servants who were all busy at work, most of them chopping cabbages or onions. The heat was oppressive.
“My soups and sauces are used by all the royalty,” Mohassin commented. “Although my humble kitchen is outside the palace, I have many customers within it. So you will make certain that every chop, every leaf, every seed of cumin is to its exact measure.” Yeats nodded at everything the cook said but desperately hoped he would not be asked to repeat any of it.
When the tour ended Yeats was left alone to manage the fire. While he stirred the coals his mind raced with everything that had happened. At least he was headed in the right direction now and not lost in a strange town. He was back on track; he had found Mohassin, he was near the palace, and if all went well he would see Shaharazad that very night.
Yeats blew gently at the base of the fire and a great flame leapt up. There was movement near his knees, and when he looked down he saw a crowd of nasty-looking bugs scurrying from the circle of rocks around the fire. He stood up quickly with a gasp and the bugs shot across the floor to hide under a basket of cabbages.
“I don’t think this place would pass health inspection,” Yeats muttered.
Nearby, his fellow servants glanced at him periodically. One or two gave him encouraging looks and an older man showed Yeats how to control the flame when the coals died down.
Once he understood his chores, Yeats returned to his thinking. It was not clear if Mohassin trusted him or not. Every time the old cook checked up on him (which felt like every few minutes), there was a hint of distrust in his voice and his eyes. Shari’s ring had done the trick so far, but would Mohassin truly take him to see the girl at midnight? Or would there be a guard waiting for him in the darkness instead? And what did Mohassin mean about the girl practicing swordsmanship? She had not said anything about that. He thought of her determined eyes and nodded to himself. Yes, she was definitely someone who would know how to use a sword. That might make things more difficult.
He was still mulling over his thoughts when the old cook reappeared with a small platter and cup in his hands.
“Come and sit here, boy. Eat and listen to your next duties,” he said in an overly loud voice. The platter contained a lump of sweaty cheese and a piece of flat bread. Yeats gulped it down without a moment’s thought. The cup contained a yellow liquid. Yeats could not stop his face from scrunching at the taste.
“What is wrong?” Mohassin queried. “It is good wine.” Yeats raised his eyebrows. He suddenly thought of his father, scrunching his face after drinking the Scotch in Gran’s kitchen. Yeats clenched his fist.
And then the cook said something to lift Yeats’s spirits. Holding a cabbage in one hand and a knife in the other, Mohassin proceeded to describe the proper method of cutting the vegetable. In between his loud instructions the old cook inserted hurried, whispered directions. “You will accompany me into the palace for the noon meal. I will bring you to the inner pool and point to the hall where you may find my lady’s chamber. You will have to keep a sharp memory of everything, as the palace is not as easy to navigate at night. I assume you know my lady’s door?”
“Yes,” Yeats answered. The cook nodded almost imperceptibly and then held the cabbage up into the light of an open doorway.
“Should you cut too deeply on the first stroke you can always salvage the cabbage by turning it over and making a second here, like so,” Mohassin said.
It was all cabbages and onions until lunchtime. The smoke made him choke and the onions made his eyes burn so badly that Yeats found himself longing for the afternoon adventure to begin.
Mohassin returned, carrying a steaming pot in either hand. “Take these,” he commanded. “I will buy bread in the market and then we will go to the palace.” As they left for the palace, Mustafa, the beggar, gave a start as they stepped out the doorway. He reached out with his crutch and cackled with laughter when Yeats stumbled. Yeats regained his balance and gave Mustafa his best frown. The beggar cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Maggot!” Mohassin, several strides ahead, did not notice and advanced toward a bread stall.
Once the bread was purchased Mohassin kept Yeats close as they worked their way through the crowd. With every step the old cook plied him with questions.
“Tell me about your father and these people he knows who have managed a private audience with my lady.”
Yeats swallowed. This was dangerous ground. How could he describe Skin and Bones without raising Mohassin’s suspicions? He decided it was best to talk about his father. He chose his words carefully, thinking of the language he heard around the university back home.
“My father is a scholar,” Yeats began. “A learned man. When he was here … some time ago …” Yeats could feel his cheeks flushing as he fumbled for words. “He helped Shari … Shaharazad.” Ahead of them, the carts stopped and people were yelling.
Mohassin nodded. “It is common for palace people to hire foreign tutors. But I have not heard of your father before.”
“Yes,” said Yeats eagerly. “We are from very far away. You would not have heard of him.”
“And my lady’s father?” Mohassin continued. “He has brought you here?”
“Not exactly. These people my father knows …” They reached the carts, and Mohassin motioned for Yeats to stop speaking. Yeats breathed a sigh of relief and silently scolded himself for bringing up the pirates again. One thing was certain: Mohassin was shrewd. The best plan of action was to avoid his questions whenever possible.
A cow lay on the road and the carts were forced to stop.
