his companion duties. We will need to keep an eye on the other mules now too, lest Batal here has infected them, though proximity to an infected animal does not seem to result in contagion.’ Stephanie pursed her lips. ‘I have eliminated a good many causes, but I am still no closer to finding the source.’
‘You have only been here two weeks, and this is your first case.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Enough, for now. I have a prescription for you, veterinarian. You will take a break for the rest of the day from horses and from the stables and from the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is time you saw a little more of my kingdom.’
* * *
The city was far more extensive than Stephanie could have imagined from the glimpses she’d had when she first arrived in Bharym. Viewing it now from the vantage point which the approach from the palace afforded her, she could see that the red-brick buildings extended right into the foothills of the mountain, climbing in terraces up the sheer rock face. Though all the tightly packed buildings were square and flat-roofed, some were narrow, some broad, some had only two storeys while others soared six, seven, or more storeys high.
She and Rafiq rode unescorted. ‘I believe I informed you on your first night here, that I have not my father’s fondness for pomp and ceremony,’ he told her, when she commented on this. ‘In his day, a journey to the city would have involved a caravan of at least thirty camels, and any number of standard bearers. My father had the most cumbersome saddle too, more like a mobile throne, which took a considerable toll on the camel which had to bear it.’
But as they passed through the soaring stone arch of the city gates, it became apparent that Rafiq had no need of camels or bearers or throne-like saddles to proclaim his majesty. He wore a simple white tunic and cloak, his keffiyeh held in place with a red-silk scarf, the only gold the glittering hilt of the sabre hanging from the belt at his waist. She was reminded of her first glimpse of him in the Royal Receiving Room, her urge to kneel before him, distinctly different from the most disrespectful urge she had had the last time the Duke of Wellington had inspected Papa’s regiment. The Commander-in-Chief’s arrogant assumption of superiority had raised Stephanie’s hackles. Glancing over at Rafiq, smiling and gesturing his kneeling subjects to their feet, her blood heated for a very different reason.
They entered an open space bordered by market stalls. Rafiq brought his camel to a halt, summoning one of the cluster of small boys who had gathered around to take the reins as he dismounted, gesturing to another small boy to tend to Stephanie’s animal as Rafiq helped her to dismount. ‘The streets are extremely narrow. It is easier if we progress on foot,’ he continued in English quietly. ‘It is my custom to hear informal petitions on such occasions, so we may be somewhat besieged at times but fear not, you will be perfectly safe.’
She had no time to respond, for they were at that moment swept away into the recesses of the city. A noisy, cheerful, excited rabble of people of all ages surged in a wave around them, making their progress into a procession. Though she was separated from him, Rafiq made a point of halting every now and then, the crowd parting automatically to usher her through to join him, and then they continued.
She was content to observe, and there was a great deal to absorb her attention. The city itself, with its myriad of idiosyncratic buildings, decorated with pale stone swirls which, when seen close up, formed themselves into elaborate geometric patterns. So closely packed were the houses that the cobbled streets were cool, even in the blaze of the afternoon sun. Fountains trickled at every junction, some mere stone pedestals, others in the shape of scallop shells, fishes, serpents. The air here smelt sweeter, with no trace of the dusty, gritty desert which lay beyond the gates.
The women of Bharym wore no veils, though they protected their heads from the heat of the sun in a variety of ways. Some wore huge squares of fabric, big enough to act as both headdress and cloak, others cleverly draped long strips, like evening stoles, to form a hood and a scarf. A few sported turbans decorated with beads. And some, like Stephanie, wore a keffiyeh. The Sabr seemed to be their only topic of conversation when she chatted with them in their own language while Rafiq was otherwise engaged.
‘When the Sabr returns to Bharym, we can once again hold our heads high.’
‘When the Sabr returns, the rain will fall in torrents.’
‘When the Sabr returns, our Prince will be blessed with an heir.’
‘When the Sabr returns, my goat will produce milk again.’
‘When the Sabr returns, the market traders will stop trying to short-change us.’
‘And my mother-in-law will compliment my cooking!’
These last two sallies provoked an outburst of laughter, but no matter how preposterous Stephane might think some of the claims being made for the Sabr—for there was a part of her that still couldn’t credit a race with such power—she was left in no doubt of his people’s feelings for Rafiq. He was not only a prince but a hero to them.
They had reached a surprisingly large open square, right in the middle of the city. Rafiq held up his hands, said some words Stephanie could not catch, and the crowd began to disperse. ‘What is happening?’ she asked, when he beckoned her over.
‘It is the hottest part of the day. Everyone retires inside,’ he answered, ushering her towards the tallest building on the square and producing a key. ‘Including us.’
‘Goodness, surely not another palace?’
Rafiq laughed. ‘No, it is merely the royal viewing gallery.’
‘To view what, your subjects going about their daily business?’
For answer, he led her up three steep flights of stone stairs and through a door into a high-ceilinged room, the principal feature of which was the window. Or row of windows, to be more precise, six tall arches divided only by the thinnest layer of supporting brickwork, facing out on to the piazza they had just left.
‘It is breathtaking,’ Stephanie said, ‘and it makes me a little giddy. ‘I can see why you call it a viewing gallery, but what do you view? Oh, goodness, surely not...’
He laughed, for the horror of what had just crossed her mind must have been clearly reflected on her face. ‘No, we do not carry out either public executions or floggings, nor have there been either in Bharym for a great many years.’
Stephanie shuddered. ‘In the military, regrettably, flogging is all too common.’
‘How so?’
She stared out at the piazza, deserted now, for the sun was at its zenith. ‘We have been at war for a very long time. Some of the men have been away from their families for years, since only a very small minority of them are permitted to have their wives travel with them—and to be honest, many chose not to, for the conditions are very harsh. It is not surprising that they reach a point where homesickness overrides loyalty to the crown. Or where the constant risk of death erodes their willingness to fight. As if a whipping would make any difference,’ she said bitterly. ‘We treat our soldiers a great deal worse than our horses, in the army. No officer would dream of beating his horse, but most officers believe it their duty to beat their men. Save my father. Just one of the many things which sets him apart.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stephanie shrugged. ‘He has served for most of his career with the Seventh Hussars, but it is only recently
