Chapter 9
The first thing Samira noticed each morning now was the guards. Her father had hired more men since the pendant had been brought home from al-Qarawiyyin and locked in the vault beneath the library.
It had been two days, and Samira was still reeling from everything her father and Zohra had told her.
Her mother had belonged to an ancient secret order.
She had died guarding the pendant, but not before she had arranged for it to be hidden safely within the walls of al-Qarawiyyin until the next guardian could take over.
Samira had held it only once. It was a small disc of blue-green stone set in old gold, warm in the hand, etched with the sign of Tanit.
On the back was a mark almost identical to the birthmark on the inside of her wrist. Zohra said the pendant could reveal what was concealed, including hidden treasures and relics, but only for the one whose blood it answered to.
Now it was Samira's turn to guard it, as the women in her family had done before.
She understood well enough what such a thing could do in the wrong hands.
There was still so much she could not fathom.
Through all the revelations, she felt her father was still holding something back. Something of crucial importance was missing.
That morning, he told her they would have guests.
"From the north," Dawud said, and would not meet her eye. "They arrive this afternoon. It concerns the pendant, and it concerns you. I want you present."
"Who are they?"
"Men who were sent a long way to find us." He turned a page of the ledger in front of him without reading it. "You will understand when they are here."
She did not like the way he said it.
On the way down to the courtyard, Samira passed one of the new water carriers kneeling by the fountain to fill his jars.
He kept his head bowed as she went by. There was a yellowing bruise across his forehead and a healing split in his lower lip, and she thought vaguely that the kitchens worked the new men hard.
Then she forgot him, because the gate was opening.
***
TORSTEIN AND HIS MEN ensured they dressed appropriately for the meeting.
Since arriving in Fez they had discarded heavy wool and fur for local alternatives.
The qamis was plain linen and hung to his shins, loose across the chest, the sleeves wide enough that air moved up his arms when he walked.
Under it the sirwal gathered at the waist and fell easy over his thighs, for ease of movement.
The burnus was undyed wool and sat light on his shoulders with the hood flat down his back.
On his feet, sandals. He wore no arm bands.
His hair was tied back. He had shaved and washed that morning with water from the funduq well.
Now the three of them stood in the gateway of the house of Dawud ibn Yusuf al-Idrissi, and Torstein thought only that the sooner the parcel was in his hands, the sooner he could begin searching Fez for the mysterious woman from the souk.
At the gate, one of Dawud's guards asked for their swords.
Torstein unbuckled his and set it in the alcove beside the gatehouse, and Njal and Mathias did the same.
No one asked for the knives at their belts.
In Fez a man wore his dagger as he wore his belt, and to ask for it would have been an insult.
The house was larger than he had expected.
The courtyard was laid in blue and white tile, with a fountain at its center and jasmine climbing thick along the southern wall.
A carved gallery ran around the upper story.
There were guards lining the corridor, and every one of them was watching the three Norsemen.
Torstein carried a small knapsack over one shoulder. Inside it was the oak box he had carried all the way from Orkney, holding the Abbess's letters and a clay tablet sealed with her mark. He had not opened any of it. He had not been meant to. In his other hand he held gifts for the household.
Dawud came to meet them himself. The merchant's own robe was white and fell without a crease to the floor, the wool so fine Torstein could not guess what it cost. A sash of blue silk at the waist, one thin silver ring, a clipped gray beard.
"As-salaam-alaikum," Torstein said, and pressed his hand to his heart.
"Wa-alaikum-salaam." Dawud studied him a moment longer than courtesy required. "You carry word from the north?"
"Aye, I am Torstein Hagansson. My jarl sends his greetings, and those of the Abbess of Saddell Abbey in Scotland."
He presented the gifts, and then the Abbess's letter of introduction with its seal plainly visible. Dawud turned it over, examined the seal with care, then broke it and read the contents.
Something in Dawud's face eased. "Then you are welcome in my house. Come. Sit. Meet my family."
At the threshold of the long room, Dawud slipped off his shoes and left them on the step. Torstein and Mathias did the same, and heard Njal grunt as he wrestled free of his boots behind him.
