Tariq Imran al-Ziyad—a chance to right a wrong . . .
And make his memories whole again.
“Come with me.”
THE SHAMSHIR
GET UP.”
Shahrzad moaned and drew the pillow over her face in response.
“Get up. Now.”
“Go away,” Shahrzad grumbled.
At that, the pillow was unceremoniously snatched from her grasp and slammed against her cheek with a force that shocked her.
She sat upright, sheer outrage eclipsing her exhaustion.
“Are you deranged?” she shouted.
“I told you to get up,” Despina replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
Not knowing what else to do, she pelted the pillow back at Despina’s head.
Despina caught it with a laugh. “Get up, Shahrzad, Brat Calipha of Khorasan, Queen of Queens. I’ve been waiting all morning for you, and we have someplace to go.”
When Shahrzad finally rose from the bed, she saw yet again that Despina was flawlessly garbed in another draped garment and polished until every facet of her pale skin was artfully rendered in the light flowing from the terrace.
“Where did you learn—that?” Shahrzad asked with begrudging admiration.
Despina positioned her hands on her hips and peaked an eyebrow.
“The clothes, the hair, the—that.” Shahrzad raked her fingers through her tangled mane as she clarified.
“At home in the city of Thebes. My mother taught me. She was one of the most famous beauties in all of Cadmeia. Perhaps in all of the Greek Isles.”
“Oh.” Shahrzad studied Despina’s glossy curls and then proceeded to toss back the snarled mess in her hands.
“I wouldn’t.” Despina smirked.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Attempt to bait me into complimenting you.”
“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.
“I’ve encountered your kind many times before—the effortlessly lovely ones; the green sylphs of the world. They flail about, without concern for their charms, but they suffer the same desire to be liked that we all do. Just because you don’t know how to make the best of your many gifts does not mean they go unnoticed, Shahrzad. But I could teach you, if you like. Although it seems you don’t need my help.” Despina winked. “Obviously, the caliph appreciates your charms as they are.”
“Well, he’s not a very particular man. How many wives has he had in the past three months alone? Sixty? Seventy-five?” Shahrzad retorted.
Despina quirked her mouth. “But he hasn’t gone to see them at night.”
“What?”
“Usually, they’re chosen at random, he marries them, and . . . well, you know what happens the next morning.”
“Don’t lie to me, Despina.”
“I’m not. You were the first bride he sought out after the wedding.”
I don’t believe her.
“In case you were wondering, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Despina admitted.
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe I just want you to like me.”
Shahrzad gave her a long, hard look. “If you want me to like you, help me figure out what to wear. Also, where’s the food? I’m starving.”
Despina grinned. “I already laid out a long qamis and matching trowsers. Get dressed, and we can leave.”
“But I haven’t bathed! Where are you taking me?”
“Do you have to spoil everything?”
“Where are we going?” Shahrzad insisted. “Tell me now.”
“Fine!” Despina exhaled. “I’ll tell you while you’re getting dressed.” She shoved the clothing at Shahrzad and directed her behind the privacy screens.
“So,” Despina began, “last winter, the caliph went to Damascus to visit the Malik of Assyria and, while he was there, he saw the malik’s new bathhouse . . . it’s this huge pool of water they keep warm with these special heated stones. The steam is supposed to do wonders for your skin. Anyway, the caliph had one built here, in the palace! They just finished it!”
“And?”
“Obviously, I’m taking you there.” Despina rolled her eyes.
“Obviously. I just don’t understand why this is such cause for excitement.”
“Because it’s amazing. And new. And you will be one of the first ones to try it.”
“So he wants to boil me to death?” Shahrzad said acerbically.
Despina snickered.
“I’m ready.” Shahrzad emerged from behind the screens clad in simple pale green linen with matching jade earrings and pointed gold slippers. She plaited her hair in a single braid down her back and strode to the door of the chamber.
The Rajput was nowhere to be found.
“Where is he?” Shahrzad asked.
“Oh. He was dismissed for the day.”
“What? Why?”
“Because we’re going to the bathhouse. He can’t very well accompany us there, can he?”
Shahrzad pursed her lips. “No. But . . .”
As Despina pulled the doors shut, Shahrzad saw her chew on her carmine-stained lower lip.
As though she were concealing something.
“Despina. Where is the Rajput?”
“I told you. Dismissed.”
“That’s fine. But where does he go when he’s dismissed?”
“How should I know?”