goods of everyone in the line in front of her. More gems studded his belt and sword hilt; some were even sewn into the leather of the slippers on his feet. A dandy, Jehane thought, a mincing court dandy from Cartada.
The sword was a real one though, not a symbol, and his eyes, now that she was looking into them, were unsettlingly direct.
Jehane had been raised, by her mother and father both, to show deference where it was due and earned, and not otherwise.
“Such ‘niceties,’ as you prefer to call simple courtesy, ought to matter in Cartada as much as they do here,” she said levelly. She pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am here in the market until the midday bells have rung. If you have genuine need of a private consultation I will refer to my afternoon appointments and see when I am available.”
He shook his head politely. Two of the veiled soldiers had come up to them. “As I believe I did mention, we have not time for that.” There still seemed to be something amusing him. “I should perhaps say that I am not here for an affliction of my own, much as it might gratify any man to be subject to your care.” There was a ripple of laughter.
Jehane was not amused. This sort of thing she knew how to deal with, and was about to, but the Cartadan went on without pausing: “I have just come from the house of a patient of yours. Husari ibn Musa is ill. He begs you to come to him this morning, before the consecration ceremony begins at the castle, that he might not be forced to miss being presented to the prince.”
“Oh,” Jehane said.
Ibn Musa had kidney stones, recurring ones. He had been her father’s patient and one of the very first to accept her as Ishak’s successor. He was wealthy, soft as the silk in which he traded, and he enjoyed rich foods far too much for his own good. He was also kind, surprisingly unpretentious, intelligent, and his early patronage had meant a great deal to her practice. Jehane liked him, and worried about him.
It was certain, given his wealth, that the silk merchant would have been on the list of citizens honored with an invitation to meet the prince of Cartada. Some things were becoming clear. Not all.
“Why did he send you? I know most of his people.”
“But he didn’t send me,” the man demurred, with easy grace. “I offered to come. He warned me of your weekly market routine. Would you have left this booth at the behest of a servant? Even one you knew?”
Jehane had to shake her head. “Only for a birth or an accident.”
The Cartadan smiled, showing white teeth against the tanned, smooth features. “Ibn Musa is, Ashar and the holy stars be thanked, not presently with child. Nor has any untoward accident befallen him. His condition is the one for which I understand you have treated him before. He swears no one else in Fezana knows how to alleviate his sufferings. And today, of course, is an … exceptional day. Will you not deviate from your custom this one time and permit me the honor of escorting you to him?”
Had he offered the purse again she would have refused. Had he not looked calm and very serious as he awaited her reply, she would have refused. Had it been anyone other than Husari ibn Musa entreating her presence …
Looking back, afterwards, Jehane was acutely aware that the smallest of gestures in that moment could have changed everything. She might so easily have told the smooth, polished Cartadan that she’d attend upon ibn Musa later that day. If so—the thought was inescapable—she would have had a very different life.
Better or worse? No man or woman could answer that. The winds blew, bringing rain, yes, but sometimes also sweeping away the low, obscuring clouds to allow the flourishes of sunrise or sunset seen from a high place, or those bright, hard, clear nights when the blue moon and the white seemed to ride like queens across a sky strewn with stars in glittering array.
Jehane instructed Velaz to close and lock the booth and follow her. She told all those left in the line to give their names to Velaz, that she would see them free of charge in her treatment rooms or at the next week’s market. Then she took her urine flask and let the stranger take her off to ibn Musa’s house.
The stranger.
The stranger was Ammar ibn Khairan of Aljais. The poet, the diplomat, the soldier. The man who had killed the last khalif of Al-Rassan. She learned his name when they arrived at her patient’s house. It was the first great shock of that day. Not the last. She could never decide if she would have gone with him, had she known.
A different life, if she hadn’t gone. Less wind, less rain. Perhaps none of the visions offered those who stand in the high, windy places of the world.
IBN MUSA’S STEWARD had briskly admitted her and then greeted her escort unctuously by name, almost scraping the floor with his forehead in obeisance, strewing phrases of gratitude like rose petals. The Cartadan had managed to interpose a quiet apology for not introducing himself, and then sketched a court bow of his own to her. It was not customary to bow to Kindath infidels. In fact, according to the wadjis, it was forbidden to Asharites, subject to a public lashing.
The bejewelled man bowing to her was not likely to be lashed any time soon. Jehane knew who he was as soon as she heard the name. Depending upon one’s views, Ammar ibn Khairan was one of the most celebrated men or one of the most notorious in the peninsula.
It was said, and sung, that when scarcely come to manhood he had single-handedly scaled the walls of the Al-Fontina in Silvenes, slain a dozen guards within, fought through to the Cypress Garden to kill the khalif, then battled his way out again, alone, dead bodies strewn about him. For this service, the grateful, newly proclaimed king in Cartada had rewarded ibn Khairan with immediate wealth and increasing power through the years, including, of late, the formal role of guardian and advisor to the prince.
A status which brought a different sort of power. Too much so, some had been whispering. Almalik of Cartada was an impulsive, subtle, jealous man and was not said, in truth, to be particularly fond of his eldest son. Nor was the prince reputed to dote upon his father. It made for a volatile situation. The rumors surrounding the dissolute, flamboyant Ammar ibn Khairan—and there were always rumors surrounding him—had been of a somewhat altered sort in the past year.
Though none of them came remotely close to explaining why this man should have personally offered to summon a physician for a Fezanan silk merchant, just so the merchant could be enabled to attend a courtly reception. As to that, Jehane had only the thinly veiled hint of amusement in ibn Khairan’s face to offer a clue—and it wasn’t much of a clue.
In any event, she stopped thinking about such things, including the unsettling presence of the man beside her, when she entered the bedchamber and saw her longtime patient. One glance was enough.
Husari ibn Musa was lying in bed, propped on many pillows. A slave was energetically beating a fan in the air, trying to cool the room and its suffering occupant. Ibn Musa could not have been called a courageous man. He was white-faced, there were tears on his cheeks, he was whimpering with pain and the anticipation of worse to come.
Her father had taught her that it was not only the brave or the resolute who were deserving of a doctor’s sympathy. Suffering came and was real, however one’s constitution and nature responded to it. A glance at her afflicted patient served to focus Jehane abruptly and ease her own agitation.
Moving briskly to the bedside, Jehane adopted her most decisive tones. “Husari ibn Musa, you are not going anywhere today. You know these symptoms by now as well as I do. What were you thinking? That you would bound from bed, straddle
