harbor was busy, and they stayed out of the sailors’ way. As they navigated the narrow strip of sea into the calmer waters of the harbor, the captain bellowed a stream of instructions at his men. Closer to the dock sailors broke out oars and brought them in.
Alya tried to take it all in, and failed. Buildings of undressed stone crowded the waterfront, square and narrow with mean windows cut into their facade. Instead of minarets, great crosses stretched into the achingly blue sky. Mountains surrounded the city and crowded it toward the sea.
Even busier than Alexandria, a mind-bending array of people hurried back and forth along the cobbled streets in front of the ships. So many ships, their bare masts spiking up and down as they bobbed at anchor.
Some ships looked like theirs, whilst others could have been magical vessels to carry their cargos to the far end of the world. Plain hulls rode the tide alongside lavishly ornamented figureheads.
Gazes trained on the bustle all about them, Bahir and Henry murmured to each other. They spoke of her, and she wished they would say what they needed to aloud.
As he surveyed the port Newt’s eyes sparkled.
A woman in skirts such as Henry had described to her sauntered closer to the boat. Boldly she eyed the men aboard and called something out to Newt. Then she tugged down her tunic and showed her dark-tipped, heavy breasts.
Alya froze. Her face flamed. Never could she have imagined such a thing.
Bahir immediately sprung toward her and turned her about. “You should not look.”
“Bahir.” Alya desperately wanted to have another look at the woman. “Did you see what she did?”
“I imagine the entire harbor saw that,” Bahir said.
“Is she selling her body?” She tried to turn.
He blocked her. “You should not know anything of such women.”
Bahir could be such a dried up old lemon at times. “I know about concubines, and you were the one who told me, so why should I not know about her.”
Newt leaned his hips against the railing and laughed. “She has a point, big man.”
“You.” Bahir jabbed his finger at Newt. “Should keep your mouth buttoned.”
“Or what?” Shoulders taut, jaw locked, Henry straightened.
Bahir stiffened. “Do you fancy your chances now, slave?”
“It does not matter.” Alya put herself between them. Henry and Bahir hissed at each other like cats on a rooftop nearly all the time. “How should we proceed?”
Now they had arrived, nerves fluttered in her belly. The family of whom her father had spoken lived in this city. Somewhere in the mass of honey-stoned buildings lay her future.
“We will need to see you properly attired.” Henry held himself stiff, and his face had grown remote and cold. “We will need to visit the market and find you something.”
“Henry and I will go.” Bahir put his hand on her shoulder. “Newt will remain here with you. Henry assures me he will be able to protect you.”
Of that Alya had no doubt. Despite the relaxed way Newt lounged about the boat, and his ready jokes and smiles, he had the air of a fighting man. More than that, his eyes held a cunning she would not want to cross.
“Keep her safe.” Henry nodded at Newt. “Do what you have to.”
Newt nodded.
“You should stay belowdecks.” Henry turned to her. “We do not know if the danger has followed us here, but it is better to be safe.”
Alya did not relish a day spent in the stuffy, smelly confines of the ship’s belly, but she nodded her agreement. She would spend the time preparing for her meeting with her father’s family. Her family now. She needed to think of them as her family too. Soon she would be one of them.
* * * *
Henry almost pitied Bahir his dilemma. The stupid cur did not want to leave Alya alone with Newt, but neither would he trust Henry with the coin to purchase the necessary items.
From Genoa, the boat would take him and Newt to England. Bahir might be a miserable sod, but he kept his word, and the instructions had already been passed on to the captain.
When they sailed, he would say goodbye to his last connection with Egypt, his girl on the wall. She would never know how she had provided a brief glimmer of hope in his pitiful existence. He would never forget her. Not her cat eyes or her midnight hair. The dark honey of her skin would haunt him for a long time. That he had never gotten to touch it and see if it was as warm and velvet as it looked would be a regret he took home.
He followed Bahir to the busy dock.
A passing sailor stared at Bahir, spat and made a wide circle around him. Here Bahir was the oddity, the stranger. The tide had turned.
Henry stopped a woman carrying heavy baskets of fruit and asked her for directions to the nearest cloth market. She kept her wide eyes on Bahir as she gave him directions. It seems even in Genoa, famed for being the center of trade from far and wide, Bahir’s dark skin marked him as other and suspicious.
“I should lead.” It gave Henry no pleasure to make the suggestion. The way people whispered and stared at Bahir made him feel an unwelcome empathy for the man. Bahir dropped a few steps behind him as they wove their way through the narrow, cobbled lanes leading up from the harbor.
The lane they followed wound around a church and opened through a pair of arches into a bustling market. The dull murmur had been growing as they walked, and now burst over them in a roar of voices. Color abounded from every direction. Bright cobalts and scarlets, yellows that shone brighter than the midday sun, cloth shot with gold and silver that glinted and sparkled jostled for notice with subtler jewel tones, burnt oranges and pristine whites.
As they slipped through the narrow gaps between vendors, Henry marked four different languages being spoken. The common tongue here was trade, and it was spoken over the jangle of coins and the exchange of markers. In the far-right corner of the market Henry found the merchants he sought. Weavers and tailors had suspended their wares on ropes beneath the soaring arches. Quieter commerce took place here as wealthy residents strolled between the merchants. Women for the most part, faithfully dogged by a household guard or a male family member.
He stopped to admire a bliaut of peacock green shot with gold. Delicate beads glistened along the bodice. He could picture Beatrice in a gown like that. The more sedate but lovely rose pink three bliauts across spoke to him of Faye. He would see his sisters again. It hit him in a dizzying wave. He would live to see his sisters wear these gowns. He attracted the attention of the merchant. At Anglesea seamstresses made all the gowns for the castle womenfolk. How they would stare at the notion of buying a gown from a market.
“Not those.” Bahir nudged him and pointed to a garnet red bliaut at the merchant beside them. “She would look better in that one.”
The merchant held both bliauts before Henry. Short and swarthy, he wore a flat cap over his head, the tassels danced around his ears with each move he made. “Excellent taste, sire.” He spoke in French.
