CHAPTER EIGHT—“IT IS NO BIG THING, YES?”

“You have to know, Shiro”—Ali shook his head—“she doesn’t understand. She thinks we can simply just not fight and nothing will happen.”

Ali was speaking of his beautifully stubborn and willful wife, Hafza. Shiro still remembered the first time he had met her. It was in Darshuun, when he and Jessamine had gone into a shop called Xulia to buy him some new clothes. It had been a chance meeting, truly, to find Ali there. He had brought Hafza.

Or she had brought him.

“What will happen?” Shiro asked. ”Will she flay you?”

With a nod, he said, “Yes—she very well might, Shiro… I—“ Ali’s eyes flicked to the side and suddenly he threw a smile on his face and spread his arms wide. “Hafza! My love! You came!” Then he seemed to realize what he was saying and his face changed. “What are you doing here? It is dangerous here—there is a war on, you know?”

Behind her was Juri, the mistress of their house servants, though she hung back several paces, probably to afford Hafza some manner of privacy between her and her husband?

“I know that, Ali,” she said. “But the camp is safe. I hear that is why the army’s leaders stay here. It is fine.”

“It is not fine,” he said indignantly. “I mean—what if the camp were attacked?”

“That will not happen.”

“How do you know this?”

She shrugged. “Then I’ll die with you, Ali.”

He cocked his head. “Pfft!”

“Anyway,” Hafza said. “I am here, and I am not leaving you.”

“But…”

She looked at him questioningly, her eyes flicking to Shiro for a moment. Did she do that to study his face or to ask Shiro what was really going on? Was she suspicious.

“We have a quest,” Shiro said. “We must leave the camp.”

“Oh?” Hafza asked, her tone not betraying any sort of disagreement—and yet the way she asked, her demeanor seemed somewhat feigned. “Tell me more.”

Ali spluttered for a moment. “It is an army thing. We are going south to disrupt the enemy’s supply lines.”

She looked at them with surprise on her face. “Really? And how are you going to do that?”

“Hafza,” Ali said, his tone somewhat rebuking. “You know I cannot tell you of these things, yes? That might put you in danger. Our movements and our plans are a secret. You must understand this. The enemy has spies.”

Shiro nodded stoically, then realized Jessamine was nowhere to be seen. She probably had gotten bored and dematerialized back into her lamp—or as he now understood it, back to her territory into the void. Her lamp was simply the vessel by which she could open that door at will.

Hafza sighed heavily. “Are we going to stand here all morning or are you going to take me to your tent to rest? The journey has been long.”

“Oh!” Ali exclaimed as if he had forgotten all about it. “I am sorry, my love. Yes, please. This way. Come with us, Shiro.”

Sighing inwardly, he followed. Hafza turned around and smiled at him. “It is nice to see you, Shiro.”

“And you,” he said with a smile. “Have your travels been well?”

“Yes, but I am tired.”

“You did not come here alone, yes?” Ali asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“What? Of course not! Juri is here and Nusah and Naro are with the carriage right now.”

Ali nodded. “Good. Good!”

“Where is Jessamine? I’ve missed her company.”

“Uh…” Shiro said. “She is resting now.”

Hafza nodded knowingly. “You won’t believe how boring Darshuun has gotten since this renewed war effort by the sultanah. I meant to visit her before we left, but she would not see me.”

“Oh, well, she is…” Ali began, but then Shiro spoke up.

“She was probably occupied,” he suggested. “Running a war from the capital is harder than it sounds.”

They came into the circle of tents.

“Here it is,” Ali said, taking a step forward and lifting the tent flap for his wife.

She was wearing a long dress in stark red, a black sash at her waist. Her outfit covered her ankles and arms up to her wrists where the cuffs flared out artistically.

It was a good travel dress.

She stepped into the tent and Ali followed her. He turned. “Come in, Shiro. Let us have some tea.”

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Juri stepped in as well, quickly oriented herself after setting some items down and then put the tea pot on while they spoke amongst themselves.

The tent, like Shiro’s, was luxurious, with smooth tent poles, thick Asha rugs on the floors and many pillows and cushions to make one comfortable. Hafza sat down and leaned herself against a long pillar of a pillow with golden tassels

“I am glad to hear your travels were not overly taxing,” Ali said. “How is the house?”

“Everything is fine. All back into order—good as new.” Then as though a slightly biter afterthought, she added, “After your brother destroyed it. Is that trouble maker here in the encampment?”

“Umm—well, yes,” Ali said. “Of course he is. Raz is a powerful adventurer after all. Did it cost very much?”

Hafza shook her head, her face a demeanor of nonchalance. Ali seemed to let it go easily, but probably only because he was worried Hafza would find out how dangerous their quest would be.

She will give him the hells, Shiro thought.

Hfaza sighed heavily as she situated herself on the rugs between some more cushions, her eyes wandering over to the bed.

“Are you tired?” Shiro asked.

With a nod, she said that she was. “The trip… it has been exhausting. When are you leaving, Ali?”

“Soon,” he said. “I do not know when exactly. Days.” He looked to Shiro. “Surely?”

Shiro nodded.

“Are you going along with him?” she asked Shiro.

“Hai,” he said. “Do not worry. Ali will be well protected.”

“Even Debaku and Raz are coming along.”

Oh no—Ali, you fool!

“Really?” Hafza asked, her eyes darting between them. “Ali should be rather safe, with so much protection, yes?”

Shiro cleared his throat, his eyes going to the boiling tea. Juri picked up the pot with the long spout and swished it about.

