Chapter 22 #3
“I'm not opposed to anything.” Shay tries to keep her voice level while glancing at Khawla's parents.
They appear unalarmed, and she wonders if they would intervene should the Morchidat decide to give Shay a personal demonstration of just what happened to her opponent.
“I have some personal things I need to figure out.”
Marjan snorts. “Lalla, don't we all?”
Yara elbows her sister in the side.
While Shay struggles to vocalize an answer, the Morchidat withdraws five more knives and knife-adjacent implements from various hiding places on her person and lines them up on the table. She smiles brightly. “Well, why didn't you just say so?”
“Shay!” Khawla laughs, spraying cookie crumbs down the front of her sleeping gown. “The look on your face!”
The Morchidat's eyes narrow slightly, then bolt wide. “Oh, did you think … Why, I wouldn't dare harm the girl my son is enamored with.”
Shay works her jaw, these words nearly as frightening as the medley of weapons on display.
“Did Shadi say that?” Khawla boldly asks.
“He didn't have to.” The Morchidat waves her hand and looks at Shay. “A mother knows these things. Just make sure you resolve these issues, whatever they are, before your relationship with Shadi goes any further. Now.” The Morchidat slaps her hands on top of her thighs. “Let's see it, then.”
Shay pulls the hjabat from her pocket and hesitates, but with a reassuring nod from Khawla, she deposits it in the Morchidat's palm.
The Morchidat inspects the ring, tilting her head first one way and then the other, her manner almost clinical. Her daughters lean in from either side for a better look.
“Which one is it, Mmi?” Yara asks, awe tinting her voice.
“This is the ring of Iman, blessings upon her name.”
Unexpectedly, the proclamation causes a shiver to rush over Shay's arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “And can it help the Sisterhood restore women's magic?”
“It is only one hjabat,” the Morchidat explains, showing no sign of handing the ring back to Shay.
“There are four in existence, one belonging to each of our Lallat.
We cannot restore magic without the other three.
But having one would be a start—one that I'm happy to repay by gifting you any knife from my collection.”
Shay stares at the row of knives, all cumbersome-looking and more suited to the infliction of gross harm than the precise harvesting of a delicate fiddlehead without damaging the plant.
Sensing her hesitation, the Morchidat holds one up, a menacing instrument with a handle in the middle and a wicked blade sprouting from each end.
She closes her other hand over the hjabat, leaving one finger free, and strokes the blade in a manner that's almost tender.
“Do you whittle? If so, may I suggest this one?”
Shay shakes her head wordlessly The knife in question looks entirely impractical for whittling, a point she thinks it wiser not to argue.
“Hmm, perhaps, something else, then?” She sets the hjabat on the table and asks Yara to hand her a paper bag from the floor beside the seddari. From the bag, she withdraws a pair of leather gauntlets and a leather vest and lays these out on the remaining table space. “Try them on.”
For a moment, Shay can only stare. The garments are beautifully detailed, stitched with a level of workmanship not found in any market stall.
No, she'd bet her last luneer that these were custom-made.
The vest boasts a scalloped trim, is edged with rivet accents, and has buckle straps at the sides.
The gloves have small steel plates sewn onto them and are bound by thick laces.
When Khawla clears her throat, Shay realizes everyone is looking at her and waiting for her to do something.
Shakily, she stands and lifts the garments in her hands.
They're even more beautiful up close. The leather holds a rich tapestry of browns within its sheen, and is as luxurious to the touch as a rare emollient.
“Let me help you.” Khawla jumps up and buckles the vest over Shay's sleeping clothes while she laces the gauntlets.
Once fitted in the garments, Shay glances around to find everyone still staring at her, but now with expressions of approval. Even Marjan smiles appreciatively.
“Do you have a mirror, Widad?” the Morchidat asks Khawla's mother, who immediately races off in search of one.
“This is strong leather,” Khawla gushes as she strokes her hand down Shay's back. “Strong enough to repel musket fire.”
If the Morchidat finds this statement odd, she doesn't show any outward reaction. Though Marjan furrows her brow, as though pondering in what situation a girl like Shay would need to think about such protection.
Khawla is right, though. Shay feels it in the weight of the garment as she shifts her body side to side.
And unlike metal armor, the vest allows for ample mobility.
It covers her most vital organs, but there are still plenty of places she could be shot.
Something she really should have considered before now.
Which only underlines the fact that she has no real plan. Did she think she would go knock on the prayer house door and question the Moulays who live there? Or write a letter of inquiry to the mukhtars to be delivered to the kasbah?
Khalti Widad comes back holding a long mirror.
Shay keeps her eyes closed as she turns to behold herself.
When she opens them, she expects to confront the image of a girl playing dress-up, but even in her sleeping gown, the garments afford her the fierceness of a warrior.
They are sleek and practical, and they give edges to her softness, put a gleam into her eye.
In them, she looks like someone who would know what to do with one of those weapons the Morchidat laid out before her like bridal gifts for an assassin.
Like someone who could save another person.
Someone who could save her mother.
“What do you think?” the Morchidat asks, and in the reflection behind her, Shay sees the small smile teasing the woman's lips.
Shay nods. “They're perfect.”
“Let's call it a fair trade, shall we?” the Morchidat asks, gathering her knives and replacing them in their various sheaths. “And you can let me know, after your affairs are settled, how you feel about joining the Sisterhood.”
Shay notices that the hjabat has already been tucked away along with the weapons. She meets eyes with the Morchidat as she rises and grabs her cloak. “Agreed.”
“The way before will be once more!“ the Morchidat boisterously declares.
To which the others in the room chorus back, “The way before will be once more!“
The next twenty beakers pass in a cycle of goodbyes and well-wishes, at the end of which the Morchidat pauses and appraises Shay.
She leaves her with these parting words: “I don't presume to know who it is you're trying to save, but remember that she is no less and no more than all the other women of our realm. The other mothers and sisters, the bakers and healers. Al-Mukhtar is a threat to all of us.”