Chapter 10 A Gift of Respite #2
“I know,” Faraj assured him, reaching over the table to lift Sahar away from her bemused cuddle-prey with careful hands. “Sahar, habibti, we have both presented Irfan with sufficient headaches already.”
“Have my headaches troubled you, or will they trouble you, or—”
“I had thought that question was mine to ask,” Faraj said. “I feel rather more personally responsible for your headaches than usual.”
“Our work continues apace whether our assorted headaches approve or not,” Irfan sighed, tapping his reed pen against the paper for a moment.
“A cleverly organized mu’tamidiyya dish, perhaps?
Two half-moon egg skillets, one containing chicken and one without, plated pre-cut into bites, and some assortment of sweet almond and savory vegetable sanbusak around the edge of the plate, for those who cannot abide milk or eggs? ”
“That sounds marvelous,” Faraj said, watching Irfan’s deft but unsteady flicks of the reed pen to sketch out the arrangement for the kitchen staff. “Irfan, if you need to rest…”
“I will rest when you have no further need of me, your Highness.”
“I cannot imagine a time when I have no further need of you, Irfan,” Faraj murmured. “And I shall insist that you are to rest sooner than that.”
Irfan glanced up from the menu, and offered a rueful smile. “When you have no imminent need of me, then.”
A khadim tapped at the door of the study and called, “Your Highness, your Eminence, a messenger with a timely gift?”
“Show them in,” Faraj said.
The door opened on an embarrassed shepherd with wild dark curls, deeply sun-bronzed skin, a basket over his arm, and a pair of dusty sandals dangling from the crook of his shepherd’s staff, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the velveted carpet-slippers that the guards must have insisted he was to wear in the halls of the haveli.
He spoke the common tongue of the Basteti streets with a northeasterly, coastal accent, and also with a breathless rush.
“I’m sorry, I just meant to bring the basket and the message, I didn’t think — I hadn’t guessed— I’m so sorry, what even am I supposed to call you? That word she said wasn’t shahzada—”
“You address His Imperial Highness Nur-ul-shuruq Faraj al-Nadhir, prophet of the God-Emperor, may His reign be eternal,” Irfan said, carefully clear with his enunciation of the Imperial titles. But the poor shepherd still looked utterly overwhelmed.
“You can call me Faraj,” Faraj offered, in the Basteti street-tongue. “Or shahzada, if that is more familiar.”
The shepherd seized on that like a lifeline, bowing several times.
“Thank you, shahzada. Ya shahzada? I hear Imperial people say ya— oh never mind, I’m sorry, the point is, here, please have this while Shai Rahim’s bread is still warm?
” This time when he bowed, he offered the basket, carefully, with only his right hand.
Faraj took it with curiosity; no danger troubled his foresight when he touched the basket, and so he dared to hope for a simple surprise.
Rahim was an Imperial name, for all that Shai proclaimed him one of Upaja’s priests.
He lifted away the cloth covering the basket and was greeted by a waft of utterly delicious scents, along with an attractively calligraphed page of verses.
The warmth of the memory was as delightful as the warmth of the still-steaming bread.
In the Summer Capital, during his childhood, poets and gourmands had taken delight in sharing their creativity with each other, exchanging gift-baskets of delicious treats and beautiful verses as a mark of shared esteem.
He’d thought the poetry-baskets must have fallen out of favor in the years since, for fashions changed more swiftly than the winds in any court his brother Ziyad attended.
But perhaps Shai Rahim had not stayed current with the latest courtly fashions after he’d made his vows to Upaja.
The bread was the warmest of the delights, but several little pots promised delicious treats to nibble with it: sweet and tart quince jam, honeyed rose petals, dates filled with pistachios and scented with orange blossom water, himmas kassa sprinkled with olives and walnuts and a fragrant spice blend.
Tucked beneath the bread were an assortment of cheeses and rounds of beautifully rolled bazmaward slices and a row of lemon-brined silver fish that made Sahar’s nose wrinkle between the fascination of the fish and the cat-horror of citrus-squeezings.
“Please come and share this,” Faraj said to the shepherd, patting one of the silken floor-pillows at his side. “To have carried this up from the city so swiftly, smelling it the whole way? Surely you have more than earned a share!”
“Um,” the shepherd said, looking helplessly at the mud-stained sandals dangling from his shepherd’s crook, then tucking it behind his back.
