Kyrin let out her breath in a hard rush and scowled. It was a threat, with a thread of something else—but she had yet to see a murdering Arab who could ask for anything. Rubbing her ear, she hurried down the passage behind Alaina, who skittered ahead.
Past Ali’s room and the other wooden door, the passage ended in a storeroom. On the far side another door beckoned. They went through it—and found the open breezeway and the kitchen, filled with echoes, good smells, and busy slaves.
Beyond the circle of light in the breezeway the court was dark. Ceaseless, demanding, and laughing voices clattered in Kyrin’s ears. She followed Alaina uncertainly and looked inside the kitchen. The girl who pinched her brother stood just inside the door, next to a shelf of oil lamps, reaching for a lamp she wanted.
Kyrin kept her voice low. “What is your name?”
The girl startled, but her surprise rippled into delight. “I’m Nimah. You just came; are you like me or like my brother? You both wear clothes like Zoltan, but cook says you are like me.” Nimah took in their dirt-caked toes, streaked thawbs, and the lank hair slipping from Alaina’s kaffiyeh. “You’ll get whipped, you’re dirty.” Her eyes caught again on Alaina’s tangled gold hair, and the force of her thinking curiosity made a wrinkle between her eyes.
Alaina smiled at Nimah. “Can you tell us where to wash? Do we use the horse fountain next to the wall? And where is our room? Umar sent us to find the cook.”
“You know nothing, do you? You are so brown. You will be whipped many times,” Nimah said. Alaina’s smile faltered and heat crept over Kyrin’s face.
“Come, I will show you your room and the pool.” As if she had not just insulted them, Nimah took a lamp from the shelf, smiling, and grabbed Kyrin’s hand, pulling her outside. Laughter welled in Kyrin’s throat. She coughed and followed their small informer. She was not so young as she seemed.
Their room was the one with the wooden door at the south end of the passage. It was square, big enough for two withe beds of the kind her father made. There were no beds, but three thick rugs with blankets for each of them. Kyrin saw Tae’s bag, his stick and sword leaning against the wall.
“Are you married to the hakeem?” Nimah’s eyes were big with question.
Kyrin looked sideways at Alaina. “Yes—”
“No.” Alaina pulled off her kaffiyeh. “Or our Master says we are, but we’re too young. I might tell you more sometime.” Kyrin was sure Alaina blushed, though her cheeks were gold in the lamp-light.
Nimah nodded and turned to their saddle-bags that had been left on their rugs.
“Nara says the hakeem is the only man in the house, besides Umar and our master.”
Kyrin’s throat tightened. Ali tested Tae on all sides. “Where does the Nubian sleep?”
Nimah gaped at her. “He is not all of a man. He guards us at night, and sleeps across the doorway on his rug, near our master’s room. Could—could I see your robes? The ones our master gives you to serve in are so blue they glisten. And your veil—my mother’s does not show her eyes when she goes out. She says it makes her hot. I cannot go out. I may only help Nara cook and serve tea.” Nimah looked down and her voice was wistful.
Alaina pulled the half-veil and pale serving robes that she had fashioned at Ali’s word, from her bag. “If you find the cloth I can make you some like mine—if I am allowed, after we are accustomed to things here.”
“Oh, will you?” Worship glowed in Nimah’s face. “My master will let me wear them soon, if they are as beautiful as yours.”
“We will never get ‘accustomed,’” Kyrin muttered, jerking her robes out of her bag and knotting her half-veil around them. She slipped the falcon dagger under her rug and slung the bundle over her shoulder, ignoring her skinned hand. “Where now?”
They crossed the breezeway and cold pavement and slipped through the unknown gate. Into a shadowed garden. Kyrin and Alaina made a hasty dip in what Nimah called the women’s pool. The water was warm. Kyrin had no moment to look around, for Nimah covered her lamp while they bathed, then they went back to the kitchen.
Nimah skipped through the swirling women and the other girls to the large ovens looming against the back wall on either side of the fireplace. The cook turned, her hands on her hips, her short hair sliding from behind her mishapen ear. She glanced at Kyrin and Alaina and raised her spoon, gazing with a frown at the end. Making up her mind, she pointed the scepter of her domain toward a counter laden with trays. “Take those to our master in the blue room.”
