Chapter 16
By the time I mumbled my way through evening prayers, I was half dead on my feet and had only the barest memories of falling into the softest bed I had ever laid upon.
I slept hard but woke when the sky was rosy, accustomed to rising for dawn prayer.
Or rather, waking for dawn prayer because the rising part was proving a struggle.
I felt better than I had last night, but my limbs still ached and the knot at the back of my skull was so tender that the barest touch brought tears to my eyes.
Hoping that a soak in the much-admired baths might help, I made my groggy way to the dripping chamber.
Inside, the air was steamy, the tiled floor warm, and a rare feeling of peace enrobed me as I took a deep breath of the perfumed air. The baths were quiet in the lonely hour, lit by star-shaped cutouts in the stone ceiling. I rekindled the smoldering braziers and slipped into the warm water.
“Oh,” I murmured, leaning back with a sigh. Perhaps there would be some benefits to residing in the palace for a spell.
But not even the soothing water could stave off my fretting forever.
I let my conversation with Queen Lab and my discussions with my companions turn over in my head, examining them from different angles.
There were a great many elements to contemplate, to plot, and yet I kept returning to one question:
Had the peris tricked me?
My mind rebelled against the thought. It did seem a scheme that the peri council would have no doubt been pleased to seize upon, but it was also terribly convoluted, relying on more luck and happenstance than what was believable.
There was indeed something to the story of Lab: whether she was an imprisoned sorceress, a queenly witch, or simply a long-dead refugee who’d granted her name to her descendants—I was not yet certain.
Though truthfully, it was this last that was beginning to seem most likely.
Were not fabulous lies spun about me? In a thousand years might they have merged with another myth or two and made me out to be some sort of demigod?
It was too easy to see how these exaggerations stacked up.
But where, then, did the spindle—the Transgression I had been tasked with retrieving, the artifact that had frightened even Khayzur—fit in this puzzle?
Surely if the rulers of Khatti Ugal knew of such power, they would have used it.
Or perhaps the spindle had washed up on the beach like that Shirazi carpet and was now collecting dust in a workshop, no one aware of its potential.
If the accursed thing exists, I will find it. I will find it and when the Marawati is ready to sail again, I will steal it and my men away and leave the mystery of Queen Lab far behind.
Resolve fortifying my soul, I set about getting ready for the day.
Sampling the fragrant soaps and oils provided in painted glass jars, I scrubbed my skin until it hurt, relishing the sensation of being clean for the first time in weeks.
My head still throbbed, but I forced myself to unravel my braids, carefully washing the dried blood and seawater out of my tresses.
My hair floated in the water around my shoulders like an ebony cloud and I considered cutting it.
For most of my career, I’d kept my hair no longer than my shoulders, braiding it tight against my skull for easy maintenance while at sea.
When I retired, I’d let it grow out and had yet to cut it short again, enjoying the look and feel of the long braids when I was at home with my family.
Feeling oddly sentimental, I decided to let my hair be for now.
Instead I set to washing my clothes, but my left hand caught my attention.
The blisters looked worse: raised and red, hard and scaly to the touch.
They didn’t sting as badly as they had on the ship, but even so—I found myself in a quandary.
At sea, one tried not to examine their body overly much.
Between the packed quarters and harsh conditions, sometimes nasty little creatures crawled about your hair, rashes and boils erupted across your skin, and you simply did what you could until the next trip to a bathhouse and a healer.
But I already had a healer with me. One very capable of making ointments if I hadn’t insulted her medical skills the night before. Sighing, I settled for rubbing one of the oils into my palm and bandaging it with a torn towel.
Tinbu knocked on the door. “Amina, are you almost done?”
“Yes,” I called back. “I need merely dress.”
But there was nothing “merely” about it.
Queen Lab had made clear that we were supposed to settle into Khatti Ugal as best we could and while I had no intention of following through on the part of our deal that left half the crew as hostages, I decided it was best to play nice for now and acquaint myself with the kingdom’s customs. That meant donning local garb, an immediate challenge.
The Khatti Ugalans preferred unstitched clothing, not a sleeve or pant leg in sight; instead draping, tucking, and clamping long panels of undyed cloth in artful forms that appeared elegant on those idling at court or napping in the sun.
