Chapter 20
—Are you sure you wish me to relate this part? It is understandable if you desire to skip it.
—Why am I asking this? Are you serious, you irascible scribe? We both know why. And God knows the madness that ended up happening
afterward is enough to fill plenty of pages. We need not—
—Oh, by the Most High , Jamal, I am not insulting your ability to remain impartial in “constructing a narrative of both disport and verisimilitude.”
What does that even mean? You do realize that if you want to be a proper storyteller, your words need to flow like warm honey, not choke like the stones
of a dry academic. So let me be more direct: Do you wish me to relate what is to come— who is to come—as I knew them at the time?
—Yes? Then if that is your choice, I shall continue...
***
On the second day at sea, in the humid haze of a late afternoon, we spotted a small boat bobbing along the northern horizon.
It was a sizable dunij, of the kind I associated with larger vessels. Whoever was aboard had fashioned a miserable tent from
an oar and a cloak, and the remaining paddles were positioned at the least useful angles imaginable. The dunij’s hull was
badly scorched, a jagged piece of the edge broken away. Indeed, it was a miracle the boat was even afloat. Had there been
an inkling of bad weather, it would have capsized.
We shouted as we approached in our own dunij, but there was no response.
No sign of life or movement from amongst the scattered debris.
Dunya had been at sea nearly a week with only the few provisions she would have been able to hide under her clothes.
Could I even hope for anything more than a body her grandmother could bury?
Firoz called out. “I think I see something. Yes... yes, there is someone under the cloak.”
“Bring us aside.” I carefully jumped to the other boat. “The rest of you stay back.”
My heart in my throat, I approached the small form curled beneath the makeshift tent. Her garments were frayed and torn, sunburnt,
blistered skin showing through. There was no response as I lifted the cloak covering her upper body. Her face was turned toward
the hull, flies buzzing over dirty, sweat-soaked hair that had been crudely chopped just past her ears.
I touched a scorching hot shoulder. God, please ... “Dunya?” I whispered.
She stirred.
I breathed out a ragged sigh of relief. “She is alive, God be praised!” At my feet, Dunya let out a hoarse little sound, and
I gestured impatiently at my comrades. “Hand me some water!”
Dalila tossed me a skin, and I carefully eased Dunya’s head up enough that I could dribble some water into her mouth. “It
is all right, little one,” I said soothingly. “You are safe.”
Her eyes blinked blearily open; the same light brown as Asif’s but terribly bloodshot and yellowed. “Who-who are...” she
tried to croak out.
I tipped a bit more water into her mouth. “My name is Amina.”
Dunya started to cough, and I quickly sat her up, fearing she had taken too much water. But it had been a sob, not a cough,
and if she had not been entirely dehydrated, I suspect she would have started to cry.
“Baba’s nakhudha?” she asked, relief flooding her sweaty, sunburnt face.
“Yes,” I replied, shame sweeping through me. “I was your baba’s nakhudha.” I smoothed back the hair plastered across her face. “I am going to take you to my ship.”
She flailed a hand toward a bundle of cloth. “My tablets...”
“I will retrieve your things.” Dunya felt as light and insubstantial as a leaf as I cradled her to my chest, and no matter
what things I had seen in her library, no matter what accusations of forbidden sorcery and collaboration Raksh had flung her
way, a protective surge coursed over me for this shattered teenager on a broken boat. I was a grown woman and a former pirate,
and my brief time with Falco had scarred me. God only knew what Dunya had been through.
He will never set a hand on her again , I swore to myself. To Dunya, I said, “Just breathe, child. You’re safe now. I promise.”
***
Dunya had lapsed back into unconsciousness by the time I carried her aboard the Marawati , and it was a state in which she spent much of the next two days. When she was awake, we got as much food and liquid into
her as possible: Hamid cooking her a fishy broth with soft rice and Dalila brewing a tisane with dried citron peel and vinegar
for the girl’s frail stomach. I kept Dunya in the private shade of the galley cabin, and Dalila and I bathed and tended her
wounds, applying salve to the blistered burns covering her skin. Tinbu brought fresh clothing and blankets the crew had donated,
and Majed stayed by her side, softly reciting Quran and the adventure poems he no doubt related to his own children. With
her large, haunted eyes and skinny frame, Dunya looked closer to twelve, not anything like the bright, confident sixteen-year-old
runaway Falco had painted her to be.