“Come,” said Mohassin. “The beast might be there all day. And we have business at the palace.” The cook led Yeats around the milling crowd of farmers and merchants and then rejoined the path a little farther along. The distraction created by the cow brought a little relief for Yeats, as Mohassin did not raise the topic of the pirates again. Instead, he grew more agitated as they walked and told Yeats of various passages and rooms to avoid once they were inside.
“I cannot help you tonight,” Mohassin said. “God help you if you are caught, for I will deny that I ever met you.” He spoke so matter-of-factly that Yeats was left feeling a little cold inside. He had not forgotten that his father had almost lost his head in this place.
“This way!” said Mohassin. Yeats looked up. The palace loomed large above them, and Yeats was startled again by the magnificence of the high walls and the flowing script engraved into the stone. There were guards everywhere and the sun glistened off their pointed helmets.
There was a servants’ door some distance away from the main gates and it was to this entrance that Mohassin hastened. “Keep your head down,” he said. “The less you are seen now the more secure your disguise tonight.” He raised an eyebrow and looked thoughtfully at Yeats. “Although it may serve our purposes better if tonight you are a maidservant.”
“But I’m not a girl,” Yeats protested.
The cook smiled. “Perhaps you will be this evening.” They said no more as they approached the entrance. A guard opened the servants’ door. He recognized Mohassin and he motioned them in.
Yeats
gasped. Daylight streamed into a courtyard with an elaborately tiled floor in the form of a rampaging bull. The eyes of the beast were bright red and so vividly angry that Yeats stepped cautiously to avoid its giant head. Airy curtains drifted above them like ghostly arms. Plants and shrubs surrounded a pool and fountain at the far end of the courtyard. Servants passed to and fro carrying platters, jars, clothes, and parchments. Yeats twitched his nose. He smelled coffee again, and bread. His stomach rumbled.
“Look there!” whispered Mohassin, and he nodded to the right of the pool. He leaned closer to Yeats. “That is the way to the lady’s chamber. Do you see it? There is a garden there as well.”
A long hallway branched away through a set of open doors. Yeats nodded. The cook continued. “Our way continues on. We cannot go there now. You will need to find the pool to set yourself right. If you become lost, always find the pool. It is the largest in the palace and the hallways lead back to it. At night, there are torches set around it to illuminate the surface.”
Yeats nodded. The pool would be hard to miss. Mohassin led them off to the left, to the one doorway that looked darker than the other light-filled adjoining chambers. Passing through the gloom Yeats saw a smoky, high-ceilinged room, five times the size of Mohassin’s kitchen. Servants were bustling in and out with platters of bread, cheese, and vegetables.
“More salt!” someone shouted.
“Bread is ready!” shouted another. A servant pushed past Yeats and said, “His Highness Prince Vikram has stomach pains and does not want his rice cakes!”
“Bring it here,” someone called. “We know what to do with it!” There was an outburst of laughter.
“I’ll take his wine,” said another.
“You take everyone’s wine,” came the retort. There was more laughter.
At that moment a bustling figure came through the doorway. “I’ll give you all something to think about if you’re not busy!” The officious man carried a stick, which he smacked into his open palm. The servants fell quiet and picked up their pace.
“How many people are in this place?” Yeats whispered in wonder.
“In the palace?” countered Mohassin. “Hundreds of royalty. But not nearly so many as there are servants. Enough, now. No more speaking.”
They stayed only long enough for Mohassin to deliver the pots of soup. “Lay them down there,” he directed. Yeats set them down in front of a thin, nervous-looking man with an enormous white turban. The man gave Yeats a doleful stare.
As they moved away, Mohassin remarked, “He is one of the royal tasters. It is his honor to find poison in the food and to die in the stead of a prince or princess.” Yeats glanced back. The taster lifted the lid off one of the pots and sniffed. Then he slowly dipped a spoon into the soup.
“What happens if he finds poison?” Mohassin said, anticipating Yeats’s question. “Once he is dead, guards are sent to find the cook who made the soup. This can be difficult sometimes because many servants are involved in making and preparing the food.” He sighed. “There have been entire kitchens beheaded.”
Yeats gulped.
Mohassin waved a hand. “Tasters should not complain. At least they taste the best food in the land. All day long. What a glorious manner in which to die!” He spoke the words wistfully. Yeats thought of Mohassin’s kitchen, his cabbages and soups, and the piles of vegetables pouring into the pantry. The man was clearly dedicated to cooking. Yeats could see why Shaharazad and the royals trusted him. It was uncomfortable to think that the old cook did not trust Yeats, and he wondered if he should simply try to tell the whole truth. But how could anyone be expected to believe it? That was a disturbing thought, considering that he had come here with the purpose of convincing Shari of the same thing.
When they came back into the light of the hallway, Yeats took a moment to get his bearings. The pool gleamed pleasantly and ahead of him he could see the raging bull mosaic. Mohassin watched him closely.
“Do not trust the bull,” he said. “There is a bull mosaic at every entrance. Only the pool is a trustworthy guide. There are many smaller pools in the royal gardens. But this is the only one inside.”
