Chapter 5 #2
“It was nice running into you again, Shay,” he calls out as she rushes away, provoking her to glance back. He's rolled his sleeve up again. His gaze shifts from looking down at the insect bite with comical concern to looking up at Shay with an expression she can't read. Is it worry? Embarrassment?
Filtered sunlight through the dense wood washes his face in an umber glow. In the contours of Shadi's guileless smile, she fails to find any trace of the hate she would expect from a Naturalist.
Nearing the medina square, Shay sights armed guards.
They mill the perimeter, looking as formidable as small boys toting large guns can.
As if the fact that the herb she relies upon has been plundered weren't making her nervous enough, hammers ring in the distance, the shouts of men at work, no doubt erecting gallows.
Shay shudders, remembering last night's raid and the glimmer of another scene from the more distant past. She ducks her head and flees the hulking shadow of the wooden apparatus, as if she could outrun the sharp teeth of memory.
She soon makes her way to the seedier side of the medina, its abandoned buildings rendered soft in the pink haze of early light, and tucked amid them, her destination. Morning breeze teases the fabric of an elaborate tent, sewn in patchwork design and bedecked with glittery sequins.
Shay's heart pulses like a living thing inside her throat.
Dounia's Delights.
She doesn't believe—can't believe—Ghita would lie, yet the vagueness of the midwife's narrative certainly suggests she's hiding something.
Shay thought she would stay in Nezjar forever.
She'd care for Ghita as she grew old, and only after the midwife had squeezed out every last drop of a long and satisfying life would Shay have taken over her position.
The brewery stands as quiet as a secret.
The thick exterior rugs used to deter nighttime intruders have been rolled up.
The heavy stones that hold them down are pushed aside.
The door flap hangs open and untied. It's early.
Shay thought she might have to wait around a while, but is the barkeep who heard and proceeded to spread the touched one's claims about her stolen baby already here?
And what will Shay say to her if she is?
She has no idea what form the answers she seeks will take. She only knows with sudden conviction that not being a burden isn't enough after all. Shay wants to be loved, to fill the mother-shaped emptiness inside her.
Stiff corners press between her shoulder blades.
The ticket wedges in the hood of her djellaba, a practical feature of the garment that does double duty as a head covering in harsh weather and a spacious storage compartment when needed.
She brought the parchment with her as though it might otherwise disappear.
To Shay, it is a symbol that she has achieved success in the eyes of her teacher—and, in so doing, lost her position in the only place she's ever called home.
If there's any possibility, however small, that the claims have merit, Shay owes it to herself to investigate the matter.
Before she's shipped off on a caravan to Kiddah, where she'll have to start all over, having forfeited any chance at understanding where she's from.
Heart wild, she nudges the flap wider and steps into the establishment proper.
Thick sugary clouds swirl above a handful of dinged-up tables. A couple of middle-aged men smoke shisha and play a game of tuti in the back. Shay isn't sure what she expected, but the reality is less than exciting, although the atmosphere would presumably enliven after dark.
Shay sidles up to a long bar counter. She quietly takes in the strange and colorful bottles that line the shelving unit behind it.
The barkeep is balanced atop a wooden stool, inspecting the bottles and replacing those found empty.
Shiny locks smoothly drape her shoulders, their straight press no doubt achieved by wielding a comb dipped into a jar of lava procured by B'hamu divers—rumored to be part merfolk—from volcanic caves under the Cerabbi Sea.
“Labas?” Shay tempers the volume of her greeting but still manages to startle the woman, who wobbles unsteadily before climbing down from the stool.
“Labas, Lalla. I didn't hear you come in.” The woman slaps a hand to the bodice of the stylish blue takchita she wears cinched with a thick belt.
She has richly dark skin, lushly flared curves, and her wide eyes are rimmed in kohl.
Idly, she massages the palm of one hand with the other and flexes her elegant fingers.
“I'm afraid the brewery is not yet open for business.”
“But you have customers …” Shay glances uncertainly toward the back table.
“My uncle and brother,” the barkeep says dismissively.
When Shay doesn't move, the woman produces a prettily embroidered handkerchief from below the counter and uses it to dab invisible sweat from her hairline. “You're welcome to come back at midday.”
Shay swallows her nerves. They squirm in her stomach. “I … actually wanted to talk to you.”
The barkeep's brown eyes soften. She shakes her head. “We're not hiring right now.”
“Not about that.” Shay shakes her own head, groping for words. “About a customer. A woman … a touched one.”
“You'll have to give me more to go on.” The barkeep slings the cloth over her shoulder and crosses her arms.
“Her name might be Hind?”
Frown lines etch across the woman's forehead. She grunts. “Hind is a common name.”
Something sours in her tone, and her lip twitches in repugnance, making Shay suspect she knows more. She looks closer at the cloth flung over the woman's shoulder, woven in the style of the blankets Nezjar is known for. “May I see your handkerchief?”
The barkeep grabs the cloth and looks at it, her nose wrinkling. “It's soiled. I can get you something clean …”
“I want to see the embroidery.”