“I’d only meant to ask if there is a — an expectation of formal clothing at the priests’ meal this evening.
But I don’t think I should even be standing in this room, your, er, shahzada-ness? ”
Faraj’s heart twinged at the thought of another handsome common-born man who had so desperately wished not to hear the name behind Rahat spoken, whom Kamil had snarled at for his temerity, when they all felt such distance between the neighborhood bath-house and the grandeur of the haveli.
If he ever dreamed to coax Master Asharan to feel comfortable in his hands, in a place of such pomp and power, then he would surely need more practice in soothing skittish common folk who feared themselves unwelcome in this place.
“If you feel you should not be standing here, then all the more reason to come and sit with me,” he said lightly. “Come, sit, wash your hands.”
Faraj looked around for a hand-bowl and an ewer, and found that Irfan had already fetched them, because of course he had; it was a matter of etiquette, and their guest might not be familiar with the custom.
Amid the business of helping the shepherd wash his hands with rose-scented water and drying them with a soft cloth, Irfan also managed to tuck the staff and the dangling sandals into a corner beside a bookshelf.
By the time Faraj had washed his hands as well, Irfan had somehow folded the shepherd into sitting on the floor-pillow at his side.
Both Faraj and his guest were slightly bewildered as to how a few hand-gestures and a bit of leaning had accomplished that, and the shepherd still looked as though he might bolt.
Faraj set the basket in the shepherd’s lap to slow him down a bit, at least.
“I take it that you are also a priest in attendance for the Greater Convocation, to have encountered Shai Rahim and this delightful basket of memories?”
“Oh — yes, sir, mister shahzada sir,” he said, trying not to squirm with little success.
“They’re all very busy cooking right now, but Shai Rahim said it would be terribly rude of him to have come all this way to Tel-Bastet and yet not to send a token of his esteem to — what did he say — gore-something and con-something? ”
“Er,” Faraj said, blinking. “I’m afraid I can’t imagine.”
Looking at the sheet of verses, Irfan said in the high court tongue, “A gourmand and a connoisseur.”
“Yes, those,” the shepherd said, relieved. “I mean, ah, those were the words he used? I hope they’re not… unfortunate.”
“It is hardly a secret that I appreciate my food,” Faraj said, with a rueful gesture toward his figure.
“But from a priest of Upaja, I hear the voice of one who shares that appreciation, and who celebrates skill in the craftsmanship. Pray share the repast, good priest, that you may convey to his Reverence both my gratitude and a returning basket of delicious joys?”
“If you’re sure?” With a rueful gesture at his own admittedly dusty kurta, the shepherd said, “I wasn’t sure I’m even fit to serve at the priests’ table, mister shahzada sir.”
“You are welcome to refresh yourself and your garments if it pleases you,” Irfan said. “You are Elder Elias of the Shepherds, yes?”
“Yes, sir, but how on earth did you know that?”
“It is my duty to know every priest who comes to the Convocation,” Irfan replied, gently.
“Of course you are welcome at the priests’ table, as are all those who have traveled here for the Greater Convocation.
Every faithful soul who comes to his Highness’ table in peace is welcome to share in the God-Emperor’s bounty. ”
“Ah. Yes, I do take that point,” Elias said.
He might be upended by the silks and splendor, but if he was the priest whom his fellows had sent to the Convocation, then the flows of power might well be more familiar to him than the silk pillow.
“Thank you for your God-Emperor’s bounty, your Tallness. ”
Irfan didn’t even blink. Kamil, who had been pretending to doze in the sunbeam while all the unthreatening paperwork was shuffled, made a snort that might hopefully be mistaken for a snore.
Faraj couldn’t help biting his lip, because he wanted to smile, but he also didn’t wish to hurt the young man’s feelings.
Elias had clearly been listening for a repetition of the right phrase, and he’d almost gotten the form of exaltation correct.
And truly, Faraj, who barely came up to Kamil’s shoulder, would be charmed if anyone thought of him as a Tallness.
To keep himself from any inadvertent chuckles, Faraj busied himself with plating up servings of crisp-crackling bread still warm enough to sting his fingers, spooning up fragrant condiments and laying out citrus-brined fish, and telling Sahar’s much-too-interested pointed ears and snuffling nose and perked whiskers, “No, habibti, I’m certain you will be most gravely offended by the lemon. ”
“Mrrt,” Sahar said, miffed, and nibbled at the tip of her tail.