Darkness Descending

“I have shown you too much mercy--and too much cash,” Hajjaj replied. “I shall pay out your divorcee’s allowance till you remarry--if you do. If you want more than that, you may either earn it or pry it loose from your clan chief. Since custom and law forbid him from touching you, you will have fewer inducements than you did with me.”

“You wicked old scorpion!” Lalla cried. “I curse you! I curse the powers above for setting me in your hands! I--”

She scrambled to her feet, snatched a vase from a wall niche, and threw it at Hajjaj. Rage made her aim poor; he didn’t even have to duck. The vase shattered against the wall behind him. The crash brought servants running to see what had happened. “Do escort her away,” Hajjaj said, “and make everything ready to return her to the house of her clan head.”

“Aye, lord,” the servants said. By the way they smiled, they’d hoped for that order for some time. Lalla saw as much, too. She cursed them and then kicked one of them. They escorted her away much less gently than they might have otherwise.

Tewfik made his slow way into the chamber. He bowed as well as age and decrepitude allowed, then said, “My lord, Marquis Balastro of Algarve awaits without. He craves audience with you.”

“By all means, Tewfik, let him in.” Hajjaj s joints clicked as he stretched; he knocked one of the pillows on the floor aside with his foot. “I suppose you have a kilt and tunic waiting for me somewhere. Gauzy ones, I hope.”

The longtime family retainer coughed. “Mufflings will not be necessary today, sir, the count having chosen to affect the habiliments of Zuwayza: hat--an Algarvian hat, but the brim is wide enough--sandals, and only himself between.”

“And he’s waiting outside, you said? Powers above, he’ll bake! He’s light-skinned and not hardened against the sun.” Hajjaj hurried toward the entrance-way. He was not so nimble as he once had been, but still easily outdistanced Tewfik.

From behind him, the majordomo called, “A suggestion, my lord.”

As usual, Tewfik’s suggestions had the force of commands. “And that is?” Hajjaj asked over his shoulder.

“Until the wench Lalla returns to her clan head’s house, she ought not to be alone, lest valuables of this house go thither with her,” Tewfik told him.

Till that moment, Lalla had been junior wife in Tewfik’s mouth and used as respectfully as either of the wives senior to her. Hajjaj wondered whether the majordomo was finally expressing his own opinion or echoing what he presumed to be his master’s. Then he wondered if Tewfik saw any difference between those two. Either way, he gave good advice. “Aye, see to it,” Hajjaj said.

“As you say,” Tewfik replied, though he’d done the saying. “I presume you will entertain the Algarvian minister in the library?” He did not bother waiting for an answer to that, but continued, “I shall have tea and cakes and wine sent there directly.”

“I thank you,” Hajjaj said, still over his shoulder. Almost to the entranceway, he paused. “Algarvian vintages for the minister, not date wine.”

“Of course.” Tewfik sounded offended that his master should judge he needed reminding.

Hajjaj threw open the strong-barred door--like many clan centers, his home could double as a fortress. Sure enough, there stood Balastro, bare and pale and sweating in the sun. With a jaunty gesture, he swept off his hat and bowed. “I am pleased to see you, your Excellency,” he said.

“I am pleased to see you at least had the sense to travel here in a closed and covered coach,” Hajjaj said. “Come inside, before my cooks decide you’re done and put you on a serving platter.”

“You follow my customs when you call on me at the ministry,” Balastro said. He did sigh with relief when he stepped into the shade; the thick mud-brick walls fought the heat as well as anything could. “I thought it the least I could do to follow yours while visiting you.”

“Aye, you’ve been known to do it before,” Hajjaj agreed. “You are the only diplomat who ever does--Algarvian panache, I daresay. But truly, your Excellency, you are not equipped with a hide of the proper color . . . and yours will turn several improper colors if you stay out too long.” He could not quite take Balastro’s nudity for granted, as he did nudity among his own people. Not only was Balastro the wrong color, as Hajjaj had said, but he also displayed the distinctive Algarvian mutilation. Hajjaj’s eyes kept coming back to it; it made the redhead look deformed. To cover his queasy fascination, the Zuwayzi foreign minister added, “All your hide.”

“Ah.” Balastro took the point. “Can’t have him sunburned, can we? He’s got better things to do.”