Chapter 9 #2
Yet even criminals in the abode of deception—where they trained their protégés and took refuge from the law—abided by a code, a form of respect if not fear, and Sarilaglag’s was this: the deeper one delved toward the murky shore of mangroves and razor-sharp rocks, the more lethal the arts taught.
Past the mewling bears and contract forgers was the canal of the stranglers, marked by barbed garrotes and silken cords hanging from banners, tallies marking successful kills.
The armory boats, those selling blades, bows, and other assorted weapons, were next—along with their deadliest masters.
The arsonists followed, those who killed without aim and without care, their deadly conflagrations responsible for scores of murdered souls.
In large gondolas cunningly and mockingly made up to appear like temples and hermit dens were the false preachers, those who did not fear God and thus pretended to be any variety of holy men—Sufi mendicants, Christian saints, reincarnations of various Indian deities—to prey on the devout and damn their souls.
Beyond—and I wish I was making this up—was the island of women.
Yes, all women, for apparently even female forgers are as deadly and distrusted as those who proudly decorate their vessel with bloodied garrotes.
It wasn’t a true island but rather a great number of floating platforms whose age had anchored them to the seabed, along with a cluster of houseboats, all overgrown with weeds now tall as trees and mangroves on the western side, throwing it into shadow.
There had never been an enormous number of female bandits when I visited; as you might imagine, Sarilaglag attracted violent men, and the code of safe conduct that kept the peace among men did not always extend to the women they often looked down upon.
The ones that did make a life for themselves here were thus a ruthless group.
I’d been told the Marawati had a standing offer of a berth, but I’d yet to consider it.
Even I was afraid of the women of Sarilaglag.
Keeping my gaze low, I poled past a floating garden of courtesans practicing card tricks and counterfeiters spreading their tools in the sunshine. A gondola of hijras gawked in recognition and then started laughing.
“It is the Sea Leopardess. Ay, Amina al-Sirafi, come sit a spell with us!”
“Nay, she best keep going. That bitch cost me my shares in a merchant vessel!”
I poled faster. Finally, with another turn of the skiff, I passed the island of women and approached the sole structure not dwelling upon the water: Sarilaglag’s famed meetinghouse.
Here deals were struck, gang wars settled, the marriages of crime lords negotiated, and the assassinations of princes plotted.
The meetinghouse sat high upon a seawall constructed of green-tinged coral at the foot of a watchtower staffed by a group of extremely well-paid Mamluks who risked death if there was even a whiff of bribery.
The building was not overly large but was marked rather dramatically by the severed halves of an old Rus sailing vessel.
Legend had it that a crew of the strange northerners once attempted to take over Sarilaglag, dragging their distinctive ships with iron nails and rearing, curled dragon heads across the Sinai, down the Red Sea, and into the Persian Gulf, only to be met with the combined force of criminals from Guangzhou to Timbuktu.
Their boats were broken and their crucified bodies hung as a warning from the berthing posts.
An elder pirate once swore to me that you could still see a fragment of skull with its moldy blond locks plastered to the top of one, though all I could ever make out were some long-dead mollusks among a bird’s nest.
The tide had been pulling me toward the eastern bank, but as I glanced up at the watchtower, trying to tamp down my fear, it abruptly gentled.
A pleasant breeze tickled my face as a cloud crossed the sun, alleviating the afternoon heat, and the ache in my knee vanished.
A whisper—somehow soundless, more like a caress upon my very heart—curled around my nape.
Ah, I thought. So you are here.
And close, there was no doubt. Relief and apprehension stirred in my breast. Whether Raksh was here as an adversary or ally, God only knew.
But he did bring luck, and if his presence granted me even the slightest edge, I would seize it.
Shoving my skiff forward with a final push, I squared my shoulders and prepared to enter the meeting place of the world’s deadliest criminals to confront a myth, a demon, and—God willing—my wayward friend.
The tavern was bustling, the shaded interior a balm against my flushed skin.
A pair of musicians played, one strumming an oud while the other beat a steady rhythm on a tabla.
A dancer turned in languid, gracefully bored moves, catching the gaze of more than one quick-eyed man.
