“That’s how he is,” murmured Fatima, closing her eyes as Deng felt along the length of the scar. “You don’t notice when he’s gone, but when he’s here, you can’t notice anything else.” The pressure of Deng’s fingers was hypnotic. Fatima had never been touched this way, as a patient under the care of a doctor; as a body cherished for itself and not for the tasks it performed for others. She was almost disappointed when he pulled away, and thought fleetingly of inventing some unspecific pain for him to address, forgetting and then remembering the very real pain that still throbbed dully in her feet and her neck.
“You were gently raised,” said Deng, sitting back on his heels. “I can tell by the softness of your hands and the pallor of your face. But not a noblewoman, I think.”
“I was a concubine,” said Fatima.
“Ah,” said Deng. It was not the same ah that had always accompanied this revelation in the past: when Deng said it, it was wry and resigned and made Fatima smile.
“And now you’re a king,” he said.
“And now I’m a king,” said Fatima. “And you’re a doctor from France.”
“I’m a doctor from Timbuktu,” Deng corrected, “in the empire of the Songhai, where the great library is kept. I was trained at the university there. I was only in France by accident—I was on my way to England to treat the son of a wealthy man. The boy had childhood cataracts. No one in his own country could treat him without blinding him. I was to be paid a very handsome sum of money if I could manage it. Instead, here I am.” He touched her face again at the spot where the seam met her jaw in a sore, raised point. “This little bit pulls against your jaw when you turn your head—that’s why it’s not closing up. I have some salve that will help. It’s healing beautifully otherwise. But how did you come by such an injury?”
Fatima thought of the great wave and of the sea inverted overhead.
“Our boat was smashed,” she said. “I thought I was drowning. There were spars of wood everywhere in the water—one of them must have cut me.”
“We saw the two ships go under,” said Gwennec. He wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of white ash. “Hassan and I did, clinging to that damned barrel. They were shattered, both of them, masts in splinters, like wood being mashed up for paper. I’d never seen such a wreck. I thought for sure you must have died instantly. But Hassan wouldn’t listen to a word of it—just swore at me for even suggesting such a thing. And he was right, because nothing works as it should where the two of you are concerned.” He snorted and began poking the fire again. Fatima felt a little chill flow across her shoulders like an eddy of air from an open door.
“Do you think—do you suppose anyone else might have survived?” she asked the black cowl bent over before her.
“No—I’d say not,” said Gwennec, knitting his heavy brows. “The Castilian boat was up and sideways on that rogue wave. Anyone on board would’ve been knocked clean off the deck and then pulverized. Ugly death. Though I’d have reckoned the same thing had happened to you, and here you are.”
Fatima was unsatisfied by this yet could not say why. She heard movement overhead: Hassan was walking along the second floor and could be heard moving heavy objects and giving cries of surprise or approbation. Presently, several wadded bundles of cloth were flung down into the main hall from the vicinity of the stairs, landing in clouds of dust.
“Look what I’ve found!” called Hassan. “There’s a big wooden wardrobe up here that looks as though it hasn’t been opened in a million years. That’s thread-of-gold embroidery I just threw at you. My eyes almost fell out of my head just looking at it. It’s got to be worth a fortune.”
Fatima picked up one of the bundles and shook it out, coughing as a plume of dust enveloped her. Hassan was right: she was holding a sort of cloak or overdress of fine wool dyed a deep blue-purple, upon which had been embroidered repeating patterns of vines and flowers in gold wire so delicate that it almost disappeared in places, giving the garment the look of a landscape receding away from the viewer. Not even Lady Aisha had ever owned anything so extraordinary. Beside her, Mary was unfolding a second bundle, a quilted winter cloak dyed a lighter blue and trimmed in gray fur, with stars and clouds billowing across its width.
“The color hurts my eyes!” she exclaimed, wiping them a little giddily. “I’ve never seen such fabric. This was the lifework of some master tailor. Tell him not to throw anything else—don’t throw them, please! You’ll warp the wirework! I’ll come collect the rest just as soon as I can face more stairs.” She got to her feet and began to refold the cloaks, patting them and reassuring them as she did so.
“Soap,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Today, I’ll make soap, and get some white ash from the fire to clean the things as can’t be washed. Shears and thread! If they left their best clothes behind, they must have left their tools somewhere …” She wandered toward the stairs, skirting the fire, and nearly collided with Hassan, whose entire torso was concealed by the pile of clothing he carried. There was a great exchange of shrieks as the two of them went through each of Hassan’s finds, holding up lush, faded velvets, stiff folds of raw silk, leathers grown rigid with age, and argued animatedly over the best way each might be revived or refurbished.
“I’m going to collect more firewood,” said Gwennec. He stooped and dropped a kiss on Fatima’s forehead. The pressure was at once tender and remote: he had repented after all. “You might walk around and see if there’s a likely stream nearby and haul some water, if that’s something kings do. We’ve a cistern just outside, but it’s empty. You fill the first pool and drink from the second one once the water filters through. Don’t reverse it, or we’ll all get sick.” With that, the monk trundled out the eastern archway toward the stone steps.
Fatima rose and stretched and made her way across the hall in the opposite direction. She was certain the sultan had never hauled a bucket of water in his life and thought vaguely about what precedent she might be setting, but she was thirsty, and moreover, the others were too. Outside the western archway, where the keep met the cobbled streets of the city on its northern side, there was a round stone building, quite low, with a vaulted roof, and when she entered through a small door, she came to a silent, windowless room. It had a prayerful quality, yet contained nothing aside from two empty pools carved into the limestone, one set slightly lower than the other.
“They’re older than me, these pools,” said Vikram, gliding out of the shadows that clung to the edges of the room. “Or very nearly.”
“Where have you been?” Fatima demanded. “You sneaked away without saying good-bye.”
“I prefer empty places. Yours was filling up quite quickly. But when I do leave, it will be in the same way, so don’t expect a grand, tearful exit.” He loped across the floor toward the square of light where the door was. “There are buckets over here.”
Fatima collected them: they were ancient and cracked in places, and she wondered dubiously whether they would hold any water at all. Nevertheless, she wrapped her fingers around the stiff rope handles and carried them out the door into the sunlight. Vikram followed her down the narrow main street with its silent press of houses and out through the walls, passing from the angular, treeless outworks of human endeavor into the flower-strewn meadow beyond.
Looking past it, Fatima expected to see the forest she had wandered through the day before. She did not. Instead, she was confronted by the sloping outline of a hill covered in heather and moss, its top oddly flattened, a little stream with ferns tumbling down one flank to pool in the meadow below.
“But this is unmanageable!” said Fatima, setting her buckets down. “If the island rearranges itself every time we turn our backs, how are we to find our way between one place and another?”
Vikram galloped toward the pool, which was hung about with mist from the falling water, and threw himself in with a yelp.