Chapter 13 What You Can Afford to Know #2
It wasn’t just that they fit him poorly; it was that he clearly had not become accustomed to how poorly they fit him. The sleeves were much too long and the shoulders too broad, and he kept hitching up the sleeves every time he moved his hands.
Ashar took a step or two closer, looking more carefully, and then he couldn’t help a silly smile, because he recognized those lovely, deep, gazelle-soft eyes.
Even if it’s terribly obvious as a disguise, it is at least a better disguise than gilded silks of Imperial saffron and a scarf over his face?
And surely the aunties will not recognize his H-…
my dear one from his eyes alone. Ashar was entirely certain that none of the aunties had spent a night gazing into this particular man’s eyes, admiring the soft, shining sweetness of them, and thinking of poetry that spoke of gazelles, or richly-simmered honey-caramel.
Shai Vishal said softly from behind him, “Our guest is known as Sami, because he is listening.”
“Yes,” Ashar said, nearly floating with joy. “Yes, of course he is.” He bit his lip before he could say of course he could not be Rahat, here among Upaja’s own priests.
But he is here, now, beneath Bastet’s watchful eye. And he is a prophet.
Whatever risks he has foreseen, he must have seen that I am here with him as well. If he is here and I am here, then I could not be anywhere else but with him.
But then the butterflies fluttering in his heart scattered at the swatting paw of the prowling tomcat of practicality:
He is a prophet who foresees disasters on the scale of floods and fires and locusts, who apparently thinks troubles on the scale that prowls the Catsprowl alleys by night aren’t dangerous enough to trouble his prophetic notice.
Or else he wouldn’t have shown up on my doorstep wearing those gilded saffron silks the first time.
One of us is going to have to be cautious and strategic here, under the eyes of all these aunties. And I’m afraid it might be me.
Ashar wondered whether any of the flock had noticed the God-Emperor’s sigil among his rings. He would have to be very careful if they had.
He would have to be very careful anyway.
Geeta-auntie sat among the gathered auntie-flock; better her than Ishta-auntie or Hamda-khala, but still, even Geeta-auntie might notice if he slipped.
And the golden-eyed tawny tom lurking in the shadow of Upaja’s statue’s knee had very familiar lynx-tufts on the tips of his ears; it certainly would not do to upset Kamil into yowling his protests of Ashar’s impertinence before gods and priests and cats and gossiping aunties alike.
But if he had learned anything from both cats and aunties, it was how to brazen his way into a situation and take up residence whether he’d been invited or not.
And even if his dear one’s lips were hidden, Ashar wanted to see a smile warm those lovely eyes again. He let himself smolder, just a bit, as he prowled across the Temple floor with his best slink.
When the man who was called Sami this afternoon looked up at him, he made a tiny breathless squeak.
I can’t kiss him here, Ashar reminded himself firmly. He has covered his face. But he knelt with every grace he had ever practiced, holding both hands above that too-long sleeve.
“What do we have here? A man of mystery wrapped in an enigma? How very enticing. I find myself as curious as a cat.” Ashar folded the sleeve back neatly, and bent to kiss the back of his hand.
His sweet treasure squeaked again, and Ashar was entirely certain that if he were to move that scarf aside, there would be soft rose-blushes brightening the warm hue of his cheeks.
Ashar let his hands appreciate their work as he folded a pleat into each of the loose cuffs and rolled them up so that they would fit smoothly against his rahati’s forearms.
“Master Asharan,” Geeta-auntie said, “you’re being terribly impolite.”
“Impolite? Me? Geeta-auntie, when did you ever mistake me for a member of polite society?” Ashar took the indigo scarf from the basket, looped it softly around Sami’s waist, and pleated more tidy folds at his side and the small of his back. “A gift such as this should be most beautifully wrapped.”
“But it’s very rude to comment on how poorly someone has disguised himself!”
Startled, Ashar’s heart kicked into a gallop despite his certainty that none of these women were as intimately familiar with the body of his H-… his rahati as Ashar himself.
Surely they weren’t— Surely they hadn’t— until the night we shared, I wouldn’t have recognized him from his eyes alone— did Geeta-auntie of all people recognize his rings?
Geeta-auntie reached over and patted Sami’s hand.
“None of the rest of us mind a bit if you don’t want us to notice that you’re an Imperial scholar,” she told him earnestly.
“Geeta,” Hoda-auntie groaned.
“But why should we mind? The Temple is swarming with traveling priests and scholars lately. And I know there are many very fine people who weren’t fortunate enough to be born here in Tel-Bastet! Did you know the God-Emperor’s prophet makes his residence up in the haveli?”
