DESPINA AND THE RAJPUT
THE TRAY SLAMMED ONTO THE TABLE WITH A CLATTER and a bang.
Shahrzad bolted upright, sleep caking the corners of her eyelids. She swiped at them with her hand. Traces of liquid gold and black powder dotted her palm when she was finished.
“You’re very small to have caused such a big fuss,” a musical voice intoned.
“What?” Shahrzad focused her bleary attention on its owner.
“I said, you’re very small to have caused such a big fuss.” A plump girl near her age strode to the foot of the bed and yanked aside the gossamer curtains. She had fair skin and thick honeywalnut hair, piled atop her crown in typical Grecian fashion. Her eyes were the sparkling blue of the Aegean and were lined in kohl with the practiced hand of an expert. Her lips were puckered into a perfect moue, stained pink with carmine and beeswax. The white linen garment clung to her rounded frame in all the right places. A thick silver band was looped around her upper left arm.
Shahrzad pushed aside her drowsiness and attempted to conjure a semblance of dignity. “I heard you the first time.”
“Then why did you ask me to repeat myself?”
“Because I don’t know who you are, and I have no idea why you’re banging around making ridiculous pronouncements first thing in the morning,” Shahrzad shot back.
The girl laughed. It was a loud and robust sound.
“I think I’m beginning to understand why there’s such a fuss. Also, it’s hardly first thing in the morning. It’s noon.” The girl marched to the screens and threw them open to reveal a midday sun sitting high in a clear cerulean sky.
Shahrzad cringed away from the harsh stream of light.
“I brought you some food. You should eat something. You’re so small,” the girl reiterated.
“I fail to understand why my size is of import.”
“Because a waif of a girl can’t manage a sustained fight, much less succeed in one. And I’d like to see you succeed.”
Instantly wary, Shahrzad pulled her knees against her chest and shuttered her expression. “Succeed?”
“By Zeus, you’re a strange thing. Yes, my lady, I’d like to see you succeed.
Meaning, I’d like to see you live. I’m not fond of watching young girls die at the whim of our enigmatic ruler. Are you?”
Shahrzad studied her for a breath before placing her bare feet on the cold
marble and rising from the bed.
Be careful.
“No. I’m not,” she replied.
The girl grinned. “You’re taller than I thought. Still too skinny, but not the worst I’ve seen. There’s a curve or two where there should be. I’m sure you’re stunning when you’re done up well.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Shahrzad demanded.
“Despina. Your handmaiden . . . as long as you’re succeeding.”
“I don’t need a handmaiden.”
“I’m afraid that’s not your choice.” Despina’s grin widened, and her blue-fire eyes sparked at Shahrzad, daring her to rise to the challenge of such impertinence.
Shahrzad paused in consideration. “So he sent you here to spy on me?”
Despina’s white teeth flashed in her face. “Yes.”
“Are you a good spy?”
“The best.”
“A good spy would hide her identity.”
“The best spies don’t have to.”
Shahrzad smiled at this, in spite of herself. “You’re arrogant.”
“As are you, my lady Shahrzad. But I do not see this as a shortcoming. For without a measure of arrogance, how can one attempt the impossible?”
Shahrzad stepped down from the platform to stand before Despina.
The girl stood half a head taller, and everything about her radiated confidence and a sense of surety as to her place in the world. From her artfully draped dress to her impeccably enhanced features, it was clear Despina was a force to be reckoned with.
But her eyes caught Shahrzad’s attention more than anything else.
They were the watchful eyes of a hunter.
And they mirrored her own.
She warned me she was a spy. Why did she warn me?
“Would you like to eat something? Or do you plan to go on a hunger strike?
If that’s the case, do your worst, for I believe a hunger strike will kill a pretty little imp like you long before our caliph does.”
Shahrzad laughed wryly. “That’s the best worst compliment anyone has ever paid me.”
“You’re welcome.” Despina spun around in a whirl of white linen, the scent of jessamine saturating the air about her. Shahrzad followed her to the table in the corner. The tray atop it was covered with lavash bread, a round of goat cheese enfolded in sweet preserves, a tureen of soup, and a halved pomegranate, its seeds glistening like garnets in the warm light spilling from the terrace. An ornate silver pot of cardamom tea sat over a low burning flame.
Despina removed the lid from the tureen and began to prepare the tea, placing a sparkling crystal of rock sugar in the bottom of a small etched-glass cup.
