The Lions of Al-Rassan. Guy Gavriel Kay

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      Jehane felt the rush of color to her face already beginning to recede. What followed, predictably, was something near to anger. Her father and mother, Velaz, Ser Rezzoni—everyone who knew her well—had always warned her about her pride.

      She took a step forward and, standing on tiptoe, kissed Ammar ibn Khairan in her turn. She could feel his sharply intaken breath of surprise. That was better: he had been much, much too casual before.

      “Doctor’s fee,” she said sweetly, stepping back. “We tend to charge more than couriers.”

      “I will fall out of the window,” he said, but only after a moment.

      “Don’t. It’s a long way down. You haven’t said, but it seems fairly obvious you have your own plan of vengeance to pursue in Cartada. Falling from a window would be a poor way to begin.” She was gratified to see that he hadn’t been prepared for that either.

      He paused a second time. “We shall meet again, I dare hope.”

      “That would be interesting,” Jehane said calmly, though her heart was beating very fast. He smiled. A moment later she watched him climb down the rough wall to the courtyard. He went through an archway towards the gates without looking back.

      She would have thought she’d won that last exchange, but the smile he’d offered, just before turning to climb down, made her less certain, in the end.

      “Care, Jehaa. Care,” her father said, from behind her, echoing her own thoughts.

      Feeling frightened again, by many things, Jehane went back to his chair and knelt before it. She put her head in his lap. And after a moment she felt his hands begin to stroke her hair. That had not happened for a long time.

      They were like that when Velaz came for her, having already packed for the road—for both of them. He had arrived, of course, at his own decision on this matter.

      SOME TIME LATER, when Jehane was gone, and Velaz, and Husari ibn Musa, the silk merchant who had become, however improbably, a declared conspirator against the Lion of Cartada, strange sounds could be heard emanating from the study of Ishak ben Yonannon, the physician.

      His wife Eliane stood in the corridor outside his closed door and listened as her husband, silent as death for four long years, practised articulating the letters of the alphabet, then struggled with simple words, like a child, learning what he could say and what he could not. It was fully dark outside by then; their daughter, their only child, was somewhere beyond the walls of civilization and safety, where women almost never went, in the wilderness of the wide world. Eliane held a tall, burning candle, and by its light someone watching could have seen a taut anguish to her still-beautiful face as she listened.

      She stood like that a long time before she knocked and entered the room. The shutters were still folded back and the window was open, as Jehane had left them. At the end of a day of death, with the sounds of grief still raw beyond the gates of the Quarter, the stars were serene as ever in the darkening sky, the moons would rise soon, the white one first tonight, and then the blue, and the night breeze would still ease and cool the scorched summer earth where men and women breathed and walked. And spoke.

      “Eyyia?” said her husband, and Eliane bet Danel heard the mangling of her name as music.

      “You sound like a marsh frog,” she said, moving to stand before his chair.

      By the flickering light she saw him smile.

      “Where have you been,” she asked. “My dear. I’ve needed you so much.”

      “Eyyia,” he tried again, and stood up. His eyes were black hollows. They would always be hollows.

      He opened his arms and she moved into the space they made in the world, and laying her head against his chest she permitted herself the almost unimaginable luxury of grief.

      AT APPROXIMATELY THE SAME TIME, their daughter was just outside the city walls negotiating with a number of whores for the purchase of three mules.

      Jehane had known, in fact, of several hidden exits in the city walls. Some of them were too tenuous for a man of Husari’s girth, but there was a place in the Quarter itself, at the northwestern end, where a tree hid a key to a low passage through the stone of the city wall. It was, in the event, a near thing, but Husari was able to squeeze through with help from Velaz.

      As they came out and stood up on the grassy space before the river a woman’s voice—a familiar voice, in fact—said cheerfully in the darkness, “Be welcome, pilgrims. May I lead you to a Garden of Delights such as Ashar only offers to the Dead?”

      “He doesn’t offer it at all to the Kindath,” Jehane replied. “Tonight you could almost tempt me, Jacinto.”

      “Jehane? Doctor?” The woman, scented and gaudily bejewelled, stepped closer. “Forgive me! I didn’t recognize you. Who called for you tonight?”

      “No one, actually. Tonight I need your help. The wadjis may be after me, and the Muwardis.”

      “Plague rot them all!” the woman named Jacinto said. “Haven’t they had enough blood for one day?” By now Jehane’s eyes were accustomed to the night, and she could make out the slender figure in front of her, clad only in the thinnest, most revealing wisps of cloth. “What do you need?” Jacinto asked. She was fourteen years old, Jehane knew.

      “Three mules, and your silence.”

      “You’ll have them. Come, I’ll bring you to Nunaya.”

      She had expected that. If anyone exerted any sort of control over this community of women and boys outside the walls it was Nunaya.

      Nunaya was not someone who wasted time, or words. Men in a hurry knew this, too, or they learned it soon enough. A client who came to visit her was likely to be back inside Fezana’s walls within a very short span of time, relieved of certain urges and a sum of money.

      The purchase of the mules was not a difficult transaction. For several years now Jehane—the only woman doctor in Fezana—had been the trusted physician of the whores of the city. First in their district inside the eastern wall and then out here to the north, after they had been pushed by the wadjis beyond the city gates and into one of the straggling suburbs by the river.

      That event had been but one in a series of sporadic outbursts of pious outrage that punctuated the dealings between the city and those who traded in physical love. The women fully expected to be back inside the walls within a year—and probably back outside them again a year or two after that.

      Given, however, that the women and boys one could buy were now mostly to be found outside the walls, it was not surprising that hidden exits had been established. No city with citizens—legitimate or otherwise—dwelling beyond its walls could ever be completely sealed.

      Jehane knew a good many of the whores by now, and had, on more than one occasion, slipped out to join them for an evening of food and drink and laughter. Out of courtesy to the doctor who delivered their children and healed their bodies of afflictions or wounds, clients were not welcome at such times. Jehane found these women—and the wise, bitter boys—better company than almost anyone she knew in the city, within the Kindath Quarter or outside it. She wondered, at times, what that suggested about herself.

      It was far from a serene СКАЧАТЬ