The Bird King(10)

“Fatima.”

“My lord.”

He kissed her neck, pulling her upright, lifting her onto his lap. There was a frantic series of knocks at the outer door of the dressing room behind them. Fatima wanted to cry.

“Whoever you are, I’m going to have you executed,” shouted Abu Abdullah.

The knocking continued. Cursing, Abu Abdullah rose, hopping awkwardly on one foot as he retied his izar around his waist. Fatima pulled the wool coverlet over her shoulders and followed him, hiding herself behind a large wooden wardrobe in the gloom of his unlit dressing room. Abu Abdullah yanked open the outer door.

“You are a dead man,” he informed the trembling herald who stood in the hall.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the herald stammered. He was not quite a man—not old enough to have grown into a rather large nose—and he was so terrified that Fatima worried he might wet himself. “A Castilian delegation has just crossed through the Gate of Granada under a flag of truce. They’re coming up the hill now.”

“Coming here?”

“Yes, my lord. Half a dozen nobles, it looks like, and their outriders, and a baggage cart. And two women.”

“What nonsense is this?” The sultan pounded one fist against the doorframe, causing it to rattle. “You, boy—”

“Rajab, my lord.”

“Rajab. Wake up my pages. Wake the chief vizier, my private secretary—and get Hassan the Mapmaker, who is surely not asleep. I want to know where the rest of this delegation is hiding.”

The hall was suddenly full of noise. The herald ran away, screaming orders, and was succeeded by the sound of doors opening and closing. Abu Abdullah slammed his own door, cursing again.

“Fatima!” he called.

Fatima presented herself.

“I need you to do something for me,” said Abu Abdullah, cupping her face in his hands. “There’s a party of Castilians at our doorstep, and for reasons that surpass my understanding, they’ve brought women with them—we’ll have to put them up in the harem. They won’t like it, but we have no other quarters for highborn ladies here. I want you to look after them. And keep an eye on my mother. She’ll flay them alive if you’re not careful. Can you do all that?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Fatima, clenching and unclenching her hands. Abu Abdullah bent to kiss her.

“So young, and already so brave,” he said. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but hesitated and then turned away.

“Go down to the kitchens first and find out whether we have anything to feed them,” he instructed her, grabbing her robe off the floor and tossing it to her. “Take my door, it’s faster. We’re not clinging to tradition tonight.”

Fatima pulled on the wrinkled garment and set off into the hall. Men and boys in various states of dress were hurrying back and forth, knocking into each other and shouting accusations. None of them bumped into her, however, or even looked at her after the first startled glance of recognition. Fatima squared her shoulders and tried to appear nonchalant. She picked her way around a hastily discarded cup rolling about underfoot, its sticky green contents—emetic herbs, by the smell—congealing rapidly in a series of male footprints.

“Hsst! Fa!”

Hassan was billowing toward her like a wayward bonfire, his curly hair standing on end above a suspiciously pink face. Fatima felt herself flush.

“You’re out of your senses,” she hissed, pulling him into an alcove. “You can’t just wave me down like a peasant. Didn’t you tell me to be more careful just this afternoon?”

Hassan only grinned, watching the commotion in the hall with almost hysterical glee.

“Are you drunk?” asked Fatima.

“As a bandit,” snickered Hassan.

“You’re a madman. You know there are sheikhs at court dying for an excuse to have you flogged.”

“I don’t care,” said Hassan. “It was very, very good wine.”

Fatima rubbed her eyes. She thought with longing of the sleeping mat waiting for her at the foot of Lady Aisha’s divan.

“And the boy who served it to me—you know what I’m saying, Fa, you’re such a clever girl—his name was Rajab, and he left and came back, and when he came back, he told me the most extraordinary thing. There are real live Castilians at our gates. I mean, they’ve been at our gates for decades, but now they’re inside our gates, and the sultan wants me to come and show him where the rest of them are. But I need pencil and paper to show him that. It’s not as if I see things. I’m not one of these unwashed mystics. My brain is in my fingers. That’s all. In my fingers.” He waved his hands to demonstrate.

“You need to get sober,” said Fatima.

“When did you become no fun whatsoever? And what the hell are you wearing?”

Fatima looked down. The outline of her breasts was visible, in exquisite detail, through the sheer fabric of her robe. She clapped one arm over her chest.

“Get sober,” she repeated, then hurried toward the kitchens, dodging page boys who balanced shoes and basins of rose water in their arms, and prepared herself for the sort of night that ran headlong into morning.





Chapter 3


The delegation arrived well after midnight, in a limp hour that was neither very late nor very early. Fatima waited for them in the Court of Lions with her mistress and the other palace women, all scented and dressed as if for a wedding: the freewomen veiled in pale silk, Fatima and the other slaves bareheaded. Lady Aisha had demanded that Nessma surrender her second-best robe for Fatima to wear. There had been an argument and tears, and now Fatima was balancing a copper platter of bread and olive oil in both hands, wearing a beaded azure gown that was too short at the hem and too big around the bust and hips. She could hear Nessma sniffling some distance behind her.