“I had heard that, yes,” Sami agreed faintly.
Ashar bit his lip and bent his head over his fussing with Sami’s sleeves, to make sure Geeta-auntie wouldn’t notice his grin. Bless Bastet’s mischief, he thought. If he would be able to pull this off anywhere, surely it would be in Bastet’s own Temple.
“Have you met our shahzada?” Geeta-auntie asked, and she was clearly trying not to sound too eager about it, because Hoda-auntie would sniff and look down upon her enthusiasm.
Still, many of the neighborhood considered the God-Emperor’s brother to be their own local celebrity: a comfortable power to be gossiped about with a parental, proprietary air, as though the Catsprowl aunties’ approval were essential to the God-Emperor’s prophet’s legitimacy.
“We have met on occasion,” Sami admitted.
“I knew it,” Geeta-auntie said triumphantly. “So of course we don’t mind if you’re a scholar. We also don’t mind if you’re not a scholar, or even if you’ve gone and renounced your faith and taken up another priesthood—why, our very own Shai Vishal has—”
“Shai Vishal,” Shai Vishal cut in dryly, “is not your very own to puppet in the drama-plays, Geeta.”
“Well, how are you going to stop me then?” Geeta-auntie tossed back, eyes sparkling like a magpie.
“Truth speaks for itself, however loudly the gossip wishes to drown it out,” Shai Vishal said. “And I fully trust that this man is a dutiful servant of his God-Emperor, his Empire, and his Ministry.”
“Orthodoxy?” Basima-auntie asked, sour.
“Finance, actually,” Sami said, fretting at the fold of the leaf bowl he was shaping.
All of the aunties stared at him suspiciously at that, because no one was glad to see the tax collectors.
Ashar put an arm about Sami’s shoulders for support. “Now who is being rude to our gentle guest?” he asked them.
“Imperials are human too,” Mreret the calico catfolk said, a bit arch, because Ashar was certain she didn’t entirely mean ‘human’ as a compliment. “Tax collectors, though? Those are a different breed.”
“Hush, you,” Geeta-auntie said. “Sami, dear, men do whatever they can to earn a living, don’t they? It’s not as though you set the tax rates yourself.”
“Oh, certainly not,” Ashar said, amused.
He let his hands linger on the familiar warmth of Sami’s shoulders as he traced a fingertip over the gap in his collar; that would be more difficult to correct without stitchery.
“Ladies, do any of you have a pin or a needle to spare? A more beautiful wrapping invites a more sensual unwrapping.”
“Take your hands off our Sami, you shameless creature,” Hoda-auntie said, snapping her hand-towel at him like a stray cat to be startled away from the milk-jar. “Wasn’t it just three days ago you were parading your priests around the neighborhood?”
“But I am entirely shameless,” Ashar said happily; at the moment, with his sweet treasure in his hands, it was true again. “And you cannot fault anyone for a fascination with this intriguing man of mystery, can you?”
“Um,” his darling said, hands knotted tightly together.
“There, you see? You’ve made him uncomfortable,” Hoda-auntie said, winding up for another warning snap. “It’s a — well, it’s an adequate disguise. And you keep calling attention to it. Hands off!”
Perfect, Ashar thought. Hira would be proud of me.
Because the more of an inquisitive nuisance a cat or a shameless man made of himself, the more vigorously the aunties would defend Sami’s modesty; they’d all lived through that sort of vexation from uncles and teenagers and cats who would pounce on any fluttering headscarf or veil.
But he should at least pretend to be chastised, or Hoda-auntie might actually hit him with that towel.
“Surely I have overstepped, causing such a modest gentleman distress,” Ashar said, trying for wide-eyed, even if he didn’t think he could manage penitent at the moment. “I bid you all joy in your service and comfort in your faith.”
He reached for his basket, felt an unexpected tug, looked down, and realized that Sami had caught hold of his sleeve.
“Yes…?”
“Stay,” Sami murmured. “Please. I… I would hear your voice as well, in the court of common opinion.”
“Truly? Thank you.” Ashar put a hand over his, and made sure to hide his rings when he did. “Shamelessly, I will say that my opinions are not at all common. But in the inverse, common opinions do not always speak admiringly of mine. What is the topic to be judged?”
“Oh, cats and God-Emperors and all that lies between them,” Sami said, not entirely as lightly as he intended.
“Which of them is owed the other’s worship depends on whether you ask the cat,” Mreret teased, grinning. She cut another broadleaf to size with a very well sharpened claw and added it to the stack between Sami and Hoda-auntie of the hand-towel, who promptly wiped its surface clean.