Chapter 10
“You are doing it again. Amina; if you insist on going in alone, at least stop caressing your dagger . You remember people are looking for us, yes?” Dalila hissed as she raced to keep up with my long strides.
I did remember. I also did not care. We had taken caution sailing back in the direction of Aden, but filled with a blinding
rage since Layth’s death when I realized Salima had lied to me about Dunya and possibly duped me into facing off against a fucking wizard, I’d thought of little but confronting her.
Fortunately Salima did not live in Aden proper, but in the neighboring garden city of Rubak, where many nobles kept second
apartments and pleasure homes. We anchored on the other side of the peninsula from Rubak—keeping the Marawati even farther from Aden—and then Dalila and I made the trek by land. Rubak was a quieter town, and I followed the directions
Salima had given me weeks ago to a large stone mansion on a clean-swept block facing the sea. Heavy teak doors carved with
climbing roses barred the entrance.
Dalila grabbed my sleeve. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I shook her off. “What choice do we have?”
“We could leave . I want the money as badly as you, but the ten thousand deposit she left with your family is no miserly sum. We could take
the Marawati , take Tinbu and your family and go somewhere far away until the Frankish sorcerer who kills traitors with blood magic and
was already looking for us finds another part of the world in which to play treasure hunter.”
It was not the first time Dalila had suggested fleeing and not the first time I had considered it. But whether it was the
vile, greedy whisper of a million dinars still floating around my head, the duty I owed to Asif, or the fact that I did not
want to rip my family away from the home we had built—based only on Layth’s words—I could not yet make that call.
“Let me try talking to her,” I said. “See what she knows.”
Dalila ran her fingers through the glass vials hanging from the ribbons of her cap. “I wish you would take one of these.”
“I need to talk to her, Dalila. Not melt her face off.”
My Mistress of Poisons looked even more dubious. “If you’re not out of there by nightfall, I’m coming in. I hope you have
something to cover your nose and mouth.”
“Around you? Always.” Of the many Banu Sasan tricks Dalila had mastered, knockout gas was her favorite.
“And don’t get distracted . We were hired for a job under false pretenses. That is what you are here to correct.”
God, had I brought along my mother or a former assassin for all this lecturing? “I am not distracted,” I insisted. “I am murderously
focused.”
“Right. So the fact that you’ve been muttering about giant pearls in your sleep is a coincidence?”
My face went hot. “Stop watching me sleep. It’s creepy. And the Moon of Saba is a myth. I haven’t given it a second...”
But Dalila was already gone, vanishing in her typical fashion. With a sigh, I turned my attention to the al-Hilli residence.
Their house was two stories tall, and though there were no windows on the first floor, a narrow second-story balcony loomed
overhead. Covered with intricate wooden screens, it was likely from there that the women inside gazed upon the world, watching
the street and its people from the seclusion of their family home.
I regarded the balcony, a window into a life I could scarcely imagine.
I hail from fishwives and singers, maids and those who ready brides.
Seclusion is not an option for us, neither its privileges nor its hardships.
We are the women in the streets the others watch from behind their screens.
Accordingly, we are often granted less honor, our bodies assumed to be available for the right price or simply invisible.
I have cast a judgmental eye straight back, dismissing the rich women behind the screens as pampered dolls.
Now, though, they made me wonder. Had Dunya been happy here?
From the picture Salima painted, it didn’t sound like Dunya had wanted for much. It was no doubt difficult to be an orphan,
but Salima clearly adored her granddaughter, indulging her interests and eccentricities enough that she became quite learned,
even at her young age. Had Dunya been content with that life, enclosed in her wealthy bubble of books and tutors? I knew her
father wouldn’t have been. Asif was always dreaming of more—a new adventure, a new land. He dreamed so much his desires drove
him into the arms of a monster.
Praying the same fate had not been visited upon his daughter, I knocked on the entrance.
The doorman was rude, the guard he summoned to toss me out of the neighborhood even more obnoxious until I mentioned being
the “woman from Salalah,” and they both paled, the doorman scurrying off to find his mistress.
He returned to lead me through a home that felt like an eerie contrast to my own.
Where my house was falling apart, Salima’s mansion was splendid, the walls covered in tapestries from all over creation and finely polished silver mirrors.