The walk back to the town was uneventful other than that Mohassin appeared to grow more agitated with each step. He glanced at Yeats frequently and was on the verge of saying something many times, but he held his tongue. Finally, as they neared the town gate, Mohassin said, “Tell me again how you managed to get so close to her ladyship without the guards being alerted.”
As they moved through the milling crowds Yeats had to yell. “My father’s friends took me there!” He winced at the thought of the pirates being friends of his father. That was certainly stretching the truth. Mohassin caught the look on his face.
“Who are these friends?”
Yeats sidestepped a cart and then moved back closer to Mohassin. “They come from the same place I do, and they know Shaharazad too.”
Mohassin led them to the kitchen entrance where Ali had brought the cabbages. Mustafa was napping against the wall and did not wake as they passed him.
“Are they royalty?” Mohassin asked.
“No.”
“Soldiers?”
They were standing in the pantry, and Yeats was feeling more claustrophobic with every question. For a cook, Mohassin sure knew how to ask pointed questions. “Not exactly,” Yeats answered.
Mohassin’s voice was growing hostile. “Mercenaries? Spies?”
Yeats felt a little dizzy from the questions and the potency of moldy vegetables in the enclosed space. “Well, no. I mean, I don’t think you could call a pirate …” Too late, the word slipped out and Mohassin pounced.
“Aha! A pirate!”
“No!” Yeats tried to recover. “They are not like regular pirates.”
“Why are you working for pirates? Who is paying you?” Mohassin demanded.
Paying him? No one was paying him. Unless … “Shaharazad!”
“Show me!” Mohassin commanded.
Yeats fumbled for the coins. Mohassin’s eyes widened as the coins appeared.
“Silver! These were the coins offered to me! You were spying! What have you done to her! Have you harmed her, you young snake? And where are your pirates? Does someone call for her blood as one of the last young women left in the city? Her ladyship is in danger!”
Yeats pushed back against the cabbage and onion baskets. “I swear to you I mean her no harm!”
But the cook’s suspicion could not be assuaged. “Guard!” Mohassin yelled and threw out his arms to prevent an escape.
“You were supposed to help me!” Yeats pleaded. “Remember the ring? She said you would help me. Where’s your loyalty?”
“I will not help an enemy of Shaharazad!” There was movement behind Mohassin. Another cook entered and brandished a wooden spoon. Behind him stood a guard, the same one from the morning. His sword glinted in the light streaming from the doorway.
“We have a traitor in our midst!” Mohassin pointed.
“I’m not a traitor,” Yeats said. “You must believe me. I’ve come a long way to save her. I’m on her side.” He clambered onto the baskets, squishing vegetables as he went.
“Come here, little traitor,” the guard cooed. “I will make your end swift enough. Your head will join the cabbages!”
“Ah ha ha ha!” cackled Mustafa from the doorway. “Cabbage head! Cabbage head!”
Reaching the shelves, Yeats climbed for the ceiling. The guard pushed ahead of the cooks and slashed. A spray of wood splinters splashed over his knuckles.
“Are you crazy?” Yeats shouted. “I’m just a kid!” He kicked at the guard’s helmet and sent a basket of onions cascading to the floor. The men leapt aside, and Yeats suddenly had an idea.
He began hurling onions. The cook dropped his spoon with a cry of pain when an onion caught him on the nose. Yeats shouted triumphantly. When the onions ran out he threw fist-size garlic bulbs. Mohassin yelped.
“Treacherous filth,” the
guard growled.
“More!” shouted Mustafa. “More!”
In a moment, all three men were hurling onions. Mohassin’s turban had begun to unwind and trailed in front of his eyes. He threw with a fury. A large onion caught Yeats on the cheek. In addition to the sting, he lost his balance and the entire shelf wobbled precariously. The room swirled in front of him and the men gaped with open mouths.
“Look out!” the cook screamed.
Too late, the shelf toppled with Yeats riding its crest. There was a terrible crash. Cabbages and onions bounced out the doorway. Between his feet the point of a scimitar stuck up through the head of a cabbage. The guard groaned.
“Oooooh!” said Mustafa and clapped his hands. “Clever maggot.”
Yeats pushed off from the pile and fled into the busy street.
ince dawn Shaharazad had idled in the garden, waiting for midnight under the watchful eye of her maidservant, Rawiya. There was little the old woman missed, and Shaharazad had done her best to appear eager for pampering. Rawiya had spent her life tending to children from the royal court and there was nothing she felt more comfortable doing. If Rawiya suspected that Shaharazad was waiting for a visitor that very night all would be lost. And so Shaharazad pouted and complained as was her right as the daughter of the royal vizier, all the while feeling sick with anticipation. White blossoms covered the grounds, and she busied herself with twining the new petals into a coronet. Her gaze flickered often to the trees.
At her feet, Khan was restless, incessantly stirring from the shade and rubbing his back against her legs. He, too, was interested in the garden shadows.