Pausing at the entrance, I quickly assessed the crowd.
There were perhaps three dozen people in the meetinghouse, mostly men save for a gang of a young women who were all wearing cropped blue vests and sashes of boar tusks.
It was otherwise a diverse bunch, with a group of Greek Christians arguing loudly over cups of wine about the price of mercury in Constantinople while a table of Malay and Chinese contract forgers settled a debt.
A makeshift counter consisting of an enormous teak door carved so intricately it must have once belonged to a royal, was set over two barrels anchoring the opposite wall.
Below it, stone amphorae of various refreshments—few of them halal, I suspected—were half buried in the ground to stay cool.
Keeping my gaze high, I strode to the counter. “Peace be upon you,” I greeted the barman. His shoulders were stooped, his head bowed.
It took a moment for him to respond and when he did reply, his voice was so raspy that it could barely be heard. “And upon you peace. Can I get you a drink?”
“Anything that hasn’t been fermented longer than a week.”
He let out a hoarse chuckle. “We have more options than you might imagine. Many visitors wish to keep their wits about them.” He turned around, but his face was covered and he seemed to be avoiding my gaze; an understandable condition when working in Sarilaglag’s notorious meetinghouse, I supposed.
He ladled a dark, frothy liquid into a clay cup. “Anyone you are looking to meet?”
He asked the question lightly, as though we were having a conversation rather than playing our parts in a long-established process, a ritual made possible by blood, duels, and generations of criminals before us.
“An acquaintance,” I confirmed, taking the cup and exchanging it for my swords.
Strictly speaking, weapons were forbidden.
He took the swords with his left hand, tucking them under his right arm. His right hand was gone, severed at the wrist with a long-healed stub—the mark of a thief not quite quick-fingered enough. “And their name?”
Sheikh Sasan had assumed I knew the way to reach him, and I did. But for now, I twisted the pattern. “My name is Amina al-Sirafi.”
The barman paused, but only for a moment.
New arrivals did not give their names in Sarilaglag’s meetinghouse.
A fragile peace might hold here, but one never knew which enemies might be lurking.
“Ah. Well, a pleasure to meet you, sister. Why don’t you refresh yourself?
I am sure your acquaintance will be along shortly, God willing. ”
And God willing, I would still be alive to meet him.
I took the cup but did not drink; Dalila and her warnings had been too long my companions for me to ever consume a beverage in such suspicious company.
Otherwise, there was nothing to do now but wait as my name was carried along the canals, news of my presence in the tavern being shared from houseboat to houseboat.
Wait and pray that the “paranoia” Dalila had dismissed about my old enemies was warranted .
. . and that at least a few of the dozens of forged missives Jamal and I had sent out had found their marks.
The meetinghouse stayed busy, bandits of various classes coming and going, some slipping through the reed doors like knives in the night, others with boastful struts.
A few eyed me, but no one looked familiar.
I pretended to sip my drink, studying the surrounding criminals.
Was it just me or had that young woman glanced in my direction a time too—
The tavern abruptly darkened. It was only for a moment, the shadows in the room seeming to flatten and flare, like tossing a fresh log upon a fire might affect flame. But then just as suddenly, though I did not see the doors open, Raksh was standing at the entrance.
My husband must have been preying on wealthy marks because he was dressed in a fine silk caftan of dark gold, embroidered with tiny silver mirrors, and loose pants dyed an expensive indigo.
A shawl of the same color twined his elegant neck, tangled with the coral pendant he rarely removed, and a long string of pearls.
The bright sun at his back was blinding, leaving spots on my vision.
But I would have known the figure for my demon of a spouse even if my eyes had been closed.
The strange sense of rightness, like one had fallen off a ship only to be unexpectedly caught by a lucky rope, surged through my blood, leaving shivers racing across my skin.
The barely there whisper of Unseen murmurs that always seemed to exist in the background rose up in a sharp, discordant hum like a drone of cicadas.
Raksh’s gaze set upon mine and blazed. The nearest table of gamblers burst into cheers as game pieces scattered. To his left, one of the Greek merchants shot to his feet with an angry cry, tossing a cup of wine into his fellow’s face.