“I don’t know,” said Fatima, wiping her wet eyes angrily with the back of one hand. “Away.”
Hassan rose. He opened a small cupboard and began to remove sheaves of paper, charcoals, gum arabic, brushes, ink. These he arranged, with more care than Fatima had ever seen him put into anything, in a buckled case of boiled leather with a carry-strap sewn from end to end, which he looped over one shoulder.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “Stay here, where it’s safe. They’ll give the sultan a snug estate somewhere, or he’ll cross the Strait to Morocco. Go with him.”
Fatima shook her head.
“They’ll know I helped you get away,” she said. “It won’t be any safer for me here than it is for you.”
“But sweeting”—he knelt next to her and plucked at her tunic, like a child seeking attention—“you don’t own a pair of shoes.”
Fatima looked down at her naked feet. It had not occurred to her that one might need things outside the palace that one did not need inside it. A sense of profound, infuriating helplessness overcame her, and she began to sob in earnest.
“Lend me some,” she sputtered. Hassan leaped to his feet and began to rummage through a wooden chest, pulling out various small items and rejecting them, until, with a cry of triumph, he produced a pair of much-worn leather boots. Kneeling, he slipped them onto Fatima’s feet with melancholy tenderness, tightening the drawstrings around her calves.
“There,” he said. “Your first pair of shoes. May you live to wear a hundred nicer ones.”
Sniffling, Fatima stuck out one foot and wiggled it experimentally. The boots were too big, far heavier and clammier than the quilted silk slippers that kept her feet warm in winter or the wooden clogs she wore to and from the stool chamber. Yet the weathering of the heels and the bend at the ball of the foot suggested they had carried Hassan many miles, and might do the same for her. That, at least, was something.
“Here!” Hassan was up again, clattering in a corner of the room, and turned around with a pair of daggers in steel-studded leather sheaths, which he held up, one in each quivering hand, like an improbable assassin. “Defensive measures! The captain of the infantry gave me these after the battle of Zahara—which I helped win, you know, even though I wasn’t actually there—and I just chucked them into the corner. Whoever thought I’d need them? Here, take this one and put it in your sash.”
Fatima pulled the weapon from its sheath. It was lighter than she expected and shone like cloudy glass in the firelight. She had no notion of how to wield a knife that was not meant for cutting up salted meat, but she sheathed it again and tucked it into her sash anyway. The feeling of the dagger against her hip, straight and cold in its swaddling of embroidered silk, sent a stab of anticipation through her body. She felt oddly alert, light-footed in her heavy boots, as though her bones had gone as hollow as a bird’s.
Hassan shouldered the canvas bag that Fatima had packed. The weight of it seemed to press all the giddiness out of him, and his face fell.
“For a second, I forgot,” he said, attempting to smile. “I told myself we’re going on a little adventure, and I forgot that we’re not coming back.”
Fatima stroked the wall nearest her. It was warm from the heat of the brazier, and the glowing coals had gilded it red-gold. It seemed strange that she should mourn a place in which friendships had been so few and so tenuous, yet she did mourn. The palace was her home and home was not a matter of loving or hating; to leave it was to do violence to the past.
“Did you hear that?” Hassan was suddenly rigid. Fatima held her breath and listened. There were voices in the workroom beyond the door, growing louder as they approached. The clack and rattle of metal suggested men in armor. Fatima pulled her hand away from the wall and felt her heart thud against her ribs.
“We’ve waited too long,” she whispered.
Fists pounded on the door. Fatima backed away, groping at the dagger in her sash, and nearly tripped over the clutter on the floor in her big boots. There was no way out of the room besides a narrow window in the outer wall. It was little better than an arrow slit—this was, in fact, its original purpose—and led to a long drop on the other side, where the ground sloped away. Fatima stared at Hassan in alarm.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Wait.” He grabbed a scrap of paper from a pigeonhole and fished a charcoal from the pocket of his robe. Pressing the paper against the wall, he began to sketch. The door latch flapped up and down as the men on the other side tried to pry it open.
Fatima was seized by a fury as irresistible as hunger.
“Go to hell!” she shouted. The door began to shake.
“You’re a madwoman,” said Hassan incredulously. He pressed the scrap of paper into her hand. Fatima looked at it: there was the four-walled room in black lines, the door and window reduced to neat squares, the bed to a rectangle along one side. Yet something else had been added: a square on the floor with a half circle at the center. Fatima dropped to her knees. She began shoving books and plates and piles of clothes out of her way, clearing the floor near the bed. Underneath the clutter, as trim and unobtrusive as she could have wished, was a trapdoor with a great iron ring in the middle.
“Go,” whispered Hassan. Fatima gripped the iron ring and pulled with all her strength. The trapdoor grated open, exhaling clammy air and the scent of earth. Below it was darkness. Fatima hesitated.
“Go,” Hassan said again, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll pull the door shut behind us.”
Fatima sat on the lip of the door and dangled her feet into the dark. Swallowing and closing her eyes, she pushed off and fell.
It was over in a moment. She landed in loamy dirt, illuminated weakly by the light of the brazier in the room above. Her hands flailing in front of her, she stumbled out of the way. She could see Hassan’s feet hanging down, his robe hitched up to his knees, the exposed shins pale and covered in whorls of reddish-brown hair. With a cry of terrified hilarity, he landed beside her, the trapdoor slamming shut in his wake. The passage went black. Fatima could hear herself breathing in high panicked gasps, the sound amplified by unseen walls. The darkness was so complete that it felt like going blind. She reached out and smacked Hassan on the back with her hand. He yelped. Footsteps shuddered overhead.
“The map,” hissed Hassan. “Tear it up, quick.”
Fatima uncurled her hand. The map was damp with sweat. Shaking, she tore it in half and threw the pieces away. The footsteps overhead paused. Voices came as if heard from underwater, reduced to murmurs of incredulity and confusion. The footsteps resumed again, scraping against the stone above, kicking at objects that protested dully. Wood smashed, followed by the unmistakable clang of the iron brazier hitting a wall. The voices retreated, replaced by silence.
Fatima fought to quiet her breathing. She reached out again, groping for Hassan’s hand. He felt her touch and interlaced his fingers with hers.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“I have no idea,” said Hassan. His voice shook so much that Fatima could barely understand him. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“What do you mean?” Fatima’s voice rose and collided with some invisible barrier. “You’re the one who brought us here. What do you mean you have no idea?”
“I panicked, Fa! I was only thinking about a door, any door.” Hassan moaned faintly. “I could try to make a proper map, but I’d need some light.”
Fatima had not thought to pack flint or tinder. She reached out with her free hand, feeling in the dark for something to guide them. There was only undifferentiated gloom. Gripping Hassan’s fingers, she took another step, hand before her face, and then another, and was finally rewarded by a flat plane of packed earth that might have been the wall of a tunnel.