For giant pirates accustomed to fighting and ship work—to say nothing of my people’s preference for covering most of the body—it took creativity.
I sacked the chest of garments I’d been given and then Tinbu and Majed’s as well, Dalila still locked away in her room.
Majed had already claimed the longest tunic, one that would have been only knee-length on me, and so Tinbu finally took pity, showing me how to wrap one of the long white shrouds around my legs and waist in a secure sarong.
Combined with one of the tunics and a shawl that draped my hair and shoulders, it largely worked, but I would not be dashing about anytime soon.
“You look elegant,” Majed complimented me. “It is simple, but you are not supposed to be a flashy pirate bedecked in clashing patterns and stolen jewelry.”
“You look like a widow,” Tinbu said, less helpfully.
“If only I was one in truth,” I muttered. “We might have been saved this entire misadventure.” I wriggled in discomfort; the cloth briefly seemed to cling as though a snake twined between my skin and the wool, and it was disconcerting. “We do not appear to warrant any of those colorful cloaks.”
“Nor do a number of their own citizens, including the youth that escorted us here,” Majed pointed out.
“Arno. No, and he became quite cagey when I asked after them. Said the cloaks were only given by those who had received ‘rites’ but that speaking about them to foreigners uninitiated in the Khatti Ugalan faith was frowned upon.”
“It’s not surprising the cloaks have some sort of sacred value,” Tinbu noted. “The colors are incredible; I cannot imagine what sort of dye sources create something so vivid.” Yearning rose in his voice. “If we smuggled some back, we could sell them for a fortune.”
“Considering we’re on the hunt for an ensorcelled spinning device, I wonder if we might be keeping any strange textiles at arm’s length.” Before I could dwell upon that further, the door to Dalila’s room opened and the taciturn poisoner finally joined us.
Tinbu gasped. “Where are your clothes?”
Dalila gave him an annoyed glare. “Do I look naked to you?”
It was a rhetorical question for Dalila was very much not naked.
Instead she’d traded in her voluminous black dress, equipped with God only knew how many secret pockets, tiny blades, and venoms in various forms for a sleeveless white tunic that skimmed her knees.
Her head was uncovered, and her silver-dusted chestnut hair braided in a single plait that fell to her waist.
“No, but I have never seen your arms.” Tinbu frowned. “Where will you stash your poisons?”
“Are you not worried the clothes are poisoned?” I asked. “You always used to pester us when we stole garments. ‘Nakhudha, do not put on that cap; it is likely laced with arsenic—’ ”
“‘Tinbu, do not touch that silk,’” he added, pitching his voice higher to mimic Dalila. “‘The dye is meant to assassinate the wearer—’ ”
“I am going to be lacing all your meals with arsenic if you do not hold your tongues.” With a sleight of hand so swift I could not follow her fingers, Dalila plucked out both a folded piece of parchment and a palm-size dagger from .
. . somewhere on her body, flashing both and then concealing them again. “I shall be fine.”
Majed pushed over a platter of cheese. “At least eat. If I had realized you were so skinny, I would have been giving you my portions.”
She threw a piece of fruit at his head. “You were the ones who gave me a lecture about fitting in. Meanwhile, Amina looks like three shrouds piled on top of each other—”
“She is an elegant widow, shush.” Tinbu winked when I shot him an exasperated glare. “I shall add an extra needle and thread to our supply lists for you, claim we need them to repair the sail.”
“I wish I was going with you.” I sighed.
Ship repair was a far more straightforward task, something with which I could busy my mind and hands.
Ingratiating myself in a foreign court while trying to hunt down an object smaller than my dagger—whose ordinary appearance might lend to it being anywhere—was a feat in a class of its own.
A knock on the door interrupted my musings. A moment later it opened, revealing Mitanni, four guards, and, perhaps more surprisingly, Arno. He beamed when he saw us.
“Peace be upon you!” he greeted enthusiastically, blushing when the steward gave him a disapproving glance.
“Good morrow,” Mitanni said far more soberly. “I trust the accommodations were pleasant?”
I touched my heart. “The accommodations were lovely. Please thank the queen for her hospitality.”