Here and there were painted porcelain vases and ivory carvings set upon rosewood tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl designs.
The rugs were soft and expensive, depicting dancers and feasts.
Lushly planted lime trees and date palms grew in the large courtyard, surrounding a fountain decorated with brightly painted tiles.
The perfume of flowers and frankincense competed to delight the nose, a nightingale singing sweetly from one of the trees.
And yet as rich and magnificent as the house was, it felt hollow and haunted in a way that made the hairs on the back of my
neck rise. I saw not a soul besides the two men escorting me. The flowers in the vases were dead, the fruit from the courtyard
trees left rotting on the ground. The longer one listened, the more the nightingale sounded like it was in despair, calling
for a lost mate. Two of the silver mirrors were smashed and a game of chess abandoned in the middle of play, the pawns gathering
dust. It looked like the sort of family home Asif had claimed to come from: one of faded grandeur he had been determined to
reclaim. I struggled to connect it with the fiery, determined grandmother who’d hunted me down and badgered me into helping
her. Maybe losing Dunya had torn out the home’s heart.
I was beginning to feel sympathetic until they led me to the kitchens. If the kitchens had been staffed, the cooks were nowhere
to be seen; the place was as neglected as the rest of the mansion. The clay oven was cold, the hanging copper pans tarnished.
A basket of garlic had green shoots snaking out from the withered skins, and a bowl of overlooked prunes was the only food
on a yawning wood-block table that could have held the ingredients for an entire neighborhood’s iftar. A mouse raced off its
length, fleeing our approach.
The guard gestured to a bench. “She will meet you here.”
“In the kitchens?”
His eyes skimmed my body, from my roughly spun turban to my patched dress and unembellished trousers. Like many women of my
age and class, I didn’t cover my face.
His voice turned frosty. “Is that a problem?”
It wasn’t for me, since I’m not a wealthy snob who looks down upon kitchen work.
But on Salima’s part, it was an insult, a rather petty one.
Did she think I needed to be put in my place?
She had rested in my recep tion room and eaten food my child had prepared.
Besides, the house was empty; it was not as though we needed to hide our relationship.
I smiled graciously at her servant. “Not at all.”
Salima was at least prompt in arriving, joining me in the silent kitchen only moments later. Her servant pulled out a stool,
upon which she primly sat, and then he vanished, leaving us alone and me on my feet.
“Nakhudha,” she greeted flatly. Despite the house’s somber air, Salima was impeccably turned out in a muslin gown of deep
violet, patterned with pale green diamonds and silver embroidery. A sheer shayla of the same hue draped her perfectly coifed
hair, framing emerald and pink pearl earrings.
“Peace be upon you, Sayyida.” I touched my heart in respect. “Apologies for the unexpected visit. I figured I would return
yours in kind.”
Salima eyed me severely. “I am simply glad to see you. I was starting to fear you had absconded with my money to wreak havoc
in Aden. That was you, was it not? The woman who poisoned the soldiers at the wali’s office, freed a crew of homicidal pirates,
set a score of ships on fire, and fled the harbor in the middle of the night?”
“I would never confirm such a thing and put you at risk of consorting with criminals. But it was two ships, not a score. I
wouldn’t wish to encourage exaggeration.”
Her face lit in outrage. “I told you to be discreet . I will not have you ruin things for my granddaughter.”
My temper flared at the charge. “Oh, did I ruin things?” I challenged. “Odd, that. Because I doubt I could harm Dunya’s reputation any more than she did herself when
she ran away with a Frank.”
Salima didn’t even blink at the accusation. “Dunya did not run away. She was kidnapped.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Falco Palamanas—Palametes—the Frank’s agent told a different story. He said Dunya went running after his master after you kicked them out, begging to go along.”
The words were chosen to offend Salima’s pride and throw her off-balance, and they did, spots of colors blossoming in the
old woman’s cheeks. “You believe the word of an infidel-serving wretch over my own?”
“I believe you have been lying to me from the beginning.” I stepped closer and I did not miss her alarmed gaze flicker to
the door. “And I would like you to tell me, Sayyida, what your granddaughter knows about the Moon of Saba.”
The first hint of genuine shock rippled across Salima’s face. “How do you know about that?”