Nimah walked back to them with a platter of rice and lamb and one of almond cakes. She them across Kyrin’s arms.
“The room with the blue curtains, that is the Blue Flower room?”
“Yes. You noticed the flower? Wait inside the door until Umar lifts his hand for you to come. He gets angry if you do not see his first call, so keep him in your eye. Our master has a guest, Sirius Abdasir. Don’t look in his eyes.”
“I won’t make him—I mean, I will watch.” Kyrin bit her lip. What a fool she sounded.
“There’s a platter for you, too,” Nimah said to Alaina, and darted to the counter. Kyrin eyed the steaming, spiced rice with succulent meat underneath that she held. She could eat it all, and the cakes—what did they taste like? Her nose tickled awake. Vanilla, almonds, honey, cloves—and cinnamon.
Her father had liked to suck bits of the spicy imported bark. They had cost him much, but her mother always managed to have a bit in the kitchen. The lamps affixed about the kitchen walls wavered into orange blots instead of flame. Kyrin wiped her face against her shoulder as she could. The platters would not get warmer—and Ali waited. Was her mistress Shema with him?
25
Ploys
If the house is worthy, let your . . . peace come upon it. ~Matthew 10:13
Kyrin jumped at the swish of another slave’s feet and peered behind her. There was nothing under the passage lamps. She sternly told herself falcons were not taken unaware by echoes or anything else. Their keen eyes and ears and sense of smell told them of enemies before they drew near. She came to the Blue Flower room and slipped inside the curtains, stepping to the side of the door.
At the end of the room and left of Ali’s great chair, a woman sat at the knee-high table, her feet curled under her. Beneath her black veil, Shema sat silent and still, her form slight in a grey robe. Kyrin gaped. On a wadi hillside she would resemble one of the rocks. But maybe that was her purpose, to avoid notice.
Umar sat on Ali’s right hand. Beside him sat a guest with a long face, blander than the stone pillars but for his mouth upturned in slightest amusement. His dark eyes saw everything and everyone. His lips curved, and he watched under the cover of his smile. His fine black bisht was trimmed in gold. It draped a green-robed shoulder brushed by dark hair, straight as an arrow. Clipped thick with a hint of well-oiled curl about the ends, his hair contradicted his small bald spot. His smooth, sure movements reminded Kyrin of lords she had known.
There was nothing weak about him. His indifference was that of a wolf, a sated wolf at present. Sirius Abdasir. From his name and features, he carried Greek blood in his ancestry, and his long form hinted at the fleetness of the desert Arab. A golden hunter.
She must not look at him. Kyrin raised her head and her breath froze in her throat. Umar had fastened the tapestry of the tiger on the wall above Ali’s chair. Within the shadow of the pillars, seeming to pace behind her master, the beast waited its chance to break out on them all.
Kyrin stared at the clean floor, gripping her platter. May it not hunt me tonight. I will wake screaming. That will not gain my mistress’s favor. She would not think of it—and there would be no dreams. Her stomach growled.
Ali or Umar would call her soon, for the dishes she held cooled. Though she would be happy to eat any of it congealed, hot, or dug from under a handspan of snow. But it was too warm for snow in this land.
And there was so much food.
Fruit was piled before Ali in a lacquered Persian bowl. Closer to Kyrin, dishes of goat, roast chicken, and soup steamed. Alaina and Nimah joined her, taking up places on the other side of the arch. Umar motioned them forward, but waved Kyrin back when she moved to follow.
Kyrin’s face burned. Was her veil not straight, or had she missed a bit of dirt or mussed her hair?
Alaina presented her bowl of dates to Ali, while Nimah set a jug of tea near the fruit bowl. Kyrin shifted her feet. Her platters were lead, her arms on fire. At last Umar lifted his hand imperiously, and she walked to kneel carefully between him and Ali. Her gaze shifted between them, for she was not used to looking for Umar’s command.
On her blue rug on the far side of the fruit bowl, Shema reached for a date, her hand and wrist delicate, her veil hiding her face. Kyrin extended her dish a little further, but Shema made no move toward it.
Ali nudged his wife with his foot. “If you are well, O moon of my desert, eat. It is the hour to rejoice and savor the fruit of our labors.” His voice was quietly acid.