The room opened onto the courtyard, with cushions set along the walls and a low table of inlaid cedar. Torstein set his knapsack down beside the cushion where he was bidden and sat. Njal sat beside him. Mathias sat.
Then Njal's elbow found his ribs.
Torstein looked up and had to catch his breath, because she was here, in this very room. The woman who kept him awake at nights.
She stood in the doorway beside an older woman with sharp eyes. She was dressed in green and gold now instead of dust and loose trousers, and her hair was bound and veiled, and there was no blade in her hand. It made no difference at all. He would have known her in any clothing and in any light.
The amber eyes met his and widened. For one moment she looked as if the floor had shifted beneath her. Then her chin lifted very slightly, exactly as it had in the alley, and her face gave away nothing more.
Torstein got to his feet. He did not remember deciding to.
"My daughter," Dawud said. "Samira."
Samira. He had lain awake half the night wanting her name, and now he had it, and it was better than anything he had imagined.
"Samira," he said quietly.
"Torstein," she replied.
Dawud looked from one of them to the other. The older woman looked too, and her eyes narrowed.
"You have met," Dawud said.
Samira and Torstein answered at the same time.
"No," she said.
"Aye," he said.
There was a short, terrible silence. Beside him, Njal made a small sound that might have been a cough.
"Briefly," Samira said. "In the souk. He is the Northman I told you of, Father. The one who fought beside me."
Dawud turned to look at Torstein properly, and whatever he saw there, he took his time over it.
"Then I owe you a debt before we have even begun," he said at last. "Sit. Please. Enjoy some refreshment."
Torstein sat. Samira sat across from him, next to her father, and folded her hands in her lap and looked anywhere but at him. He did not bother to pretend he was looking anywhere but at her.
Njal leaned close and murmured, "Calm down. Ye look like ye're about to carry her away."
Torstein gritted his teeth and clenched and unclenched his fists, because he did indeed feel as if he wanted to reach across the table and haul her onto his lap. That would not be wise. If they were in Orkney, he would have done it without a second thought.
A servant came first with a brass ewer and basin, and poured water over each guest's hands in turn. Torstein held his out without hesitation and saw Dawud notice.
More servants followed with trays. There was bread and dates and a dish of sugared almonds, and tall cups of rose-colored sharbat beaded with cold from the well.
A water carrier followed with a jar on his shoulder and began to set the cups before each guest, moving along the table with his head bowed.
Torstein barely noticed him. Dawud was speaking of the voyage south, of Lisbon, of the road from Salé, and Torstein answered as best he could with half his mind. The other half was on the way Samira turned her cup slowly between her fingers without drinking.
The water carrier set the last cup down before Samira and stepped back. As he turned away, the light from the courtyard fell across his face.
There was a bruise across his forehead, yellow and green now at the edges. It was the width of a man's brow and flat as a stone wall.
Torstein knew that bruise. He had put it there.
Samira lifted her cup.
Torstein was across the table before he knew he had moved. His hand struck the cup from her fingers. It flew and shattered against the tiles, and the sharbat spread across the floor in a pink stain.
The room erupted. Dawud was on his feet. Zohra had a blade in her hand. Two of the guards came through the door with their swords half drawn, and every one of them was looking at the Northman who had just struck out at the merchant's daughter.
"Stop him!" Torstein roared, and pointed.
The water carrier was already running.
***
THE CARRIER RAN TOWARDS the gate.
He dropped the jar in the doorway and it burst across the courtyard tiles. He was through the gate and into the lane.
Samira went after him. She hitched her skirts in one fist and ran.
Torstein snatched his sandals and slipped them on while running. He went out of the room and across the courtyard after her, his dagger loose at his belt. Behind him he heard two of Dawud's guards pounding along in their wake.
The water carrier was limping a little, and twice he looked back over his shoulder, and each time Samira gained on him. Torstein saw it and did not like it. A man running for his life did not look back to see who followed.
The lane narrowed and bent. A mule train was coming the other way, eight beasts laden with sacks of grain and a driver shouting at them all.
The water carrier ducked beneath the lead mule's neck.
Samira slipped through after him. Torstein turned his shoulder and forced his way between two of the animals, ignoring the driver's curses.