Saladin Ahmed - Throne of the Crescent Moon

Some part of Litaz started to reach out to Yaseer, to stop him from going. But it was only a part of her. What the whole of her wanted was to see Dawoud. It was long past time to go home.

As the sun was just beginning to set, Raseed followed Litaz into the Soo couple’s home. He was pleased to see that Dawoud Son–of-Wajeed, the Doctor, and Zamia Banu Laith Badawi were all there in the greeting room, safe.

“We would have been here sooner,” Litaz said upon entering, “but we ran into some… complications with a group of the Humble Students.”

“What?” the ghul hunter and the magus shouted at the same time.

“Complications? What are you talking about?” Dawoud asked.

Zamia said nothing, Raseed noted. But she looked healthier than she had even the night before. “Praise God.” He whispered the words without meaning to, and Zamia looked at him quizzically. He lowered his eyes in shame.

“I had to put a couple of them in their place, but that is not what is important right now. This is,” the alkhemist said. She placed the ornate scroll case on a low tea table. Then she collapsed onto a cushion. “Name of God! It will feel good to rest tonight.”

Raseed had to speak up. “And you have earned rest, Auntie. But I cannot allow myself to rest now. If this scroll will help us learn more of the fiend Orshado’s plans, I must—with apologies—I must have that information as quickly as possible.”

Dawoud came to stand between his wife and Raseed. “These things don’t happen in the blink of an eye, boy. The cipher-spell takes as long to work as a careful spell-scrivener’s hand. We’ll have whatever answers this scroll may hold, but we’ll have to wait until morning to do so.”

“We have some time for the luxury of rest, then,” the Doctor said.

Raseed tried to speak in further protest, to insist that they had no such luxury, but Litaz cut him off with an upraised hand. “Indeed, and furthermore,” she continued, flashing an annoyed glance in Raseed’s direction, “we have need of rest.”

“Zamia Banu Laith Badawi certainly does, whether she knows it or not.” Dawoud added. He looked at Zamia, and Raseed was impressed to see how little she seemed to still fear Dawoud—or at least how little she now showed.

Litaz went on. “And we shall not just rest, but celebrate! For sunset marks the Feast of Providence.”

The magus arched a white eyebrow. “So it does! You know, I had almost forgotten.”

“As had I,” the Doctor admitted.

Litaz rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder but spoke to the group. “We must never forget our feasts. Tonight is dedicated to thanksgiving for the bounty that God provides us. On such a day it is our duty to celebrate life through food and drink. The Heavenly Chapters say ‘O believer, thou shalt smile for God’s Providence at festival and at funeral.’ ” The alkhemist turned to him. “Am I wrong, Raseed?”

He bowed his head. “An obscure verse, Auntie, but… but you are not wrong.”

Dawoud and Litaz went into their workshop, the magus carrying Miri Almoussa’s scroll, the alkhemist carrying Yaseer’s.

Minutes later they emerged. Then Raseed heard the unmistakable sound of a pen on paper begin to scratch away in the workshop, though there was no longer anyone in there.

“The cipher-spell has been set to work,” Dawoud announced. “Now, Almighty God knows, it is well past time to eat!”

Somewhere in the past few days, Litaz had managed to request the feast foods ahead of time. An old man and his son arrived, whisking in with half a dozen copper-covered dishes from a high-priced hire-kitchen off of Angels’ Square before whisking back out. They all sat down, and Raseed’s stomach growled. A white block of creamed cheese glowed with magenta turnip slices. Steam wafted from risebread with roasted chickpeas. Sour-and-sweet pickles, mutton cubes with peppers and nuts, garlicky greens, fruit, and salty almond pudding.

And when did you come to have such gluttonous eyes? a reprimanding voice within him asked.

At Litaz’s request, Raseed said a simple prayer over the food. Then they ate.

Raseed pushed his teacup away, and declined each plate passed to him. He sipped his water, and took a few bits of turnip and bread. As happened so often, the Doctor’s loud voice boomed in on his thoughts.

“Well!” said the Doctor, standing up a bit stumblingly as he spoke. He is getting drunk, Raseed worried. “Well!” the Doctor repeated, “I have learned, over the years, to trust my soul’s senses. I’d guess I’m not the only one who believes that this blood-storm that’s been gathering about us will soon thunder down. But I thank you, All Provident God, for giving me this meal with beloved friends beforehand.” The Doctor rubbed his big hands together and looked out on the array of plates before him. “Name of God,” he half-shouted. “Litaz, you know how to set a table!”

Zamia spoke softly, brushing her hair from her eyes. “The Doctor speaks truth, Auntie. You and your husband’s hospitality is generous enough to make a Badawi jealous!”

Dawoud chuckled gently. “Heh. It doesn’t come cheaply, let me tell you. Now you see why I married a rich Blue River girl!”

The alkhemist looked worried at this. Raseed could not say why, and truly it was none of his affair.

The old people ate and drank and talked. They regaled Zamia with tales, which Raseed had already heard more than once, of the foes they had vanquished over the years. Of the Invisible Robbers and the Golden Serpent, of the Four-Faced Man and a dozen minor magi.

Raseed only half-listened, sipping his water, until he heard Zamia speak.

“The Lady of Thorns! My father told me of her famous crimes! It was said that her father was a wicked djenn.”

The Doctor snorted scornfully as he poured himself more wine. “The uninformed always say that when they meet someone who can do things that they think impossible. ‘The blood of the djenn!’ Idiocy! The Thousand and One can bear no children, any more than a man can give a child to a bear!”

Dawoud reached rudely across the table and poked the Doctor in the gut. “Do you mean to tell me, you old fart, that I have been wrong all these years? That your father was not a bear?”

The Doctor laughed. “Well, at least a bear is a noble animal! At least my father never begat a child upon a damned-by-God goat .” The Doctor reached over and pulled on the magus’ hennaed goatee and the old men laughed tipsily.

They finished with the dishes, and the table fell quiet for some time. After a while the Doctor let out a loud breath. “Yes, well, all of this talk has made me hungry for sweets.” Dawoud brought his wife’s cup, then Adoulla’s, then his own, to the lip of the large pitcher of palm wine, tipping the golden liquid into each glass carefully.

Zamia declined a second cup, Raseed was pleased to see. She took only one small morsel when Litaz passed around a plate with varied teacakes and preserved fruit.

Yet this was not out of caution. Raseed saw that, if Zamia seemed to be less afraid of Dawoud Son-of-Wajeed, she’d apparently quickly grown most warm and at her ease around his wife. Litaz explained to the tribeswoman, “The rug is from my husband’s part of the Republic. Where I come from, we didn’t eat on rugs—we sat in tall chairs—at a waist-high table. It’s taken me many years to get used to the squatting. When I first—”

The alkhemist was interrupted by the Doctor’s snickering. He was entertaining himself and the magus with his juvenile antics. On his plate, he’d built a face from teacakes of various shapes. He commenced to perform a little show in which the face’s spice cookie “lips” begged, in a high-pitched puppet-show voice, “No, Doctor! Pleeease don’t eeeat me! In the Name of Merciful God, I beg of you don’t eeeat meee!”