Shema’s head lowered; she shrank into her grey robes. Ali lifted fragrant rice and meat to his plate, rolled it in a ball, and tossed it in his mouth, chewing with relish.
The Nubian was not in the room. Ali must feel safe with Umar at his table. Though Umar sat without a visible weapon he would have a dagger or two on him, under his bisht perhaps. He ignored Kyrin’s platters. On Umar’s other side, Ali’s guest held a date, nibbling, still with that amused smile.
Kyrin eased the meat platter onto the table with one hand, careful she did not bump the pitcher of tea Umar had shoved toward her, or the cup near the guest’s plate. The man left his date in his mouth and reached, touching the back of her hand with one finger.
Kyrin shuddered with a stifled impulse to hit him. He was a guest—who touched the female slave of another. His rich robes, his daring, stank of power.
She blinked, and glanced at Ali. His eyes were hooded, giving nothing. Running prey drew the hunter. She must attack. She reached for the pitcher of tea, but the man waggled his cup. No more. Kyrin set the jug down and slid silently back from the table.
Ali’s cheeks were red. He opened his mouth. The raven-haired man said softly, “Forgive me, my host. It was but a little sport.” His eyes were satisfied, the lamp-light reflecting in them in bright points. His lips curved in perfect self-reproach.
After a sharp glance at him, Ali’s face smoothed. At length he nodded. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Kyrin’s fingers whitened on the platter of cakes. Men glanced at her, whether they saw the uneven white scar beneath her necklace or not. And they stared always at Ali’s black earring in her ear, a dark contrast to her bronze slave ring.
Ali leaned back with a belch and wiped his mouth with a cloth. “My slaves are free born. I train them to have correct manners and the finest minds. When I break a slave, I train a hissing, screaming eyas. It learns who feasts it, and then it comes to possess a warmth of affection, even of love for its master. This worthless one”—he indicated Kyrin—“looked to my hand when you regarded her.”
The unyielding silver platter hurt Kyrin’s fingers. There was warning for her in Ali’s voice, in his flattened mouth and flushed face. Feel warmth for him, that pale eel who stole her life—never.
“Her sister is a golden flower from the north, but this one contains the spirit of the desert, despite her scarred throat. She holds a rare skill. My hakeem teaches her and the golden one. They will be the talk of Baghdad, trained in the fighting art of the East.”
Ali raised his hand to meditate on his tea in his cup. He stared past it at his guest. “My hakeem is a slave with healing in his hands, but he holds that most rare jewel in a warrior’s body. You will have the pleasure of seeing him perform, O guardsman of the caliph, since you savor the intricate art of war.” Ali sipped at his tea.
From the doorway came a muffled clunk. Shema’s veiled head turned, and Kyrin followed her gaze. The curtain billowed where Alaina had knocked her platter against the door in her swift retreat.
The caliph’s guardsman regarded his host with a pleasant smile, not indicating he heard. Kyrin shifted her weight. So this one was guardsman to the caliph. One to be careful of.
“Ah yes, slaves.” The guardsman waved his hand, dismissive. “My Kef guided you on my ship until your feet could not stay from home, from the apple of your eye.” He indicated Shema without looking at her, and stroked his chin with thumb and finger. “You have not found a man in the far north with the knowledge to change silver for the caliph? No? My eyes darken. No news of the traveler?”
Ali said nothing, his mouth screwed up in pained regret. Kyrin grinned behind her veil. He looked like her father’s purser when her father asked money of him.
“My soul sighs for you, my brother. A merchant so skilled ought not to return without equal trade. It cannot be that the disfavor of Allah rests on you, not on one whose excellence is proven so often.” Sirius smiled. “When might we see this slave’s—dazzling—skill?” His ironic voice sent ants up Kyrin’s back. What did the guardsman play at, with his interest in her?
Ali said, aggrieved, “I beg you, O most estimable Sirius, to honor my house when your days permit. Your words are gems of truth, but the hakeem must deem this one and her sister ready. It is a most rare fighting art. Their readiness will repay you thrice. ”
“Ahh,” Sirius said, “I wait on your wisdom with impatience.”
Ali smiled. “I will not disappoint our most worthy master—or your most virtuous trust.”
