The Bird King(35)
Fatima grasped at the knobby trunk of the willow and pulled herself up.
“Why did you bring us here?” she asked, her voice feeble. “A baby could spot us from miles away.”
“I had very little choice,” said Vikram. He launched himself at the trunk of the tree and scuttled up into its thicket of branches. “The Vega bends eastward here and must be crossed in the open. The is no more shelter in the foothills, and anyway, the black-cloaks will be looking for you there. They too must come this way, for they have horses and dogs to water and rest, but with any luck they will not be here before dawn, and by then we will have moved on. Tomorrow we cross the Dúrcal River and make for the pass through the southern mountains.”
“Keck to all that,” muttered Hassan, throwing himself down at the foot of the willow. “When do I get to sleep in a bed? That’s all I want to know.”
“A bed?” Vikram sounded amused. “Forget your beds. You’ll be sleeping on rocks and roots for days yet.”
“A fire, then,” said Hassan with a pleading lilt in his voice. “Or I will begin to value my life very lightly.”
“It wants a fire,” snorted Vikram, shaking the branches as he dropped down from the canopy. “A lone fire on the Vega would be visible for leagues and leagues. You might as well use yourself as tinder. But don’t worry. Your old uncle Vikram will keep you warm.”
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Maybe a little. Children! Listen closely. I am going away to fetch your dinner. Do not leave the shadow of this tree while I’m gone. Nod your head if you understand.”
Fatima rolled her eyes. Apparently satisfied, Vikram cantered away across the tilled earth, leaving no footprints. Fatima watched him for as long as she could. He became a dot, and then a shimmer of air, and then nothing, leaving behind the uncomfortable impression that he had never existed to begin with. Shivering, Fatima pressed herself into a hollow between two of the willow tree’s sloping roots. The ground at its base was littered with oblong yellow leaves that curled in the heat like tiny rolls of parchment. Fatima withdrew her feet from her boots and pushed the leaves around in the dust, enjoying the familiar sensation of air and earth against her toes. The haze had vanished and the sky was the deep cloudless color of late afternoon. Pulling her hands inside the sleeves of her robe, Fatima closed her eyes.
“Do you really think we’re going to make it?” came Hassan’s voice, heavy with fatigue. “I mean honestly. You can tell the truth now that it’s—he’s—gone.”
“Of course we’re going to make it,” murmured Fatima. She was too tired to offer anything but platitudes.
“By all means, you sleep,” said Hassan flatly, when it was clear no more encouragement was forthcoming. “I’ll keep watch.” She heard him shift his weight and lift himself to his feet with a groan. Fatima curled her knees against her chest and did as he suggested, falling asleep so fast that slumber came like a physical blow.
She dreamed of footfalls. Lady Aisha was moving about the room in her soft way, unspeaking, as she had done when Fatima was a small child and slept in her mistress’s bed. Lady Aisha had always been careful not to wake her. She had strong opinions about uninterrupted sleep. She was sewing, or so it seemed to Fatima, who did not feel inclined to open her eyes: she could hear her mistress’s bone needle rasping back and forth through a piece of raw silk. The mending was Fatima’s responsibility now that she was grown. Lady Aisha was silent, but later she would purse her lips and drop the finished work into Fatima’s lap as a reprimand. She should wake, then, wake and finish the work herself to avoid an ugly scene.
Her fingers twitched in the grass and reminded her she was somewhere else. There would be no more mending; no one in the harem save Lady Aisha was mourning her absence now. The other girls were probably gossiping, tittering to each other, spreading the news in whispers until it reached the serving woman, who would tell the washerwoman, who would bring the juicy tidbit down the hill into the city itself along with her sacks of dirty linen: the sultan’s concubine has run away. Nessma was probably comforting her brother even now, massaging his shoulders as she bent to whisper in his ear: That girl was no good. I always said so. So haughty, so ungrateful—she never loved you. She never loved any of us.
And the sultan? Try as she might, Fatima couldn’t imagine his reaction to her flight. It was not his way to shout and break things. He might have one or two of the harem guards flogged, but only for form’s sake; it must be immediately known that any lapse in duty would be punished. Would he send for the blonde Proven?al war captive and console himself with her? Perhaps not. Perhaps he would finally cross the courtyard of the harem to knock on Lady Maryam’s door, and stand before her, and talk, haltingly, about their children.
The rasping sound began again. Fatima opened her eyes. Twilight had fallen over the Vega: the sky was dark overhead and pale on the soft hills that formed the western horizon. Beside her, Hassan was asleep sitting up, his head lolling against the trunk of the willow, his mouth slightly open. The soft steps, the quiet rustling sounds, came from a man crouched on the far side of the tree, rifling through their bags.
Fatima screamed. The man looked up at her with a startled, savage expression, his eyes milky in the dark. He was wearing a black wool doublet over a shirt that might once have been red; his face, too, was sun-reddened, stubble running riot over lopsided features. They stared at one another for a moment. Then the man lunged.