around. She had the skills to get out of here with or without help, trained for not only fight but escape and evasion. Other than her shoulder and a mild burning sensation around her right eye, she was fine.
Kilim carpets covered some of the sand; colorful bags hung from the tent posts; a handful of large pots and pans lay around the ashes of the cooking fire. A strange loom stretched to her right, a half-finished black-and-red cloth on it. She looked for a weapon. A small kitchen knife would have done. Nothing.
She rubbed her right eye, her stomach growling. God, she was hungry. And thirsty. She glanced at the plastic containers in the corner and hoped they held water.
Some kind of funky butter in the first, tea leaves in the second, an aromatic spice in the third. She popped the lid off the last one and sighed in relief.
The water going down her throat felt like heaven. She drank as much as she dared and stopped far from being satisfied. She was in the middle of the desert. When she left, she had to take as much water with her as she could.
She remembered the men at the oasis, the fight, Saeed. She needed to figure out where she was, get her hands on some food and water, borrow or steal a car, or at least a horse. She wasn’t sure she could manage a camel, but if it came to that, she’d sure as hell try.
Voices rose and fell outside like music. She could make contact and hope they were friendly and would help her with supplies, or sneak away before anyone realized she had come to. She looked through a small gap in the outer panel of the tent where time had loosened the threads of the weaving.
She could see another dozen tents from her vantage point, a couple of men around an open fire, armed as if for war, with bullet-studded belts looped over their shoulders and rifles lying across their knees or in the sand next to them.
A sudden noise behind her made her spin around into a crouch, ready to fight.
A small boy of five or so stood by the tent divider, wearing a colorful dress, his large brown eyes rounded at the sight of her. She straightened and smiled, not wanting to scare him.
He watched her with open curiosity, unruly black curls framing his head, gold glinting at his ears. After a few seconds of perusal, he spoke in Arabic.
Dara smiled and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m Salah. Are you my new teacher?”
“No,” she said.
His big brown eyes rounded even larger. “Is my father going to marry you?”
“Absolutely not. I’m just visiting.”
He visibly relaxed. “That’s what Fatima said. She says Father will marry for alliance between the tribes. He can’t marry a foreigner. It wouldn’t be any use at all.”
Dara blinked at so much practicality coming from such a little person. Who was Fatima? Probably one of the boy’s father’s wives.
“Is your father Saeed?”
The boy nodded.
The fact that there were women and children around set her at ease. She didn’t think it would be so at a renegade terrorist camp. Saeed had saved her life by carrying her out of the desert. And he had said he would help her to get to the city once she was better. She would just have to convince him she was better now. She had no time to waste.
“Can you take me to your father, Salah?”
The child shook his head. “He’s with the elders. I’ll call Fatima and Lamis and then he can talk to you when he comes back.”
Of course. Although Beharrain was a progressive country, in most regions the old traditions held fast. Women did not keep company with men unless they were related. She had read the culture advisory report, all twenty pages of its dos and don’ts before deployment.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that.”
The child ran off, and Dara stepped to one of the tent poles, felt around inside the woven bags that hung from it. Clothes, yarn, some funky tools she couldn’t recognize—maybe for cooking or weaving—none of them suitable as a weapon. Damn it. She needed to be ready in case she couldn’t bring Saeed around to take her to Tihrin right away. She needed food and water, transportation, and weapons for self-defense.
She stepped away from the bags a split second before two young women came in, one around twenty, the other a year or two younger, introducing themselves as Fatima and Lamis. They wore beautiful dresses, one purple, one dark green with gold thread designs. They brought food and water, and set it in front of her.
“How are you?” Fatima, the older one, asked with a pronounced accent. She was stunning. Her ebony hair reached to the middle of her back, visible through the sheer black scarf that covered it. “Please let me know if you don’t like this.” She pointed to the tray of food. “I can bring something else.”
Dara sat by the plate when the women did, and gave herself points for not tackling them and diving for the food as soon as they’d come through the flap. “Thank you.” She reached for a piece of fruit first, a thick slice of melon, wanting to ease her stomach into eating, trying to avoid being sick.
The melon juice tasted like honey, its aromatic flavor flooding her taste buds. Tears sprung to her eyes at the relief of having food again. Until this moment, no matter how much she had refused to let herself think of it, she hadn’t been sure she would survive. And still, it was a long way to the city yet. She reached for a boiled egg. Protein. She needed that to regain her strength.
When she finished eating, Fatima rummaged through one of the woven bags and brought over a black scarf and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Dara ran her fingers through her hair, surprised to find it washed and combed. “When did I come here?”
Fatima looked at her with surprise on her face. “Yesterday. Our brother found you in the desert.”
Our brother. They were Saeed’s sisters. She wondered where the little boy’s mother was. She fumbled with the scarf. A mirror would have helped.
Lamis came over, took the sheer material from her and secured it with ease. “It is our custom to cover our hair.”
“But not your face?” Dara thought of the images she’d seen on TV.
“Not our tribe. It is different in every region. When we’re in the desert we follow the tribal customs, when we’re in the city, we follow the customs of the city. There we cover everything. Wahhabism.” She made a face as she said the word, then leaned back to survey her handiwork. “Very pretty.” She smiled.
“Thank you.”
The little boy ran in, stared at Dara for a moment, said something in Arabic, then ran out.
Fatima rose. “Our brother is ready to see you.” She stepped to the divider, parted it and stepped through first, holding it for Dara.
She followed, ready to make her case, to bargain or manipulate, whatever would be needed. Then she saw Saeed. He sat cross-legged in front of the glowing embers of a fire.
His headdress rested in a relaxed loop around
