“You have been quite busy, Tariq-jan,” Reza said quietly.
Tariq inhaled through his nose. “I know you asked me to wait at Taleqan for your missive.”
Reza continued puffing on the ghalyan in silence.
“But I could not allow you to do all the work,” Tariq finished.
“See? I told you. He is quite the hero already.” Omar cackled.
“Part of being a hero is knowing when to be still,” Reza countered.
In response, Tariq said nothing, and Omar laughed heartily.
“So what did you learn in this foolhardy excursion to Rey?” Reza asked.
“I learned I have a great deal to learn.”
Reza passed Omar the pipe. “What else?”
“I learned the Caliph of Khorasan is dangerous, in addition to being a madman.”
“How so?”
“He’s smart, for a madman. Rather . . . surprising.”
“Madmen tend to be.” Omar’s eyes glittered in the shadows as streams of smoke emitted from his nostrils.
“What else?” Reza asked.
Tariq leaned back into the cushions. “He’s arrogant, and he has a quick temper.”
“What of weaknesses?” Reza prodded.
Tariq hesitated.
“Tariq?”
Before Tariq could respond, the flap of the tent opened once more, and Rahim stepped beneath its wing, with Jahandar al-Khayzuran in tow. The three men seated around the ghalyan gazed their way. Rahim shot Tariq an apologetic glance, and Jahandar cleared his throat with a cough.
“May—may I join you?” Jahandar asked.
Omar smiled brightly. “Of course! You are most welcome.”
Tariq rose from the table, trying his best to conceal his irritation as Jahandar crossed the carpets. He bowed his head with a hand to his brow. “Jahandar-effendi.”
“Tariq-jan.” Jahandar looked into the silver eyes, eager and hopeful. When he was met with nothing but steely judgment, his face fell to the soundless specter of shame.
Once everyone was seated again, Reza resumed his line of questioning. “You were speaking of the boy-king’s weaknesses?”
Tariq inhaled protractedly. “Yes, Uncle.”
Reza’s frown deepened at Tariq’s obvious discomfort. “Tariq-jan, what—”
“Shahrzad,” Tariq ground out. “He cares about Shahrzad.”
Reza’s face was expressionless. “A great deal?”
“I don’t know. I only know that he cares. And that I wish to take her out of there. Now.”
At this, Reza’s eyebrows arched. “Did something happen while you were there?”
“Every day she’s in that palace, she’s at risk. I cannot abide it any longer.”
“Such a hero.” Omar laughed softly.
Reza raised his glass of tea to his lips and took a sip. “I understand your concern, but—”
“Please, Uncle. Let me do this. Help me.”
Reza stared back at his nephew, calm in his assessment. “I’m sorry, Tariq-jan, but we are just beginning to gather our strength; we are nowhere near laying siege to a city like Rey. The Emir of Karaj has pledged seven hundred soldiers, as well as a large cache of weapons. They should be arriving soon. His friend from the north is sending two hundred more, and I am in contact with numerous other friends of mine—men of trade and means—who are weary of being ruled by a cruel tyrant. By a boy-king who kills without reason. They are willing to unite under the banner of the White Falcon. They are willing to fight for you.”
“Then, if you would give me a few—”
“No. If all of these men are willing to fight, it must be for something more than your love, Tariq. You cannot march into the biggest city in Khorasan with a fledgling army just to save one girl. Be a true leader. Be still. You must wait. When the time comes, your patience will be manifestly rewarded. Trust me.”
Tariq closed his eyes and clenched his fists, fighting to control a rising tide of emotions. “Omar—”
Omar sighed. “Ah, my friend. You do so prey upon my fondness for love stories. Alas, I am an old man without brothers or sons—the last of my line. I will not fight. It is too hard to wash away blood from an old sword. Know that I would gladly risk my lowly life for love. But the lives of my people and those who ride under my name? I cannot risk such a treasure. I’m very sorry, my friend.”
Tariq drank his tea in silence as Omar and his uncle moved the discussion along to other matters. Their words drifted around him, echoing in his ears, filtering up into the smoke . . . meaningless. When the tea grew cold, Tariq took his leave. The anger continued roiling within him like the water in the ghalyan, and each time he thought of the boy-king, he saw eyes that burned like the coal atop its tower.
A madman with a temper and a penchant for death—
And Shahrzad’s face at peace in his arms.
“Tariq-jan?” A meek voice called out from behind him.
“What?” Tariq whirled around.
Jahandar backed away, his mouth agape and the ends of his wispy beard curling in the balmy night breeze.
Tariq exhaled with care. “I’m sorry, Jahandar-effendi. Forgive me.”
Jahandar shook his head. “No, no. I apologize for disturbing your thoughts.”
“It’s fine.” Tariq gritted his teeth. “I should learn to control them better.”
Jahandar nodded. He gathered his hands before him, fidgeting with the front of his tikka sash.