would-be Khagan”—Samarkar raised her eyebrows at Temur, and he swallowed hastily; better get to work on that—“and they must keep the will of those warlord-bands behind them, or … the usual repercussions follow.”
“Civil war,” said Hrahima.
“Regime change,” said Ato Tesefahun.
Samarkar said, “Sometimes the elections do little more than confirm the outcome of the fighting.”
“And if they do not?” Temur asked.
Samarkar’s smile was tight. “More fighting.”
5
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife read aloud while al-Sepehr sat in close-lidded contemplation. Through the discomfort of hearing the words, he focused on their meaning—hands folded, head tipped back—until a sense of presence roused him.
Someone watched from the doorway. Al-Sepehr thought at first that he was seeing a ghost. Not one of the Qersnyk blood ghosts, but a proper Uthman haunt, a soul rejected by the Scholar-God and yet unable to find its way to Hell.
Just within the door stood a slender figure in breeches and a sashed knee-length robe woven in the dusty colors of hard-baked desert. Two wheel-lock pistols were thrust through the sash, the long chased barrels angled carefully down and away from the body. They shared space with a scimitar and a dagger.
The figure’s face was obscured by the wraps of an indigo veil, but even from across the room, even with his own failing eyesight, al-Sepehr could see the striking lightness of the eyes that fabric framed.
Shahruz: that was the name al-Sepehr’s lips framed—but Shahruz was dead, head caved in by a Qersnyk war mare as he had been about to finish that steppe-born boy nuisance Re Temur for good and all.
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife had ceased reading. In the silence, al-Sepehr glanced around the chamber, seeing its empty spaces, few cushions, heavy lap desk resting on short legs propped on the golden stone floor. His wife was looking up at him from behind it; seeing his gaze upon her, she quickly and demurely ducked her head. Her eyes were still clear brown. She had not yet begun to stumble over the ancient words. That was good. It meant a while yet before al-Sepehr must again remarry.
It was then that he realized that he was standing, and that she had stopped reading because he had come to his feet. “Go, beloved,” he said to her, with an encouraging smile. He did not wish her to think she had displeased him.
Head still bowed, her robes twisting in the wind of her passage, she scuttled for the door. The figure in desert garb and the indigo cowl of the Nameless stepped aside fluidly to give her room. Now that his startlement had passed, and as he moved a step or two closer, al-Sepehr could see that the flare of hip and swell of bosom outlined under the man’s garb were anything but masculine and that the figure was some inches shorter than Shahruz. The cuffs of the trousers had been skillfully hemmed up. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled.
Al-Sepehr stopped a man’s height from the figure: close enough to speak without shouting—a bit immodestly close, in fact—but not so close as to be an immediate affront to a woman. Or at least, not any more immediate affront than merely being in her presence must be, but that was beyond helping, and it was far from the first time for that sin.
“Saadet,” he said, averting his eyes. As if she had been forcing herself to look forward against some inexorable weight, her gaze dropped, her neck twisted: her cheek pushed almost to her shoulder. In the gaps of her veil, her skin flamed burnt umber with shame.
She did not answer. Of course she would not; he must speak. It was his burden as a man, no matter how uncomfortable.
“Saadet,” he said again, making his voice gentle. Children and women were easy to frighten. “I know you mourn your brother, my sweet. But it is not modest to dress in his clothing.”
The flush was fading from around her eyes, leaving her skin its more usual almond color. Her fingers, long and tidy and so
“Civil war,” said Hrahima.
“Regime change,” said Ato Tesefahun.
Samarkar said, “Sometimes the elections do little more than confirm the outcome of the fighting.”
“And if they do not?” Temur asked.
Samarkar’s smile was tight. “More fighting.”
5
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife read aloud while al-Sepehr sat in close-lidded contemplation. Through the discomfort of hearing the words, he focused on their meaning—hands folded, head tipped back—until a sense of presence roused him.
Someone watched from the doorway. Al-Sepehr thought at first that he was seeing a ghost. Not one of the Qersnyk blood ghosts, but a proper Uthman haunt, a soul rejected by the Scholar-God and yet unable to find its way to Hell.
Just within the door stood a slender figure in breeches and a sashed knee-length robe woven in the dusty colors of hard-baked desert. Two wheel-lock pistols were thrust through the sash, the long chased barrels angled carefully down and away from the body. They shared space with a scimitar and a dagger.
The figure’s face was obscured by the wraps of an indigo veil, but even from across the room, even with his own failing eyesight, al-Sepehr could see the striking lightness of the eyes that fabric framed.
Shahruz: that was the name al-Sepehr’s lips framed—but Shahruz was dead, head caved in by a Qersnyk war mare as he had been about to finish that steppe-born boy nuisance Re Temur for good and all.
Al-Sepehr’s youngest wife had ceased reading. In the silence, al-Sepehr glanced around the chamber, seeing its empty spaces, few cushions, heavy lap desk resting on short legs propped on the golden stone floor. His wife was looking up at him from behind it; seeing his gaze upon her, she quickly and demurely ducked her head. Her eyes were still clear brown. She had not yet begun to stumble over the ancient words. That was good. It meant a while yet before al-Sepehr must again remarry.
It was then that he realized that he was standing, and that she had stopped reading because he had come to his feet. “Go, beloved,” he said to her, with an encouraging smile. He did not wish her to think she had displeased him.
Head still bowed, her robes twisting in the wind of her passage, she scuttled for the door. The figure in desert garb and the indigo cowl of the Nameless stepped aside fluidly to give her room. Now that his startlement had passed, and as he moved a step or two closer, al-Sepehr could see that the flare of hip and swell of bosom outlined under the man’s garb were anything but masculine and that the figure was some inches shorter than Shahruz. The cuffs of the trousers had been skillfully hemmed up. The cuffs of the sleeves were rolled.
Al-Sepehr stopped a man’s height from the figure: close enough to speak without shouting—a bit immodestly close, in fact—but not so close as to be an immediate affront to a woman. Or at least, not any more immediate affront than merely being in her presence must be, but that was beyond helping, and it was far from the first time for that sin.
“Saadet,” he said, averting his eyes. As if she had been forcing herself to look forward against some inexorable weight, her gaze dropped, her neck twisted: her cheek pushed almost to her shoulder. In the gaps of her veil, her skin flamed burnt umber with shame.
She did not answer. Of course she would not; he must speak. It was his burden as a man, no matter how uncomfortable.
“Saadet,” he said again, making his voice gentle. Children and women were easy to frighten. “I know you mourn your brother, my sweet. But it is not modest to dress in his clothing.”
The flush was fading from around her eyes, leaving her skin its more usual almond color. Her fingers, long and tidy and so
Similar Books