Nodding, the barkeep relinquishes the cloth, which Shay unfolds. Many washings have left the cotton fabric rough, but the threads have retained their vibrance. The rich patterns in which they are arranged attest to the artistry of a talented seamstress. “Did you make this?”
“Do you like it?” The barkeep smiles, a smile so thin that it may as well be a clover bean leaf slapped over a musket wound. Sadness seeps through like blood.
“It's beautiful.” Shay scans the mostly empty tent. She imagines how busy it must get, filled with rowdy customers and individuals of ill repute. “Why work here when you possess such talent?”
The woman's smile retreats.
“I was talented.” She gives her hands another brisk rub as though warming them. “That was before I injured my hands. And now I work here. Where I'm forced to deal with the likes of Hind Hibachi.”
Shay gulps, anticipation straightening her spine. “So, you do know her?”
“If I did,” the barkeep says, snatching back the cloth and returning it below the counter, “I would have barred her from my establishment for distributing Snow. Not to mention her outstanding tab.”
Nibbling her lip, Shay contemplates the woman's words. “You mean she was selling it?”
The barkeep pauses, her voice laced with warning when she speaks again.
“Not selling. She offered it for free to young women.
Women who quickly become dependent on the drug and go live in the kasbah for as long as Al-Mukhtar can use them.
When they eventually get cast out, they'll spend the rest of their miserable lives in the Bib.
And that's if they're among the lucky ones.” She turns back and grabs a bottle from the wall, uncorks the neck, and sniffs it before returning it to its place.
“But you didn't hear such treasonous talk from me, eh?”
Shay settles onto a stool with a seat of woven leather, allowing herself a moment for the words to filter through her mind.
Her thoughts shift like desert sands. She's heard the rebels’ accusations of touched ones being employed at the kasbah before, but the claim of Al-Mukhtar discarding them after Snow has drained their vitality is a new one.
The barkeep glances over her shoulder and raises her eyebrow as if questioning what Shay is still doing there.
“Did she ever mention having a child?” Shay's voice stretches as thin as pastry dough, but it gets the woman to turn around and fully face her.
She looks Shay up and down the way a market goer might examine goods, searching for some flaw they can leverage for a lower price. “Touched ones say a lot of things when they're blitzed.”
It's all the confirmation Shay needs, and the only person who can tell her more than that is the woman herself.
It's unlikely this Hind Hibachi is one of the touched ones who reside at the kasbah—she wouldn't have been patronizing the brewery if she did.
If she is, instead, one of the castoffs the barkeep speaks of, that means …
Shay knows where to look for her: the shantytown, colloquially called the Bib. “Thank you, khalti.”
The woman tilts her head as Shay rises to go. Understanding passes over her face, then sharpens to alarm. “I wouldn't go there if I were you.”
Shay hesitates. The Bib is hardly a place anyone would go for enjoyment, but the woman's tone suggests a more sinister meaning. “Why not?”
She huffs. “The Bib isn't just where poor people live anymore. It's a hideout for criminals. A place where rebels are free to take cover because no mukhtar would soil his spotless white robe by venturing in. The Moulays don't even conduct raids there.”
Shay believes this; the midwife herself refuses to enter the slum, its women forced to come to her or deliver their babies alone.
As a hizoura, Shay has more reason than most to avoid the rebels, especially when she may have already attracted one's attention.
But, instead of the trepidation she should feel, a lightness floats like soap bubbles in her chest. If she had to give name to the feeling, she'd call it hope.
Seeming to sense her words have not had their intended impact, the barkeep continues: “You'll need a guide to get through all the rigged traps, and no one there will trust you unless you know the secret hand signal.”
Shay grips the counter, dizzy with the implications. She strums her fingers over the years’ accumulation of dents and scrapes that have been worn into the wood grain, her leather gloves a barrier that dampens their sensation. “Do you know the secret hand signal?”
“Why would I?” The woman kneads her hands again. She grimaces. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Shay's shoulders sink. If the barkeep seemed the type to be swayed by dramatics, she'd drop to her knees then and there to beg. One of the men offers her a sympathetic shrug, then returns to his game, which, judging by the fan of cards held in his hand, he's losing.
She whips her face back to the barkeep. “Did you say the touched one owed you coin?”
The woman sighs wearily. “Are you offering to pay it?”
Shay reaches through the slit in the side of her djellaba.
She cups the small satchel hidden beneath, worn around her waist. In her gloved palm, she weighs its lightness.
Her heart goes as still as the moment before a storm breaks.
After her extra payment to the stable master, she has little coin left to her name, but the gloves …
The gloves were a gift, and so much more. A symbol of the care Ghita poured into her training and the midwife's expectations for her future. Shay cherishes them, both for their utility and their sentimental value.
“Does it hurt?” she asks softly. When the barkeep looks confused, she explains, “You told me you injured your hands.”
“A little,” the woman admits, but Shay has spent enough time around women in pain to recognize when one is downplaying the severity. “They tingle sometimes. And feel cold.”
With a strike of regret, Shay peels off her still-new and much-loved gloves.
She squeezes the leather between her palms, soaking up its softness.
The barkeep's hands look similar in size to her own.
She squares her shoulders. “These might provide you comfort.
I'll give them to you if you'll help me.”