piteously at the very thought of such exertion and reached for her hand. They had known each other a long time; she allowed him to do that. “But Jehane, I must go! This is the event of the year in Fezana. How can I not be present? What can I do?”
“You can send your most fulsome regrets and advise that your physician has ordered you to remain in bed. If you wish, for some perverse reason, to offer details, you may have your steward say that you are about to pass a stone this afternoon or this evening in extreme pain, controlled only by such medications as leave you unable to stand upright or speak coherently. If, anticipating such a condition, you still wish to attend a Cartadan function I can only assume your mind has already been disjointed by your suffering. If you wish to be the first person to collapse and die in the new wing of the castle you will have to do so against my instructions.”
She used this tone with him much of the time. With many of her patients, in truth. In a female physician men, even powerful ones, often seemed to want to hear their mothers giving orders. Ishak had induced obedience to his treatments by the gravity of his manner and the weight of his sonorous, beautiful voice. Jehane—a woman, and still young—had had to evolve her own methods.
Ibn Musa turned a despairing face towards the Cartadan courtier. “You see?” he said plaintively. “What can I do with such a doctor?”
Ammar ibn Khairan seemed amused again. Jehane found that irritation was helping her deal with the earlier feeling of being overwhelmed by his identity. She still had no idea what the man found so diverting about all of this, unless this was simply the habitual pose and manner of a cynical courtier. Perhaps he was bored by the usual court routine; the god’s sisters knew, she would have been.
“You could consult another physician, I suppose,” ibn Khairan said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. “But my guess, based on all-too-brief experience, is that this exquisite young woman knows exactly what she is doing.” He favored her with another of the brilliant smiles. “You will have to tell me where you were trained, when we have greater leisure.”
Jehane didn’t like being treated as a woman when she was functioning as a doctor. “Little to tell,” she said briefly. “Abroad at the university of Sorenica in Batiara, with Ser Rezzoni, for two years. Then with my father here.”
“Your father?” he asked politely.
“Ishak ben Yonannon,” Jehane said, and was deeply pleased to see this elicit a reaction he could not mask. From a courtier in the service of Almalik of Cartada there would almost have to be a response to Ishak’s name. It was no secret, the story of what had happened.
“Ah,” said Ammar ibn Khairan quietly, arching his eyebrows. He regarded her for a moment. “I see the resemblance now. You have your father’s eyes and mouth. I ought to have made the association before. You will have been even better trained here than in Sorenica.”
“I am pleased that I seem to meet your standards,” Jehane said drily. He grinned again, unfazed, rather too clearly enjoying her attempted sallies. Behind him, Jehane saw the steward’s mouth gape at her impertinence. They were awed by the Cartadan, of course. Jehane supposed she should be, as well. In truth, she was, more than a little. No one needed to know that, however.
“The lord ibn Khairan has been most generous with his time on my behalf,” Husari murmured faintly from the bed. “He came this morning, by appointment, to examine some silks for purchase and found me … as you see. When he learned I feared not being able to attend the reception this afternoon he insisted that my presence was important”—there was pride in the voice, audible through the pain—“and he offered to try to lure my stubborn physician to my side.”
“And now she is here, and would stubbornly request that all those in this room save the slave and your steward be so kind as to leave us.” Jehane turned to the Cartadan. “I’m sure one of ibn Musa’s factors can assist you in the matter of silk.”
“Doubtless,” the man said calmly. “I take it, then, that you are of the view that your patient ought not to attend upon the prince this afternoon?”
“He could die there,” Jehane said bluntly. It was unlikely, but certainly possible, and sometimes people needed to be shocked into accepting a physician’s orders.
The Cartadan was not shocked. If anything, he seemed once more to be in the grip of his private source of diversion. Jehane heard a sound from beyond the door. Velaz had arrived, with her medications.
Ammar ibn Khairan heard it too. “You have work to do. I will take my leave, as requested. Failing an ailment that would allow me to spend the day in your care I am afraid I must attend this consecration in the castle.” He turned to the man in the bed. “You need not send a messenger, ibn Musa. I will convey your regrets myself with a report of your condition. No offense will be taken, trust me. No one, least of all Prince Almalik, would want you to die passing a stone in the new courtyard.” He bowed to ibn Musa and then a second time to Jehane—to the steward’s visible displeasure—and withdrew.
There was a little silence. Amid the chatter of marketplace or temple, Jehane unexpectedly remembered, it was reported that the high-born women of Cartada—and some of the men, the whispers went—had been known to seriously injure each other in quarrels over the companionship of Ammar ibn Khairan. Two people had died, or was it three?
Jehane bit her lip. She shook her head as if to clear it, astonished at herself. This was the sheerest, most idle sort of gossip to be calling to mind, the kind of talk to which she had never paid attention in her life. A moment later Velaz hurried in and she set to work, gratefully, at her trade. Softening pain, prolonging life, offering a hope of ease where little might otherwise lie.
One hundred and thirty-nine citizens of Fezana assembled in the newest wing of the castle that afternoon. Throughout Al-Rassan, not long after, what ensued became known as The Day of the Moat. This was the way of it.
The newly finished part of Fezana’s castle was of a most unusual and particular design. A large dormitory for quartering the new Muwardi troops led to an equally large refectory for feeding them and an adjacent temple for prayers. The notorious Ammar ibn Khairan, who accompanied the guests through these rooms, was much too polite to make specific mention of the reason for further military presence in Fezana, but none of the assembled dignitaries of the town could possibly escape the significance of such extensive facilities.
Ibn Khairan, offering undeniably witty and impeccably courteous commentary, was also too discreet to draw anyone’s attention, particularly during a celebration, to the ongoing indications of unrest and subversion in the city. A certain number of those passing through the castle, however, exchanged wary, sidelong glances with each other. What they were seeing, clearly, was meant to be intimidating.
In fact, it was a little more than that.
The odd nature of the new wing’s design became even more apparent when they passed—a magnificently dressed herd of prosperous men—through the refectory to the near end of a long corridor. The narrow tunnel, ibn Khairan explained, designed for defensive purposes, led to the courtyard where the wadjis were to perform the consecration and where Prince Almalik, heir to Cartada’s ambitious kingdom, was waiting to receive them.
The aristocracy and most successful merchants of Fezana were individually escorted by Muwardi soldiers down that dark corridor. Approaching the end of it each, in turn, could discern a blazing of sunlight. Each of them paused there, squinting, almost sightless on the threshold of light, while a herald announced their proffered names with satisfying resonance.
As they passed, blinking, into the blinding light and stepped forward
