Saladin Ahmed - Throne of the Crescent Moon

He swallowed hard and looked up from his hands. “Miri.”

“Yes?” she said, her voice flat.

“This is it, my sweet. I… I cannot let a man who has murdered my friend—and your niece—stalk this city any longer. But if I live through this… That’s it for me, then. I’m done. Men can find someone else to save them from the ghuls.”

Miri rolled her eyes, the hardness he knew so well returning to her voice. “Do you want me to do a little dance? I mean, I’ve only heard that ten times before, Doullie! Don’t you think I know by now that such declarations are just words on the air? They’ll be blown away by the first strong breeze that comes along.”

Adoulla swallowed again and took hold of Miri’s shoulders, giving her the most level look he could. “Not this time.” He found himself speaking formal words that he’d never said, not in thirty years of half-meant promises. “I swear this to you, O Miri Almoussa. In the name of God the All-Hearing, who Witnesses all Oaths. In the name of God the Most Honest, who loves truth and not lies. I swear to you that when this is done I will return here and, if my fate is so kind that you haven’t yet married this money-grubbing fop, I swear in the name of God the Great Father that I will touch my forehead to the ground before you and beg you to marry me.”

He knew that she understood what such an oath meant to him, but Adoulla also knew that Miri lived in a world of oath-shatterers. He expected more scornful skepticism. But Miri Almoussa just stood there, eyes shining, lip trembling, looking as lovely as the day Adoulla had met her.

And she said not a word.

Hours later, he found himself walking wearily back into Dawoud and Litaz’s greeting room. The Soo couple sat on a divan speaking quietly. Raseed sat cross-legged on the floor, engaging in one of his breathing exercises, but the pallet where Zamia had been recuperating was empty. A good sign.

His friends looked up as he entered.

“What news?” Dawoud asked. “Did the boy have anything new to tell?”

“The boy?” Adoulla asked, confused for a moment. “Oh, him. Little Faisal. He was not there, as it happens. But,” he said, brandishing the scroll Miri had given him, “Miri Almoussa gave me this, which may hold some answers for us. What of you, brother of mine? How went your meeting with Roun Hedaad?”

Litaz answered for her husband. “Dawoud managed not to get himself killed by the Defender of Virtue himself. And to give a vague warning, but that is about all. But tell us, how is Miri?”

Adoulla frowned, sensing the subtle edge beneath the alkhemist’s words. “Please, my dear, none of your snobbish scorn for the whoremistress, eh? Of all days, not today.”

Dawoud snorted. “You forget that my beloved wife is, even after decades in Dhamsawaat, a slightly prudish Blue River girl at heart.”

Litaz’s eyes filled with half-serious lividity. “Prudish?! You of all people, husband, know that—”

“He said slightly prudish,” Adoulla pointed out with a smile, feeling buoyed a bit by the presence of his bantering friends.

Litaz rolled her eyes. “You know it has nothing to do with that, my friend. We just want better for you. It’s all we’ve ever wanted. I have no problem with… with what Miri is , but she won’t let you be what you are! So I’ve been squawking this tune for near twenty years, so what? It’s as true today as it was a dozen years ago: There are women—younger women, pretty women—who would be able to live realistically with the white kaftan you wear.”

Adoulla plopped down onto a brocaded stool and let out a loud sigh. “Even if that were true, my dear, it wouldn’t matter.” For a long while the room was silent, save for the soft sounds of Raseed’s inhalations and exhalations. Then Adoulla heard himself say, “She is going to marry another. At least, another man has asked for her hand. A younger man.”

Dawoud gave him a look of loving sympathy. Litaz stood, walked over, and took his big hands in her tiny ones. She squeezed, smiled sadly, said nothing.

Raseed, finally looking up from his exercises, spoke confusedly. “Doctor, I don’t understand—”

“You and your understanding can go down to the Lake of Flame, boy! Now shut up—we’ve more important things to discuss! Where is the tribeswoman, anyway? Off stalking the city for gazelles?”

“I’m here, Doctor,” Zamia said, emerging from the back of the house where she’d no doubt been making water. Adoulla noted that she walked more or less steadily on her feet and that much of the weakness he’d seen in her only last night was gone. “Did you learn anything that will help me avenge my band?”

To his surprise, Adoulla found that he could not speak of Yehyeh’s murder. It was foolish, he knew—these were his closest friends in the world, and allies who needed all of the information they could get. But Adoulla thought of Litaz trying to find drops of Yehyeh’s blood or some such, or trying to analyze the angle at which his heart had been ripped out. And he felt that his own soul would somehow snap if he did not keep this one bit of grimness to himself for now. So, as his friends and allies listened, Adoulla instead recounted what little else Miri had known, and told them about the thrice-ciphered, hidden script scroll that spoke of the Cobra Throne. “Though All-Merciful God alone knows how we’re going to unravel these cipher-spells. The costs and the expertise involved…” he trailed off, exhausted and daunted by just about everything in his life.

Litaz shot a worried look in her husband’s direction. “Actually, I do know of one man who might have the skill and inclination to help us with this. And he would do it quickly if I asked.”

Dawoud’s expression was perplexed, then bitter. “Him. Well, I have no doubt that that one will be all too ready to help. He will be falling all over himself to give you what you need. At a price.”

Adoulla smiled. “Yaseer the spell-seller. Of course. It seems, then, that I am not the only one fated by God to get help from an old heart’s-flame.”

Litaz sighed. “He will gouge us but will do so less severely than others would. And he’ll do honest and discreet work. If I send a messenger now, I should be able to see him by tomorrow.”

“By all means, send a messenger. And you should take the boy with you tomorrow.”

Both Litaz and Raseed started to speak, but Adoulla cut them both off. “I know, I know. You can take care of yourself,” he said, gesturing with one hand toward Litaz. “And your place is protecting me, or Zamia, or whomever you’ve decided duty dictates today,” he continued, gesturing with his other hand toward Raseed. “But between Dawoud and Zamia and myself we can, Almighty God willing, handle any threat that might strike here. You’ll be carrying a great deal of coin, Litaz—and even aside from that, the more I think on it, the less comfortable I am with any of us being alone out there. Indulge me, eh?”

With that Adoulla walked off and made water before dragging himself to the makeshift bed his friends had set for him. He was exhausted, but he could not stop thinking about Yehyeh. And about Miri. The choice she had made. The oath Adoulla himself had made. Miri’s words, thousands of days, thousands of nights, echoed in his head, as did Yehyeh’s words about old men and graves.

Sleep was a long time in coming.

There was a clean tang to the late morning air, and Raseed bas Raseed breathed it in deeply as he made his way toward the North Inner Gate. Litaz Daughter-of-Likami walked a half step in front of him, dressed more richly than Raseed had ever seen. Her long dress was embroidered with amethyst gemthread. She wore rings of gold and coral in her twistlocks, and a jewel-pommeled dagger sheathed in dyed kidskin on her belt. Is she expecting a fight? Raseed resolved to be even more watchful than usual.