“Do you think she knew?” I asked Majed the third day after we found her. She was fast asleep, my navigator reciting at her side. I had not missed that he was selecting the gentlest verses, reminders of God’s compassion and incomparable mercy. They were the same teachings I clung to.
Majed looked as though he’d aged another decade. “I don’t know how involved she was, Amina. She is clearly traumatized. She
screams and weeps in her sleep and looks like a ghost when she’s awake. I have not dared ask her anything.”
No, that would be my job . “She recognized Raksh at one point,” I remarked. “She didn’t say anything, but she looked terrified at the sight of him.”
“An understandable reaction.” Majed leaned against the galley wall. “Any plan on how to get rid of him before we reach the
mainland?”
“Still working on that.” I picked up the cloth bundle that Dunya had escaped with. I had already examined it, finding nothing
but two palm-sized clay tablets with more of the bizarre wedge-shaped cuneiform writing on it. “Any idea what these are?”
“Presumably something best tossed in the sea if it came from that infernal cave.”
I was inclined to agree but didn’t think tossing Dunya’s belongings overboard would make for a good impression. “Go get some
fresh air, brother. I will sit with her.”
It was a hot day, the atmosphere heavy with a stillness I didn’t like though we had spotted no thunderheads. I brought an
inkpot and a wooden lap board into the galley, and sat on the floor besides Dunya, resting my bad knee on a cushion and writing
in my rahmani about Socotra. The Marawati gently rose and fell with the sea, the water knocking pleasantly against the hull and nearly lulling me into a late afternoon
nap.
But I was not so unaware that I did not realize when I was being watched. Dunya had awakened without moving, her haunted gaze
locked on my profile.
Finally she spoke. “My father used to write about you.”
I set down the rahmani and turned to face her. At some point, Dunya had used what little strength she had to bind away her hair, wrapping a cloth around her head. It made her look like the boy Asif had once been, a specter returned to trouble me.
“Yes, I have heard of those letters,” I said wryly. “Though you must have been very young when he sent them.”
“My grandmother hid his letters away. I only found them a few years ago.” Grief, guilt, admiration... the mix of emotions
churning across Dunya’s face was gut-wrenching. “I used to dream about meeting you. My father said you were the bravest and
cleverest person he’d ever met, an adventurer like Sindbad the Sailor—” Her voice cracked. “I wish I were not meeting my childhood
hero under such shameful circumstances.”
“I am no hero,” I tried to assure her, the word sticking in my throat. Would Asif have written so warmly of his nakhudha if
he’d known I’d let Raksh into our lives aware of what he was? But I pushed the past away for now, handing Dunya a cup of water.
“Do you feel strong enough to talk?”
Dunya hesitated, but then nodded and slowly sat up, wincing as she did so. “Did my grandmother hire you to find me?”
“I’m not quite sure I’d use the word ‘hire,’ but something like that. She and Falco have very different accounts of your leaving.”
“You met Falco?”
“Most regrettably, yes. We caught up with him in Socotra after you escaped. And God willing, we left him there.” She opened
her mouth to speak again, and I held up a hand. “My questions first. Tell me what happened from the beginning. Your grandmother
said Falco kidnapped you when she refused to sell him family talismans. Is that true?”
She bit her lip, visibly nervous. “No... not quite,” she admitted. “My grandmother threw him out, but I followed him and
his man. I said I might have items they were interested in.”
“Why? Forgive me, child, but it seems a rash move to offer family secrets to a foreign stranger. What did you need the money
for so badly?”
“I needed it to escape before the wedding.”
“The wedding ?”
Dunya glanced up, a hint of bitterness in her face. “No, I suppose my grandmother would not tell you that part. She would
not wish to cause scandal. But I am to wed the governor of Aden.”
The governor of Aden? I blinked in surprise. Damn. No wonder Salima had been so angry about the chaos I’d wreaked there. That was a hell of a rise
in status for the al-Hilli family. The governor of Aden was one of the most powerful men in the region, ruling over its richest
city. And not just its richest city. Its most fortified city, despite what I’d done to its fledgling navy and woebegone police prefect. There would be armies and sturdy walls, garrisons
and trained guards between Dunya and Falco should the Frank still be alive and seeking vengeance.
“Oh.” I let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that is not so bad. Your husband can protect you. And you will want for nothing.”