As she sat on the cushions, Shahrzad reached for a piece of lavash.
The handmaiden peered through her eyelashes at Shahrzad while she poured the tea in a slender stream from high above the glass. “I meant what I said; I do hope you succeed, my lady.” Her tone was filled with quiet circumspection.
“Please call me Shahrzad.”
“Shahrzad.” Despina grinned at her.
Shahrzad could not prevent herself from returning the gesture.
Be very careful.
• • •
An hour later, with Despina’s help, Shahrzad had bathed and dressed in another elaborate ensemble of silk and damask. A slim circlet of silver, spangled with pearls and tiny blue sapphires, adorned her brow. Around her neck was another fetter, made to match. Thin diamond bangles clinked together on her left wrist with every movement.
“Am I allowed to leave?” she asked, once Despina had put the final flourish on the kohl lining her eyelids.
Despina nodded. “You can roam most of the palace, as long as you’re with
the Rajput.”
“The Rajput?”
The corners of Despina’s eyes crinkled with a mixture of dry humor and pity.
“The caliph is apparently so enamored, he has gifted you a member of his personal bodyguard.”
Shahrzad balled her hands into fists. “So I necessitate a spy and a ready
executioner?”
“More or less.”
Hate is not the right word for such a man.
“Who is the Rajput?” Shahrzad spat.
“At one point, he was known as the Scourge of Hindustan. He’s the best swordsman in Rey, perhaps in all of Khorasan. A devotee of the talwar. There’s only one other swordsman in Rey who comes close, but even he has never bested the Rajput.”
Well, this information might be beneficial in the future.
“Who is the second-best swordsman in Rey?”
Despina’s brow furrowed. “I expected better of you.”
“What?”
“I thought you would make it a point to be informed.”
“Forgive me for neglecting to carry around a list of the ten best swordsmen in Khorasan,” Shahrzad shot back.
“I suppose this information wouldn’t be readily available to a young girl with a librarian for a father. It isn’t exactly posted on walls for public viewing.”
“My father is a curator of ancient texts and the smartest man I know. He was a vizier for the former caliph.” Shahrzad cut her eyes.
“And after his wife’s death, I heard he lost his mind and was subsequently demoted. Now he’s a librarian.”
I can’t lose my temper. She’s clearly trying to bait me. But why?
Shahrzad replied instead with a measured silence intended to reestablish control. She fiddled with the heavy silver at her throat, despising its weight.
“So, do you still want to know who the second-best swordsman in Rey is?”
Despina asked, changing tack.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
Despina smiled knowingly. “The second-best swordsman in Rey is Khalid Ibn al-Rashid. Our illustrious King of Kings.”
Shahrzad’s heart sank. Gifted swordsmen tended to be stalwart strategists.
Quick to spot signs of subterfuge.
And this presented yet another obstacle. If he ever suspected her of treachery, it would be even more difficult to plot his death and catch him unawares.
She swallowed carefully. “Again, it doesn’t matter.”
“I guess it shouldn’t matter to you. But I thought you might want to know,
nevertheless.”
What kind of game is she playing?
“You thought wrong.” Shahrzad walked to the doors of the chamber and tugged on the handles. As soon as she crossed the threshold, a hulking figure
stepped into view. His skin was the color of burnished copper, and he towered over Shahrzad, with his head bound in an intricately wrapped turban. His exposed arms were thick with corded muscle, and his black beard was neatly trimmed to a point just below his chin. Eyes the color of a moonless night gleamed down at her, stark and merciless.
“Uh, yes. You must be . . . I’m sorry, what is your name?” Shahrzad stammered.
“I told you; he’s the Rajput,” Despina replied from behind her.
“But he must have a name,” Shahrzad rasped over her shoulder.
“If he does, I don’t know it.”
With an irritated sigh, Shahrzad faced forward and braved the sight of her
potential executioner once more.
“I’m Shahrzad.” She met his black gaze.
He glowered at her before moving aside to let her pass.
As she slipped by him, she noticed the long talwar sword hanging from his hip, shining with menace in the midday sun.
So this silent brute is the only swordsman who can best my enemy . . .
How am I to find any weakness in Khalid Ibn al-Rashid with his spies all
around me, watching my every move?
She exhaled protractedly.
I might have a serious problem.