Ali touched Shema’s shoulder. She twitched away, and he chuckled. “My quiet one is a desert mouse, soft and busy, unusual among women. She seeks glorious fruit for my house.”
Shema bent her veiled head, her breath sucking the cloth in and out rapidly. Kyrin curled her fist at her side. Umar crooked his finger at her, and indicated Shema’s empty plate. Kyrin slid a honey almond cake onto it.
Strange that Umar considered Ali’s wife. Stranger still, Ali took no notice.
Shema ate while Ali talked with the men. Her hands moved in short darts, as if they feared to be caught, and drew her food behind her veil. When her plate was empty, Ali motioned for Kyrin to come and kneel before them. Heavy with minute flower designs of dark henna, Shema’s thin, child-like fingers retreated to her lap.
Kyrin bowed to the floor. Over her head Ali pronounced, “This is my wife, Shema. Flawed as you are, worthless one, you will be worthy of my generosity when you bear us a son.”
Kyrin lifted her face enough to see Shema. His generosity? She wanted a gift he would never give, and no woman wanted another woman’s son.
Cradling a pearl, the silver circles of a double ring bit into Shema’s white finger. Her hands clenched on her knees. In the quiet room, water trickled past the hunter: touching, giving, its treasure unnoticed.
Shema said no word. She smelled of mint, not flowers. Reaching out, she touched Kyrin’s forehead with one finger. It was so cold it burned. Kyrin slithered on her knees in retreat, so low she bumped her nose.
“So it is done. Do not keep your nectar too late from the bee.” Ali dipped his hands in a bowl of fragrant water Nimah held for him and rose, turning to Sirius. “On my journey I learned much of trade—and of the winds of change across the desert. My bargains were blessed. I will speak further in your ear.”
Sirius nodded gravely, and Umar stood with him.
There was a whisper of cloth at the door. A large black arm pulled aside the blue curtains, and the Nubian entered and stood at attention.
There was blue at his collar, and a white sash bound his black trousers. His sword and dagger gleamed. Kentar slipped inside past him. His thawb yet bore traces of the desert.
Sirius raised an eyebrow and walked down the room to greet him. Umar and Ali followed. Eying Sir
ius, Kentar bowed to the floor.
Kyrin stared. The dalil was a free man. Just who was this Sirius Abdasir?
A stinging slap out of nowhere rocked Kyrin to her heels. On her knees, Shema glowered at her, clutching her thick veil beneath her chin. Kohl was a heavy smear about her eyes. With a quiet sob, she drew her hand back again.
Treacherous Arab! Kyrin warded the blow, gripping to twist Shema’s hand and drive her to the floor. She paused.
In Shema’s eyes lay the broken shimmer of a torn soul—a slave’s anger and despair.
Yet holding her mistress’ hand, Kyrin rolled beneath Shema, dragged her veil aside, and lifted her chin to bare her throat. She stared up into Shema’s face. Understand—please.
Crying silently, Shema yanked against her hold, panting. Surely the Nubian saw them, but Kyrin heard nothing but her master and the guardsman’s quiet voices. If only they remained occupied. Beside Ali’s chair, Nimah shrank against the pillar, her eyes darting from one of them to the other.
Her jaw locked with effort, Kyrin held Shema, yet leaving her throat open. Please—we are both chained.And she could not leave Tae and Alaina.
Shema shoved her veil impatiently behind her shoulder. Kyrin turned her head, waiting for the blow, the kick, the call for the whip. She could pull down this Arab dog and run. But Ali crushed Shema before the caliph’s guardsman, despising her worth in one fell stroke—she seeks glorious fruit for my house—and with a new slave to bear a son.
Kyrin lifted her necklace, pulled it aside. Please.
Shema sank to her heels. She stared at Kyrin’s throat, the back of hand to her mouth in wild pain. Then her hands dropped in her lap, abandoned birds.
The Nubian’s sword hilt clicked twice against the wall. Ali, deep in conversation with Sirius, was walking back toward the table.
Kyrin rolled onto her stomach and clasped Shema’s wrist in abject supplication. It was Shema’s word, whether she was whipped. Kyrin bit her lip on a wild, wry laugh, and swallowed hard. Her mistress’ veil was in place, and she had not seen her move.
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