“You are to be made welcome,” the doorman said. He straightened at last from his obeisance—a good thing, as it had been inspiring Samarkar to sympathetic cramps in her thighs and calves to watch him. With a hooking gesture, he summoned a boy of middle years from the shadows behind the door. This bird-eyed brown child wore a linen tunic that fell halfway down his thighs. He went barefoot, his hair cropped short below his ears. The doorman laid a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Show the Wizard Samarkar to the Chamber of Crocuses.”
“Please follow me, sir,” the boy said. He bowed low, leaving Samarkar chuckling and striding to keep up in his wake. Of course she was a sir; she was tall and wore armor and walked the street alone, and no matter that a woman’s voice had issued from under the helm.
She considered for a few moments whether she was being led to the slaughter, but the room he left her in was a small, pleasant reception chamber. That did not preclude its becoming an abattoir, but Samarkar rather thought the caliph would have caused the silk rugs from Song and Rasa to be taken up if he intended to have her cut down in her blood. She requested a moment to scribe her note to Brother Hsiung, and the page promised to see it delivered. Then he left her with grapes and with wine and water—cold enough to chill the pricy glass goblet that it stood in—and an assurance that she would be shown to the caliph as soon as possible.
Samarkar raised the visor of her helm to drink—mostly water, and a little wine—and felt her dizziness and exhaustion recede almost as soon as the cup was lowered again. The desert is waiting to kill you. Just as surely as the winter and the cold mountains are—or your brother the emperor, or the Rahazeen—though the mechanism may be different.
One could forget that in the walled gardens of Ato Tesefahun. But it would not be prudent to allow one’s self to forget it for long.
Predictably, some time elapsed. Now that her battle excitement was ebbing, Samarkar ached from her skinned hands to the bruise over her spine, and every muscle in her body was issuing a resounding protest of ill and unaccustomed use. She occupied herself waiting for her arming coat to dry upon her skin—or as much as it would, with the armor strapped on over it—and with drinking more water and examining the contents of the room. As she had noted upon first entering, the carpets were rich, and layered deeply so they formed an uneven surface for walking on, making Samarkar doubly glad that she had no plans to engage in a swordfight here.
Other than that, the furnishings were opulent and well maintained, if obviously somewhat worn. The windows were shaded by the louvered blinds that were so common here under the killing Uthman sun, but a warm breeze and slanted slats of light still eased through them. Two daybeds heaped with cushions and robes and furs were separated by the low table that had received the fruit and wine. They had been refinished and reupholstered, but Samarkar could make out marks of wear beneath the gilt on their wooden frames: rich, but old. The caliph was not the sort of person who had to buy his furniture.
After the climb and the running, her feet hurt too. She sat on the nearer divan and took a grape, rolling it firm and cool between her fingertips. She had just popped it into her mouth—a tiny explosion of crisp sweetness backed by the crunch of pips—when the door opened again, and a vigorous-seeming man with iron-colored streaks in his beard and hair entered. Bareheaded, he was clad in a simple white kaftan that fell open over his tunic and trousers. He came with no entourage and no fanfare.
Samarkar was not often taken aback by the dance of politics, but she spent a full three heartbeats blinking at the newcomer before slamming her visor closed, leaping to her feet, and immediately dropping to her knees again. She bowed her head and stammered.
“Your serene Excellency!”
He waited long enough for her knees to burn and her neck to ache. But Samarkar had the advantage of the helm, and if she stretched her eyes upward, she could glimpse his face through its visor.
The caliph was smiling.
At last he said, “Stand, Wizard Samarkar,” and slid the bolt of the door behind himself.
She did, working to show none of the nervousness that made her heart race and her hands tremble. A fresh crop of sweat seeded itself throughout her already-itchy underthings. Now that they stood on the level, she could see she was of a height with the caliph: whether that was an advantage or would make him more aggressive, she did not yet know him well enough to say.
But not only was he confident enough in his own strength to leave his palace door open to the street … he was confident enough to bolt himself into a small room with a wizard. Or did he even think of her as a wizard? Perhaps he only imagined he had bolted himself into a boudoir with a woman, weak and mild.