The Bird King(18)

Deep, sympathetic lines had appeared on Luz’s forehead.

“I wish it were that simple,” she said. “Truly I do.”

Fatima thought it best to put the conversation out of its misery.

“Come,” she said, sliding off the balustrade. “They’ll be serving lunch in the harem any minute, though it’s likely to be bread and olive oil again.”

Luz smiled, regaining her good humor, and reached for Fatima’s hand. “You’re in for a surprise, then,” she said. “We brought a wagonful of cured mutton and apples and wheels of cheese.”

Hassan’s eyes went wide.

“Is there any for mapmakers?” he asked. “Or is it just for insolent concubines?”

“I’ll have some sent here especially,” promised Luz. She shook the dust from her clothes and turned away. As she did, the hem of her tunic caught one of the leaves of paper hanging over the worktable and pulled it free, sending it fluttering to the ground like a flag of surrender. In a moment, as if snatched from a dream, Fatima saw precisely what was about to happen.

“I’ll get that,” said Hassan, bolting up. But Luz had already bent to retrieve it. She held it in her fingers a moment too long.

“What is this?” she asked. Her voice was so different—lower, coarser, as if she had descended several rungs in rank and breeding—that Fatima felt a physical thrill of alarm. She reached for the map, but Luz held it away.

“What is this?” she asked again.

“It’s a map of Zahara,” Hassan said quietly. “In Cádiz.”

“I can see that,” said Luz. “But what are these?” She pointed to several snaking lines near the map’s perimeter. Hassan gave Fatima a desperate look.

“Let’s go,” said Fatima, tugging on Luz’s arm. Luz didn’t budge.

“They’re tunnels,” said Hassan.

“Tunnels.”

“Yes.”

“Under the streets.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to Zahara, Master Hassan? You’re clearly no soldier, and you would have been almost a child when—during that awful battle to reclaim it. I would like to understand how you could possibly know what you know. Please illuminate me.”

Hassan rubbed his eyes. “Why did you bring her here, Fa?” he said in Arabic. “You know how terrible I am at keeping secrets. Especially my own.”

Fatima began to comprehend the enormity of her mistake. In keeping Luz away from the sultan and the viziers and their burning papers, she had inadvertently taken her somewhere yet more tender. There was nowhere safe. Perhaps that was the point.

“Please,” said Luz. Her voice was gentle again, pained. “My late husband was at Zahara. We never knew how you—it was thought, we all thought, that the Moorish forces couldn’t possibly prevail, and yet—”

“I make maps,” said Hassan. Fatima watched him, her breath fast in her throat.

“I know,” said Luz with a terse smile. “That much is clear.” When Hassan said nothing more, she leaned forward and touched his knee with her fingers, her eyes like river stones, the weight of her gaze heavy.

“You can tell me,” she said in a half whisper. “The more I know, the more I can help. I do so want to help. Aren’t we all on the same side now that peace is inevitable?”

“You make peace sound like a threat,” said Hassan with a fluttery laugh. Luz laughed too.

“Only for the very wicked,” she said. “Let me be of use to you, Hassan. If I don’t know what you’re hiding, I can’t intercede for you.”

“Intercede with who?” Hassan asked, his voice trailing off. But Luz didn’t answer. Instead she waited, and Fatima saw in Hassan’s expression a fatal innocence. He never had his guard up; he had no guard at all.

“I make maps of things I’ve never seen,” he said. “And sometimes of things that don’t quite exist, except when I need them to. That’s what I do.”

Luz licked her lips. She set the map back on the worktable and smoothed its edges with her fingers.

“It’s funny,” she said. “For years, we wondered how Granada managed to survive while cut off from absolutely everywhere—to find new supply routes, to slip communications past our forces. We assumed you had an army of excellent spies. It never occurred to us that you might be using more arcane methods.” She laughed. It was a merry laugh, a forgiving laugh. Fatima dared to hope that things could still be all right.

“How did you come by this talent?” asked Luz, riffling the uneven stacks of paper on Hassan’s desk into neat piles. She wasn’t looking at him; her voice was light, as if they were all friends. “If talent is the right word.”

Hassan began to chew vigorously on his beard.

“It’s all right,” said Luz with a little smile.

“I don’t know,” said Hassan. “I’ve never been lost, and I’ve always liked to draw. That’s as much as I understand. It’s just something I do, something that happens.”

“And the sultan has been protecting you.”

“I don’t know what that means. As long as I’m accurate, he leaves me alone.”

Luz sighed and straightened, her face cheerful again.