“Yes,” Shiro said. “Not that he needs it.”

“No,” Ali said, waving it off. “Of course not. But you never know, right?”

Shiro sighed inwardly as he watched Juri pour the tea into their little painted ceramic cups. She poured the reddish-brown tea with the spout high from the rim of the cup—it was a sort of Abassir tradition to let the tea fall from a height. She slowly raised the tea vessel up higher and higher until the streamer was a good half a pace in length.

A strange custom that Shiro did not know the origin of.

She then served each of them the tea. “Go on, Juri,” Hafza said. “Take a cup for yourself.”

Shaking her head, Juri said, “No, Mistress. Please enjoy your tea.”

“Juri!” Hafza commanded. “Drink some tea. The journey has been long and you have served me very well. You deserve it.”

Nodding, she poured herself a cup and took it to the back of the tent.

“Now tell me what you are doing,” she said, her face stern as Hafza looked at them in turn.

Ali lowered his tea. “It is nothing.” He laughed, though not convincingly.

Sighing heavily, Shiro said. “We are on a quest to go behind enemy lines and disrupt their supply lines.”

“Hey!” Ali said indignantly.

“Will it be dangerous?” Hafza asked, completely ignoring Ali as she asked Shiro the question.

“War is always dangerous,” he said. “But I was not lying when I told you he would be well protected.”

She looked at Ali and he wilted.

“Fine!” he said, giving up. “Yes, it will be dangerous. But you should not worry about me.”

“And why should I not, husband? I am your wife!”

“Because,” Ali said. “If we are not successful in this, it could be that the whole empire”—he moved his hands emphatically to indicate the lands of the empire—“will be lost to us. We will be dead or turned out as refugees—on the run. And if that is if things go well, my love.”

Her eyes widened. “Is it really so bad as that?”

Shiro nodded, then in a low voice he said, “The sultanah is in a tent not far from here.”

Hafza gasped as she put a hand to her breast, obviously realizing the implications of what Shiro had just told her. Surely to her knowledge she knew that Darius rarely if ever visited the front of any wars or battles.

But in fact, Shiro knew, he had done just that in his earlier years as an adventure. Long before he became the sultan of Abassir.

Of course she was not aware of Darius’ past. Neither would Shiro be if it were not for Jessamine having told him. The war and the empire’s losses had been kept from the people, even the upper crust of the nobility for nearly over a decade.

Very few knew the particulars concerning the war with the invaders from across the sea.

“Should I…” Hafza said, trailing off. Then she continued. “Should I be preparing?”

“Yes,” Ali said. “If I am lost—“

“Don’t talk like that.”

“No, my love. You must listen to me. And obey me. If I am lost, you should take our possessions and our servants and leave Darshuun.” Ali’s tone was heavier than Shiro had ever heard it before.

“And go where?” Hafza asked, her own tone leaning toward belligerence.

“Ashahnai?” Shiro suggested.

They both glanced at him.

“Yes,” Ali said. “That might not be a bad idea, Shiro.”

Swallowing, Hafza nodded. “I will. But how will I know if something happens to you?”

“You will know,” Ali said. “Keep in contact with the sultanah. She will receive you if she is in the city.”

Swallowing, Shiro could bear the thought of losing his friend, of his wife being forced to leave her lands and go to another, alone. Though she would have the servants with her, most likely, it was Ali’s responsibility to see his wife safe.

Without him, Shiro would make certain she was safe. For his friend.

But all this talk was depressing his spirits.

Had Jessamine been present, she would groan and complain. The samurai actually wished she were present now. “Stop this,” Shiro finally said. “It will not come to that.”

“And how do you know that, Shiro?” Ali narrowed his eyes. “Hmm?”

“Because,” he said. “I will not allow it!”

Smiling, Hafza said, “I am glad Ali has such good friends.”

“I owe Ali a great debt,” Shiro said.

“Silence, Shiro.”

“He helped me when I needed a friend most. He even saved my life.”

Hafza glanced at Ali, then to Shiro. “My husband has ever been terrible with these kinds of compliments.”

“Yes,” Shiro said.

“There is no need to talk about what we already know,” he complained.

Shiro smiled, grateful for his Abassir friend. “We will not fail.”

Ali sighed while Hafza nodded, though she did so weakly, now that she understood the peril the empire was in. Then she suggested something. “Perhaps our conquerors will not be so harsh?”

“Let us not talk about that,” Ali said. “It is not something we can hope for should this all—should it go badly.”

“There is no need,” Shiro added. “We will stop them. We have a good plan, but… we cannot tell you of it.”

“Yes, that is right,” Ali said.

“Very well,” Hafza said. “So long as you swear to not let any harm come to this lout of a husband of mine, Shiro.”

“What? I am no lout!”

“I swear it,” Shiro said with a nod, and he meant those words. “I will not allow any harm to come to Ali al Bashur. You can count on that.”

Ali said nothing, but in other circumstances Shiro knew the Abassir would reprimand him for making promises he couldn’t rightly keep with full confidence.

But it clearly made Hafza feel at ease, and perhaps that was why he said nothing. No—that was why he said nothing. Ali was no stickler for truth, and in fact, telling white lies—even to his family and friends—was a common foible of his.

It was not that he saw himself as telling them, but he could easily convince himself of the untruths he told others.

And in this case, he did not believe Shiro.

Still, he kept silent.

Good.

Now… where is that annoying jinni? She needs to say her farewell to Hafza.